#they look like if oil spills were a bird

[i-exist-to-spite-god]

I fucking love grackles, they are the Walmart version of crows and I will always adore that about them.

"grackle" is one of the words of all time. like you know he gracklin

[moongreenlight]

Like 800 words of a Ghoap x Reader fic I've been sitting on for way too long. School is hard. Life is busy. I love you and miss you.

Premise: Ghost is a porn director, Soap is an actor, you're Ghost's girlfriend.

mdni. nsfw below the cut.

Ghost abusing his authority over Soap and getting him to come in early/late to shoots so he can get a few ‘warm-up’ shots in (bending Soap over the chaise in his dressing room) or randomly calling for ‘emergency shoots’ (he wants to take a shitty iPhone video of Soap on his hands and knees gagging on his cock).

It started out as a means to end Johnny’s bitching. He refused to take performance boosters, citing some bullshit argument about how “if athletes cannae use them, neither can I.” A non-argument, Ghost thought. But still, he found himself bullying the man into a tech room and letting him grind on the toe of his boot until he spilled his mess on the floor. It didn’t solve the problem. Like giving a begging dog table scraps. 

Johnny apparently needed his cock milked before any shoot where he was expected to come on camera. Howled like a bitch in heat until Ghost appeased him, and even after that it was touch and go. 

But then there was his dove. Dutifully waiting for him every night. Sweeter, more soft than Soap. Less whining, similar resistance, but took easier to his guiding hand. Never had any issue with his work. Never a flare of jealousy when he spent most of his day staring at writhing naked bodies. 

Simon figured out somewhere in his balancing act that he was able to work out some of his aggression on Johnny. Brat takes it better. He doesn’t get a feeling like stones are being slowly added to the pressure on his ribs when he sees Soap’s big blue eyes get teary. He’s gentler with his dove. Takes his time because he can. 

He’s fantastic at keeping his work and private lives completely separate. Fucking exemplary. You’d think they were entirely different planets the way he seemed to turn completely off to them. 

Ghost finds himself net neutral on the situation. It’s like picking between his left and right hand to fist over his cock. More an issue of convenience. Not like he’s got a standout sex drive, it mostly just happens as appeasement. Get Johnny to quit sodding griping, keep the dove happy in her cage. 

But of course, worlds collide. They always do when they revolve so close to one another. There’s bound to be a rotation in the axis that sends them smashing into one another.

And of course it happens on a day where Johnny is entirely out of control. Whining in scenes, ruining takes, wasting film and time; time he’s paid- fucking handsomely- to be pleasant for. 

Ghost hears her before he sees her. Standing next to one of the cameras with a cigarette clamped between his teeth, glowering down the barrel at Soap who was making a sour face and rubbing oil onto the back of some actress with a thin towel covering her modesty. His ears are tuned to the frequency of her voice, picking it out with ease amongst the dull chatter that had flared since the cameras stopped rolling even from all the way down the hall. 

She was chatting with the receptionist who no doubt chose to walk her where she needed to be to bask in the warmth that was her company. His bird had that effect on people. Always sweet and sunshine. Saved the sharp wit and snark for home or to be whispered in his ear. Trained perfectly by his expert hand. 

He didn’t bother looking away from Johnny when she walked in the door. Now engaged in some sort of silent staring contest. Ghost glaring down the crook of his nose at the smaller man. He couldn’t quite pick out if the look in Johnny’s eyes was disdain or desire. They were synonymous at this point. Shame he couldn’t sort out that attitude of his properly now. Save everyone the fucking tantrum.

He calls for a cut. Gruffs out a tight 5 and reset. Tosses his cigarette to the ground and crushes it under the heel of his boot. He doesn’t have the time to turn around before he hears two planets collide. 

“- you lookin’ for a role, bonnie? Ye know, I’ve got connections ‘round here. Make ye a star in fifteen minutes.”

Her laugh is honest and amused. It cuts straight through the sound of the studio and rings like church bells. 

“Oh, I dunno. I’m a terrible read.”

He looks over his shoulder and sees Johnny tying the belt of his robe in a lazy knot over his hip. More decorative than anything seeing as the plush thing is cast open all the way down his torso. Exposing, with painfully obvious intention, the gloss of oil on skin and the whorls of dark hair that decorate his chest. 

“Dinnae believe that for a minute. ‘Sides, pretty girl like you hardly needs to talk. Bet we could work out a scene where you only have to open your mouth for-”

He’s cut off when the receptionist knocks her shoulder into his and throws him a warning look on her way out. It doesn’t strike the chord it should, but it fulfills the end goal all the same.

[riding-the-cyclone]

My RtC wing au :D (originally posted on amino, if you recognize it)

Ocean - Starling

•Starlings are naturally invasive and considered annoying by many.

• This social expectation helped push Ocean into her perfectionism.

• The wings resemble an oil spill

• Despite contextual meanings, Ocean loves how her wings look

• A collective of starlings is called a “chattering” because they’re very social

Noel - Raven

Half hates his wings half loves them

• Pretty much the opposite of Ocean; Hates how they look, loves the implications

• Lots of people think of ravens negatively (creepy, dirty, tricky)

• Poetic meanings behind ravens make it worth it to Noel

• Enjoys flying (unlike Ocean) but will never do it in front of anyone

Misha - Osprey

• The only bird on the list not native to Canada (native to Ukraine, of course)

• Very expressive with his wings whether it’s intimidation or passion

• An Osprey being a type of hawk contributed to Mischa’s title of Angriest Boy in Town

• Mischa has the biggest wings out of the group

• A group of Ospreys are called a “duet”, which isn’t pertinent, but I find it fun since. choir

Ricky - Grey Catbird

• Couldn’t resist giving Ricky this one

• He can’t fly, but he can still move his wings and he’s even more expressive than Mischa

• There are all sorts of decorations woven into his feathers, he likes to tie things in or dye feathers when he has a moment

• When he uses his wheelchair, there are shields that protect his wings from the wheels

• During SABM he 100% comes out with them bedazzled

Penny - Chestnut Sided Warbler

•A songbird, of course (sponsored by Jane’s soprano self)

• Her brother’s wings aren’t the same as hers (Baird’s Sparrow), so when he mentioned he was jealous of the yellow in her wings she started dying his for him so they could match

• As Jane, her wings were shadows and she could fly without flapping them (freaking the others out, of course)

• Her wings jitter when she gets nervous or excited. A lot of time she keeps them close to her body except while flying

• She makes up little games to play while flying, dragging Ezra or the choir into them

Constance - Grey Jay

•Canada’s national bird

• Not bullied for her wings, but not complimented for them, it makes her envy other’s wings

• She wanted to dye her entire wings, but her parents only allowed her to dye the ends to match her hair

• Very affectionate with her wings, using them to brush against or hold people she cares about

• The Blackwoods have protective covers for when they work at the cafe, kind of like hairnets

-

Feel free to mention headcannons and such if you have any :D I’d love to hear your ideas

[punk-in-docs]

A song of brides and hounds: part III

— Emperor Geta x Reader (Salacia)

— 4.3k words.

— Read all parts here: Part I — Part II — Part III — Part IV — Part V

Summary: You were raised outside of this Rome. Born into peace. To know of fathomless deep seas, and skies so big, they wrapped around your whole sight. The way that at night all you can smell are lemon trees kissed by salt. The jasmine plants wound around the white walls of the villa. Salacia. And now you are sent to Rome for your father in the Senate. There you will catch the attention of Geta; in all the wrong and darkest of ways— any reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated 💙💙💙

TW: for this chapter - mainly violence and some gore, also Caracalla being a nasty little bitch -- enjoy!

The servant girls’ hands are kind.

They undress you softly, and handle you with such reverence. Strip from you the ruined stola and tend your wounds.

They wash your feet, ply your cuts with a herbal paste of yarrow and uva ursi, wrap you in bandages. They rub new sweet smelling oil onto your unwounded skin.

Pick off your old jewellery and finery to be discarded. Slip you out your shoes. Lay you bare. Stood before them in naught but your skin as they tend you.

One is wetting, oiling and combing your netted hair to silky serenity again. Another is cleaning the wound on your elbow. All traces of dirt - and your previous life along with it - slowly removed.

Stood you in a shallow golden tub of warm water that laps at your ankles. Milky with oils and soaps. They put rose petals in the water. You watch them swim and dip.

You beg for one of the girls to keep the fibulae broaches that held your now damned dress to your shoulders. Your very last essence of home. Venus was enshrined in those very broaches. They gave you hope. Carrying a small kind piece of goddess with you. Laying your devotion to the majesty of the ocean on your simple shoulders.

They guided you to rooms draped in blue and gold. Stars moulded on the ceiling with the ornate marble that drips from every wall and corner. Giving the false illusion of a night sky. The flat ceiling between them clouded with bursts and puffs of dark blue that indicated churning night clouds. Boundless skies. Endless seas.

It felt like showing all the maps of the world to a caged bird.

Soft feminine blues befit these chambers. Statues and devotion to goddesses crown the walls and doorways. Urns of large stemmed white flowers. One wall holds a table lined with a huge offering of fruits, dried and fresh. Some bread and cured meats and oiled small fish. And an amphora of wine and goblet for after your bathing.

The air in here is scented all floral herb and clean. Too clean. No hint of sea salt or dried weed that tumbles on the shore to bake in the sun. It’s unfamiliar.

The huge slab of the cushioned bed is draped with silks and gauzy canopy curtains the colour of dove feathers. You don’t want to look at it. You dread thinking what will happen in it tonight.

A large maw of balcony gapes at another side of the room. This shows you the wall of rain outside. The violent tumble of thunder that must be shaking the very hills and peoples of Rome.

You feel as if the sea is raging because you’ve been stolen from it. Now it seeks vengeance on the land. Lashing and storming mercilessly until you’re found. Back where you belong.

Unlikely. It will have to rage on.

You stand, undressed, unseeing. Uncaring for the wealth of the room you’ve been pulled into.

The maid behind you, Oriana, a sweet and silent blonde, is scooping your hair back from your neck to comb and ply it with vanilla and orchid oil. Dark sweet musk.

Geta had specifically requested it.

Your head servant is a maid called Aeliana.

She has an accent you can’t place. It’s pretty, her tone husky. She had wonderful raven hair spilling silky and free over her shoulders, eyes dark as cassia bark, almond shaped. Long lashes. The epitome of tranquil beauty.

The colour of her dress is different to the rest of them. Indicating her higher status. Rusty red and it readily compliments the natural darkness of her skin. She wore golden bangles threaded on each wrist, and her touch is cloud soft.

She has a scar that intersects down from the middle of her forehead, across her left eye and cheek and ends there. Skin twisted and healed shiny. An old wound. It makes her striking to look at.

Worse still; She catches you staring.

Lowers her eyes as she tended you. Layering the sticky wet herbal treatment to your wounded elbow.

“Does my appearance displease you, my lady?” She lapses into silence for a moment or two.

“If you’d prefer I could send for another handmaiden to come tend you-“ She asks. Not harshly. There’s a hint of shame to her tone.

You look to her. Fearful of offence.

“I am not displeased. Forgive me. To stare so openly is rude.” You mutter. Eyes falling to your feet again. You watch rose petals sway on the water. You swallow thickly.

If she’s amused at your asking her, a servant, for forgiveness, she doesn’t show it. She calmly counters;

“You are Empress Salacia of Rome. You are allowed to stare at whomever you wish.” She tells you plainly.

Your eyes water. You bite inside your lower lip before you respond.

Not yet I’m not. And I don’t want to be.

“How came you by the scar?” You ask. Knowing full well you won’t like the answer. She gently washed your shoulder with a cloth.

“The Emperor.” She tells frankly.

At your doe eyed expression of horror she elucidates.

“Not Emperor Geta. His brother, Caracalla. Emperor Geta’s temper may be foul and quick to boil. But, Caracalla he is… far crueler.” She explains.

Your mouth purses into a thin line.

Oriana has finished oiling your hair. Now she was styling it into waves. Decorated with ornaments of netted gold. Geta requested it down as opposed to the normal bridal style. Emperors have what they want.

“What was the reason…” You sought. Fearing the answer.

“I was too slow in bringing his wine one night.” She offers. Plucking a vial of oil from the side table and coming back to rub it into your bare arms.

You squeeze your eyes closed. Ignore the tickle of tears that threaten your scrunched eyelids.

This is the savage world you must inhabit now. Try to navigate with sharper hungrier teeth and deadlier instinct. You don’t feel ready. You must become lionhearted and fierce. Carry knives. Be ruthless.

You hear your mothers reverent voice in your head. Sweet sea child. You were not made that way.

“I am sorry for your pain. Aeliana. But I am grateful for your warning.” You decide.

She nods. “I thank the goddess’ for you. Empress.” She smiles at you.

Before going to the side to fetch your tunica recta, and the belt you’d wear on your waist in a knot of hercules. Which tradition dictated only Geta was allowed to undo.

Your husband.

You wince. Aueliana notices.

“Your majesty?” She seeks. Sensing your unease.

“I am nervous.” You tell her. You confide your worry in this woman with kind eyes and soft hands.

“It is expected of a bride to be nervous.” She awards you.

“I’m not a normal bride.” You confirm fearfully. She can see them shaking in your gaze. Threatening to breach your lash line.

She nods in understanding. You’re sure they all knew. The reason that placed you here. Spread like wildfire on dry plains through the servant halls.

“I know little of managing a husband. Of… starting a family.”

“If I may, your majesty. Your family is a noble one, yes?” She asks.

You nod. You lived in one of the richest houses in Corsica. You were never lacking in money or ribbons and new jewels. But at best you were a senators daughter. Not the ideal stock for an Emperors wife. Not the type to be governing one great nation.

“My grandmother is a well known seer in these parts. A healer. Purveyor of white magic. Many a time she has seen things that have yet to come to pass…” She explains.

“She foretold your arrival. Said the future of Rome would be written by rain and storm, when blood spills on the ancient serpent stone.”

Serpent. Synonymous with the Traitor. Two faced and shedding skin. Blood spilling, the death of your Brother. Rain on the rocks- this storm hammering down. You can’t believe it.

“What if Rome is your destiny?” She explains. Her voice kind and brave as the candles flicker and the storm rages on.

“Then I pray the goddess’ convey me the strength to survive it.”

“I will pray too.” She takes your hand. It feels like kinship.

They stepped you out of the tub and began to pat you dry with cloths and then dress you.

With each pass of their hands wiping the water from your skin, it removed you further and further from yourself.

Aeliana rubs a sweet balm like texture onto your pebbled nipples before she robes you. Said it was to increase your fertility. She also lines your eyes with burnt kohl.

They pulled your dress on around you. Let it fall into beautiful waves. You stood sedately and let them manoeuvre you. Aeliana wraps the belt around your waist. When it cinches tight - so does the last vestige of your freedom.

Your skin positively draped with as much fragrant oil as it could take. Anointed with your new life as it drips off you in unbearable sweetness. Decorations not of your choosing put into your hair, on your ears, around your neck, on your arms. Strangled by someone else’s finery.

Slid fine golden sandals onto your feet. Aeliana brought a flame red veil and pinned it in place over your head. It floated down to your shoulders. Securing a crown of myrtle flowers over it.

It may have been gauzy fabric; rich and fine. But it felt like iron to you. Iron veil and a crown of thorns.

When they finish readying you, they bow and leave you alone to eat the fresh bread and fruits. Drink the sweet wine. Night closes in around you.

You didn’t ever picture the night before your wedding being like this. Alone and noiseless save for rain. You pictured the noise and gaiety of your sisters, dancing in their fine dresses. How they’d carry golden stalks of wheat to signify your prosperous marriage - how it would bear fruit. Be blessed by gods and fortune.

Your mother would bind your hands to the man you’d marry. To the man you’d love.

And you are here. Miserable in cold indifference. Clothed in perfumed oil and silence. With only your dour thoughts for company.

You pick at your offering of food. Feeling the milky eyes of those female deity marble statues watching you carefully. Judging. Maybe even disappointed.

When the doors next shudder open as the guards outside push them open, a divine older woman comes striding slowly, surely, into the room. Confidence woven into her steps like the very fine lavender purple cloth folded around her shoulders. A beautiful sage green palla. Her hair is dark and braided masterfully on her head. Shot through with bolts of silver.

You recognise her from coins. From statues. The Dowager Empress of Rome. Julia Domna.

She looks wise as Minerva. Goddess of education indeed. All of Rome had heard tale of not only her beauty, but her mind. Sharp as an arrowhead. A gentle mediator between her rabid sons.

Out of sheer politesse and nerves, you bolt out your seat and bow your head to her. Words shrivel on your tongue. Royalty is stood before you. Here you are plucked from the dungeons. You feel unworthy.

“Rise, my child.” She bids you. Holding out a hand laid with jewels on nearly every finger. Standing before you. Close enough to discern some of your beauty through the veil.

She examines you. Not unkindly. The way you’d expect a mother to examine the vessel that will carry her sons legacy. She’s discerning.

“Let me see my sons choice then…” she bids. Hands crossed in front of her, diplomatically, as she lets her deep set, serious eyes become acquainted with all of you.

Choice? Or chattel?

She walks around you. Eyes your hair. Your build. Your hips. The way you’ve been presented like a prized sacrificial swine before the crowds on Saturnalia.

And she doesn’t appear to find you lacking

“Goodness. You really are beautiful.” She says. It sounds mournful. Introspective. As if she didn’t intend on you hearing it.

“He’s made a fine choice.” She lauded

“Corsica, I hear you hail from?”

“Yes, Dowager.”

“I want to know one thing.” She says. Voice hard as newly forged steel. A shiver runs your spine. So she could be terrifying if she wishes.

“Are you a traitor against Rome?” She demands. “There are spies who would conspire to align themselves with this great house, under false guises, to murder my sons.” She speaks, crossly. Eyes aflame.

She has bite after all. Lions teeth and knows full well how to use them.

“I am no spy. I am not a murderer I have no guise. Like you. I only want to protect those whom I love.” You answer calmly. Placid easy waves. Gently now.

She smiles. Though something curious still lurks in her eyes.

“Then we are on the same page.” She awards slyly. You feel as if you’ve passed a test.

Her smile crooks on one side. Relieved.

She turns to the doors. The great sway of her earrings are big as chandeliers as she moves. Stunning gold. Bands of gold also cross her well formed upper arms. Every inch a woman of gentility and riches. She is perfumed with lavender. Oil made from dried plants fetched all the way from purple fields in Aquitania.

“My son grows impatient to see his bride. Come. Salacia. It is time.” She offers her arm to you.

Apparently your destiny lays in wait.

~

The wedding was a short and simple affair. The Dowager Empress led you to the grand rooms where they were to be held.

Grand, just like the rest of this humongous sprawling palace.

When you see Geta, he is clad in so much gold and armour. A blinding white cloak draped off his form. Armour golden. Carved with gods and victorious hero’s of battle. Golden laurel crown adorns his head. His smile at the sight of you makes you blush with attention.

You are suddenly grateful for the veil. It manages to hide you from every stranger in this room. You can make out Caracalla. Some other senators. Other guests you’ve no idea who.

The celebrant, a rather portly priest, ordered the evil spirits away. Asked for the fire spirits to bless you. He invoked Janus to watch over you from single people to a joined couple. New beginnings.

When it is time, he takes your hand and carefully threads an engagement ring on your finger. It is weighty, pure gold. An imitation of two dog heads joined together. A round sapphire cradled between their mouths. As if they’re fighting for it.

Remus and Romulus. It reminds you of him already.

You dare to meet his eyes as he does it. He looks ravenous. Umbra catching you where you stand. Swallows you whole. You don’t think you can get used to it yet.

“Wherever you go, there also go I, as your wife.” You speak.

The dowager Empress binds your hands together with blood red linen as the rest of the vows are read. The way his fingers turn and grip the inside of your forearm - firm pressing, hot like a brand - it makes you shiver.

Then comes the time for the marriage to be sealed with a kiss. Hands freed.

Your stomach is squirming unpleasantly as your stranger of a groom steps forwards to lift your veil. When he lifts the red gauze from your vision, you keep your eyes lowered until the last moment.

You feel the urging of his eyes. You could hear the fierce nature of his words as if he’d spoken.

Look at me. Salacia.

He looks entirely too boastful. His perfect little nymph. Caught and landed at last.

Hepulled you in by your waist. Locked his hand around your back. Gave you a kiss that was certainly gentler than before. Softness of his lips was maddening when the rest of him was all armour and metal. But you still felt the edge of his teeth on your lower lip. Bursting new pain from where it had split.

It was official. You had been dragged out a golden net cast in the sea. And now property of the Emperor of Rome.

You had no time to let your thoughts wander. There’s been quite the celebration planned for after. He walks beside you as congratulations ripple around you from nobles, senators, generals and high officials of the courts.

You ignore the way Caracalla sneers a particularly vile look your way when you pass him. Plotting.

You are lead to an opulent triclinium. Open to one huge side, guarded by pillars, which overlooked a garden where fountains trickled and plants bloom even in the storm that’s still brewing. Spitting rain on the landscape.

There are torches at the sides of the rooms, huge bowls boasting orange flames that lick at the walls, and freshly plucked flowers, still green branches and fronds sit in urns to the side. Filling the room with petals and heady nectar scent.

There’s a huge swarm of lectus’ in the centre of the room. Bronze laid with cushions. All pointing towards a huge table were bread and wine goblets awaited. You’re not used to how the room echoes. Unused to the sheer amount of people and formality that fills it.

The wine is poured freely by silent servants who sweep in and out. Some of them carrying plates as huge as carriage wheels. A whole roasted boar with grapes spilling out its mouth is brought in. Trays upon trays of cooked moray eels, cod and oiled anchovies. A whole platter of stewed nightingale birds, arranged around stalks of herbs and plums.

There’s fruit and bread the like of which you’ve not seen before. White bowls filled with cut purple figs and waxy oranges. Apples and yellow golden pears on tiered stands. Grapes and dried apricots heaped in dishes. It’s dazzling. So much wealth thrust before you.

You have a cup of sweet honey wine and take some of the unleavened bread. Watching as others around you gorge and toast with their goblets. Drinking strong wine and telling jokes and bawdy stories.

You feel disjointed from it all. You feel the Emperors eyes pass over you. The dowagers too. You are a source of mystery and intrigue.

Plucked from misfortune and placed here at the feet of gods.

You do feel when your new husband slides some pieces of fruit, or fresh breads onto your plate. A small bunch of sweet red grapes. His head may be cocked to conversation in this room. But his attention remains somewhat on you.

“Eat. Wife. I do not wish to force you.” He commands you. Prodding food and more wine in your direction.

Nursing his own cup and barking at the servants when he wanted more. You know his tongue must be stained with the taste by now. Sour purple. You wonder if you’ll taste it later in another of his animalistic kisses.

It feels like there is a boulder in your stomach. You swallow. You sip. You try to breathe. It all feels too restricted.

“Refill my wife’s cup.” Geta demands of the nearest servant. You flinch at his cutting commands.

You meet the servants eyes for a second and flicker them a smile. They look to the ground as they fill your cup. Their poor hands shake. You thank them. They don’t respond.

You’ve a feeling his plying you with wine has more than one ulterior motive. To make you loosen. Make you pliant. Make you slip down easier in his crushing grip.

“I have no appetite.” You admit weakly.

You can’t stomach the way the fat on the meat before you glistens. These poor stewed birds with clipped wings. The gutted boar. Glistening fat and dead meat. Same as the way of those poor flayed men in the coliseum.

Butchered animals. One and the same. The way blood sprayed out on the biscuit brown dirt under the sun. The way viscera glistened bright when spilled free from once living flesh. How these animals looked served on a platter. There’s no difference.

You take some grapes. Pick them from the vine. Bite into some apricots. The fruit rots on your palate. Fine sugary flesh and it bursts on your tongue like ripe putrefaction. You place it gently back on your plate.

“Do they not have fruit in Corsica?” He asks. It’s vaguely mocking.

“We had lemon trees in the gardens. An olive tree in the courtyard. Over 200 years old.” You state quietly. Not taking your eyes off the plate in front of you. You picked and prodded at it.

“You have more now. You are Empress. You have anything you want.” He impressed on you.

“I miss the ocean. The sun on the shoreline. My sisters.” You mutter.

“Don’t risk sounding ungrateful.” He threatens.

Geta followed the path of your reluctant hand with his eyes. He then scans across all of his guests. People of the senate. Rich merchants. Fellow royalty.

They come to snipe and drink wine and watch this new wedded spectacle.

“They are all dull.” Geta decided.

You wonder if the only source of amusement he could delight at was seeing people being beaten to black and blue paste in the coliseum. To have to see the spray of blood to feel something.

“They are intrigued. Their Emperor has placed a traitor in his marriage bed.” You comment.

Geta turned to you. “That sounds like treason to my ears.” A warning.

“Perhaps.” You answered. Boldly.

“But is it inaccurate? It is what they are all thinking.” You add. “You’ve wedded yourself to someone disloyal. Someone who is not their kind. They are curious.”

Geta scans his eyes over everyone again. Their laughter. The flow of wine. The way they stab and cut into food and fruit like they’re half starved. None of them quite meet your eyes.

Perhaps they don’t wish too.

His hand finds the meat of your thigh. Flesh firm and warm.

“They will believe what I tell them too. Wife. You only need worry about your loyal duty to me. Nothing else.” He makes clear.

You go back to pushing bits of fruit around your plate. Taking no more sustenance.

“No doubt you are unused to such finery.” Caracalla pipes up. Seeing you toy with your food. “I wonder what they eat in Corsica. Peasants sea food?”

You meet Caracalla’s eyes across the tables and mountains of rich food.

Getas eyes were dark. Fired by lust for you. That’s what you saw in them when he looked at you.

The same could not be said for Caracalla.

You saw nothing. Just darkness and his love of cruelty. Geta unnerved you. But it was Caracalla who scared you most. It was like gazing into a tomb. A bare skull eye socket. You’re certain nothing but darkness refracted back. Splintered twisted darkness. The purest distilled form of malice.

“Perhaps you are jealous, brother. The fact that I will have heirs meant for the future of the empire. And you will… not.” He snaps. Petulant.

“If she makes it that far.” Caracalla sneers. Daggering a smile right at you. A sneer that make you feel cold. He’s twirling a dagger in his other hand. Eyeing you with sick lustful interest.

He wants your goodness too. He wants it so he can spoil you for himself and ruin Getas legitimacy. By whatever means necessary. Geta has cruelly inserted you into this feud.

“And who’s to say the heir will be yours… who knows where her eyes will stray.” He jabs. Eyes widening as he leers.

Geta stabs into his food. Glaring at his smaller twin all the while. Eyes dark as shadow cloaked black jewels.

When some servants near you move from pouring wine, the sight of the persons impeded by them, slowed your world to a halt, ringing gongs in your ears when you caught sight of someone you recognized.

Macrinus.

The food in your mouth turns to ash which you can hardly stomach swallowing. Your gaze locked on the man as he lays content at your wedding feast. Drinking wine and roaring laughter with Caracalla. Garbed in robes of rich Aquarian blue trimmed with gold pattern.

Exactly the gracious easy way he had been when he dined with you and your father in his home.

His smile remains as he locks eyes with you. And raises his glass in a toast in your direction. You hear him drink to your new name with a blazing smirk aimed your way. “Empress.”

You mumble a pithy excuse. You don’t know if anyone hears you or if they’ll even look up from their plates when you get up and rush to leave.

Caracalla snorts as you race from the room on the verge of tears.

“She’s a flighty one. Your Empress. So full of tears.” Caracalla comments loudly. Cruelly. Turning his head to meet the acid stare of his brother - and the Dowager Empress as she lowers her goblet from her lips. Eyes cool as metal.

“Maybe if you shoved your cock into your broodmare, brother, as you doubtless plan to do this night. Maybe that would settle her down? Or maybe a good beating from the guards will see her right, make her see her place… maybe let a few of the guards bend her over a lectus and see to her first? Loosen her up a little for your uses.”

“Caracalla. Enough.” The dowager snaps. Lightning power in her voice. Tone fashioned from a fury storms could envy. Her dark eyes glow with it.

She turns to Geta and lays a gentle pacifying hand to his arm. “See to your bride, dear. She looked unwell.”

Geta sighs a snarl. Glaring at his brother as he does as mother suggested.

She watches him leave. Turns to her other son with barely concealed ire.

Caracalla snorts into his wine with the other guests. Making sneering, high handed remarks.

“Such marital bliss.” He mocks to the guests. Twirling his favourite silver dagger in his other hand. Laughing as he played with the dead meats on his plate with a sneer. His tooth winked golden in the light.

~

Tagging in the hopes this finds its way to the right people- thank you--

@ceriseheaven @lurkingprincess @ramona-thorns @joequinnswhore @iliveforotps @eddiesskittle @roosterisdaddy36 @rose-tinted @lluviamg06 @ravensfromvalhalla @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @gvtosbith @munsonswhoresposts2 @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @anaisweird @cinnamoncunt @red-lipstick-bisexual @wheels-of-despair @tvserie-s-world @callmeloverr @ho-for-joequinn-fics @bettyfrommars @rip-quizilla @songforeddiemunson @usedtobecooler @peachesandfiends @littlelioncub43 @heyndrix @babybluebex @blueywrites @joejoequinnquinn @cool-nick-miller @sheneedsrocknroll92 @rehfan @pedgito @dracomaledicte @gamingaquarius @mypoisonedvine @sharp-and-swift @chaptersleftunwritten

[turtlesandfrogs]

Ok, now I'm really concerned that how to prevent rats isn't common knowledge like I thought it was. So, to anyone whose parents/guardians/adults didn't teach you, here's the basics of prevention*:

Rats, like you, need three things: food, water, and shelter. If they don't get these things, they don't bother sticking around. Access to food is probably the biggest draw, and the one you can do the most about.

Rats eat the same foods you do, and the same food that most pets eat. You don't want them to have access to this food, so:

Don't leave dirty dishes laying around, the smell will attract rats. Don't put leave dirty dishes in your bed room, or under the couch, or in your car, or whatever. Dishwashers are great, but if you don't have a functional one, and you're low on energy/executive function, at a minimum cover your dirty dishes with soapy water instead of leaving them out. Rats can't eat soapy food.

Work to minimize food waste, because the smell of tasty food in your compost or garbage will attract rats.

Don't put food scraps in your indoor garbage unless your garbage can is rat proof. Take it outside asap, to a rat-proof bin.

When composting, if you're composting food that would be attractive to rats (grains, fats/oils, dairy, meat) it's best to: bury the food down in the center of the pile, try out bokashi composting, or have a rat-proof composter. Generally people do tell you not to compost dairy and meat, but I do know that some people do it anyway.

Keep your grains & legumes in rodent proof-containers. Glass jars, metal trash cans, etc.

If you have dogs, put their food away at night. If you have birds or other animals that eat a seed-based diet, then it pays to make their food/enclosures inaccessible to rats as well. Cats are rat deterrents so leaving dry food out for them is probably the one exception.

Clean up spilled foods immediately.

If you have fruit trees (like those apple trees everyone has that were planted 3 or more decades ago) and notice that something besides a deer is eating them, it's really best to pick all the fruit. You probably can't eat it all, so giving it away is a good option. Compost the rotten/icky ones fallowing the advice above, or dig a hole and do some trench composting.

Rats also need water, which is another reason to make sure you don't have any leaks anywhere, and to not leave beverages out in open containers.

Beyond that, thoroughly looking around your house, inside and out, to make sure there's no access points. Vents can be covered with wire mesh, holes the size of a dime need to be patched (because mice exist, too). Keep vegetation clear from around the base of your house, and make sure there's no trees or shrubs growing close enough to your house that a rat could make the leap to your roof. Keep an eye out for tunnels near your house's foundation, because they will tunnel underneath.

Also, while I'm at it, for the love of your house's structural integrity, DO NOT store wood piles against your house. Termites people!!!

And yes, there's a reason why cats are such a common pet. Not only do they hunt rats, the very smell of a cat is enough to deter rats. Do not just get a cat for rat prevention though, only get a cat if you're going to provide it a good home and are able to take on the additional care tasks without over extending yourself. Getting a housemate that comes with a cat is a great alternative to getting your own cat (and I'm only halfway joking).

*because prevention is much easier and much less terrible than dealing with an infestation. Prevention is so, so, so much easier than getting rid of them, particularly because once they're there, they'll start eating other things that wouldn't have been enough by themselves to draw them in.

[luvrodite]

milk teeth (833)

on returning to gotham, and old ghosts that haunt you

After it all happens, your parents whisk you away.

It amounts to a betrayal you never quite forgive them for and despite their efforts, the move doesn’t quite scrub Gotham from your grief stricken memory. It remains forever in the rearview mirror, a taunting spectre at your back, a permanent black spot that seems to jeer, you’ll be back. You cannot outrun me.

Some days, she is benevolent. In dreams, she coaxes you back with promises of home, nudges towards you the days that had once made up your childhood. Memories of what had once been, but could never be again, are offered to you on a plate. Return to me, return, return, return…

She shows her viciousness, too. When sweetness does not deliver you back to her threshold, she reveals her teeth. Fury driven by what has been stolen from her, you bear the brunt of her scorn. Child of smoke and water, you were never meant to leave the bounds of her domain.  

Sunsoaked and dripping in artificial colouring, the West Coast is nothing like your gray, grim city. It’s lit in technicolour, yellows and blues too bright for your retinas, Brighton weakened, unused to anything beyond the pale smog and acid rain. Flash burns make a home in your vision, oil spills in the corner of your eye that linger long after you’ve withdrawn, sitting in the dark of your room with the curtains pulled taut. 

The name that sits in your hollow chest is never spoken aloud. 

Not by you, nor your parents who barely dare to look at you, as though you will shatter under the very weight of their gaze. It festers there, the restless spirit of the blue eyed boy who had held your hand on the first day of high school, wrathful at being forgotten. What prayers you muster go unanswered. How can one gain forgiveness from the dead?

Little bird with a wounded wing, you flinch from any and all attempts at consolation. Memory and imagination blur together, visions procured that haunt your nights and whittle you into something unrecognisable. 

Where has my baby gone?

There is no answer that will satisfy your mother’s tears, no energy to fashion a lie that will comfort her agony. Not when your own peels you back, an unending flagellation that shows no intention of relenting. 

This is a grief not meant for the young – to love and lose, this should have come in the winter of your life. But the baby fat of your cheeks has yet to slim out, milk teeth not all lost. You do not know crow’s feet, nor silver strands that thread through your mane.

Grief, you come to find out, cares not for whom it afflicts. You come to know her well.

The California sun, over the years, becomes tolerable but it does little to put your heart to rest, to quiet the press of phantom fingers and wisps of blue black hair that brush against the curtain of your memory. 

Your lost boy lingers, your graveyard of bones calls you home and Gotham takes you back into her arms, a near decade after Jason is killed.

It threatens to topple you over, a knife lodged beneath your breast when you take your first step off the bridge and onto the island. 

All around you the city thrums with frenetic energy, a spirit that has run undercurrent to the lives of its inhabitants long before the first slab of concrete was laid down. Steam hisses and bellows from pipes in buildings above your head. You are jostled by the foot traffic, hurried pedestrians casting derisive looks over their shoulder and muttering beneath their breath. Someone yells down the road, a too harsh laugh makes your eardrums ache and the ghost of your first love stands beneath a light pole, smiling.

He looks just as he had, that last day. It nearly brings you to your knees, staring at the curly haired angel leaning against the steel, a toothy grin curving a rosebud mouth upwards. 

Somebody shoves you with a yell to stop hogging up the path that you barely hear. By the time you look back, he’s gone.

In street lamps, under the cover of store awnings and atop buildings guarded carefully by stone gargoyles. The flutter of fabric in the wind rings in your ears and the world takes on a blue quality, the muffled echoes of a dying laugh reaching you through a veil. 

That same gap toothed, crooked grin that you’d known in your youth meets you from across a convenience store and you drop the can of soda in your hand, 13 years old and blustering under the weight of a nosy store owner’s gaze – shouldn’t you both be at school?

You walk out empty handed and twelve years older, with bright purple stains on the canvas of your sneakers and difficulty steadying your breathing. The bright blue eyes on your back stay there the whole walk home.

is this anything? idfk. i have pilates in 3.5 hours and i haven't slept all night. yikes! anyway. here's whatever this is. it's unedited btw but i wanted to post something because i haven't in almost a month and i'm going crazy cuckoo bananas over it

[bigcitymac]

many, including myself, wonder how on earth the gang could've acquired a cybertruck. here's how:

mac and dennis were fucking nasty style in the back of a dubiously acquired cybertruck.

it was a bucket-list item, you see, to make love in a vehicle together. the fact of mac's having previously done so while he hadn't enraged dennis immensely, so he set about to righting the natural order of things. he needed to wash the memory of mac's previous vehicular endeavours from the other man's brain, so dennis planned an encounter so intensely sexual it would have to be excluded from the 'dennis reynolds: an erotic life' sequel (working title: 'dennis reynolds 2 erotic for tv') that was in the works. so dangerous and tantalizing that not even the triple x sites would have anything to do with it.

it was to be hot and wet and gut-wrenching, a decadent scene of slippery oil and blood and sweat and tears, that would blow any of mac's history out of the water. but it couldn't take place in the range rover, of course not, that was too high brow for the likes of mac and the things dennis would do to him. a cybertruck was the next obvious choice, and dennis knew just where to get it.

so, dennis made some calls, made some threats, and made some love, not necessarily in that order, but all the same it landed him inside the shockingly large-yet-cramped vehicle with mac utterly at his mercy. they were both lubricated up like marine birds after an oil spill, with vats of oil to spare in the truck bed, parked by a beautiful boat-ramp just off the river so they could make glorious, glorious love with a view of the sun setting over golden waves.

the cybertruck, not famed for its superior usability, encountered an issue where a software glitched caused the parking break to fail. so engrossed in their passionate lovemaking, neither mac nor dennis noticed the vehicle rolling until water began to rise against the windows. unable to withstand a single steel ball thrown with the measly force of a 50 year-old billionaire, the cybertruck's windows didn't stand a chance against the superior pressure of the schuylkill.

windows cracked and begun to leak, alerting the golden god and his most devout of their precarious situation. frantically they tried to plug the holes with some brand new, sweatshop-made paddy's pub official t-shirts (purchased for an unrelated scam but pertinent to the current scenario).

it was no use, the stainless steel monster was quickly taking on water. mac and dennis had no choice but to scramble through one of the broken windows, leaving their ill-gotten truck to sink beneath the unforgiving waves, oil, t-shirts, and all.

dripping in water, utterly nude, and not yet having reached the epic climax dennis had so carefully laid the groundwork for, the two men shared a knowing look as the enormous hunk of metal finally disappeared, shrugged, and, assuming the problem had taken care of itself, turned to find themselves a new car to break in.

what they didn't realize, however, was that the low quality oil perfectly preserved their fingerprints (and whole-body prints). that, alongside the dozen-or-so boxes of paddy's pub t-shirts, would be more than enough to convict not only the pair of them, but the rest of the gang, as well.

dennis had acquired the truck after blackmailing the owner of the company, the very man who he once had an erotic encounter with during their time at penn. once the glaringly shiny cybertruck was delivered, dennis of course was obligated to show it off to everyone, first and foremost, the gang. which he did with the utmost air of superiority, pleased that he had gotten himself (another) beautiful vehicle, but equally as pleased by getting to blackmail a scorned former lover. the gang were utterly awed and appropriately jealous, so dennis allowed them to check out the sweet ride before growing tired of their grubby hands all over his gleimmering new truck, and loading up with mac to go home.

the next day, as always, there was a scam to be done, so dennis, mac, and charlie climbed aboard the great, gleaming vessel and went about their plan. stop one was under the bridge to load up several large barrels of oil that charlie had stashed months previously -to what end, neither mac nor dennis could say. charlie and mac hauled in the oil while dennis watched from the sideline, critique their lifting form, ogling mac's muscled body, and examining his cuticles in turn.

charlie had some incomprehensible business to conduct with someone called 'shifty sullivan' and remained behind. mac and dennis left him behind with the twitchy-looking beanpole of a man and set off to their next stop; this being a back-alley between an illegally operating clothing manufacturer and a weed-infested strip of tarmac that was used for rickety, little, decades-old, private planes to take off from and land on. it was there that they picked up the boxes of paddy's pub t-shirts from a man with a thick accent who refused to let them inside the door.

goods acquired, mac and dennis patted themselves on the back and headed in the direction of home, closing the door on the man shouting after them about getting a 'guaranteed payment or else.'

their last stop was a boat-ramp not too terribly far from their apartment building.

a day after the sinking of the cybertruck, philadelphia residents began noticing a strange filmy quality to the water of the schuylkill river, absurd amounts of dead fish floating belly-up, and several heaping mounds of strange green material washing up on the shore. it was not long before police were called, and even shorter thereafter that a pair of tow-trucks hauled out the oversized, overweight, sunken cybertruck. the interior was oil-slick and stained with various bodily fluids, and a family of severely ill crabs living inside the open glove compartment.

in the frunk was a myriad of ropes, tape, zipties, and other items that police could only assume was supplies for a worryingly disturbing abduction.

understandably disturbed, philly's finest launched an investigation into their troubling recovery.

now, stainless steel is not fingerprint-resistant, so dee reynolds' abnormally large prints were not only highly prevalent all over the truck-body, but were, in fact, so large that it was not even a challenge for police to spot them.

charlie kelly's dna was retrieved from the several vats of oil in the bed. fingerprints, and strangely enough, dried saliva lined the rim of several of the containers.

an invoice issued to one frank reynolds was still perfectly preserved inside a plastic cover taped to the outside of one of the sodden cardboard boxes that also turned up ashore.

mac mcdonald was linked to the truck by way of an errant wallet containing: one expired id, three one-dollar bills, and a clearly aged business card from south philadelphia's leading gay bar with an out-of-service phone number scrawled on the back along with the message i won't tell if you won't ;)

dennis reynolds' name was on the ownership papers.

none of this investigation was actually needed, however, because a tall, slim, disgruntled man that claimed to be a mistreated business partner -from a business he adamantly refused to name- came to police unprompted to implicate all aforementioned criminals.

it was an open-and-shut case, in the end. the suspects were tried and sentence with expediency rarely seen from the philadelphia police and justice system. just like that, several misdemeanours were tacked on to the gang's already astonishingly lengthy records.

now, down one cybertruck and up 100 court-ordered hours of community service (and short one mind-blowing vehicular orgasm), the gang needed to find some suckers to scam into overstating actual served hours. it'd be tricky; there weren't that many people in the great city of philadelphia that remained un-scorned by the gang at some point or another.

within a few days, letters showed up, addressed to each of them, with a list of possible community service options:

1. volunteers at a fundraiser for children with terminal illness (rejected: 'what if we catch something and die!'),

2. collecting items and donations for the foodbank (rejected: 'i will not have people believing me to be one of the needy!'),

3. freeway cleanup (rejected: 'we did that already, boners. it blows. like mac.'),

4. volunteering at a local school (rejected: '100 hours with annoying little-- wait... you guys this actually might work!).

willard r. abbott elementary school: volunteer for a full day elementary school experience. engage in learning, games, activities and interact with both our bright young students and our passionate learning professionals. your time, skills and enthusiasm in volunteering, you help make our school and our city a vibrant and rewarding place to live, work and play.

it seemed too good to be true, a bunch of overworked teachers, too burnt out on dealing with their overflowing classes of ill-mannered children to spend too much time hassling volunteers. leaving said volunteers ample opportunity for various schemes and scams and slacking off in the background.

(what wouldn't be in the fine print was the multitude of cameras present at the school, which certainly posed an issue for on particular member of the gang with several bench warrants for sexual misconduct, a notable history of felonious behaviour, and a face that has been in the past likened to registered sex offender wendell albright.

this would leave dennis stranded and hopping from closest, to bathroom, back to closet to avoid said cameras, and worst of all, this would force dennis to relinquish scheme lead to mac, who, like the cybertruck, was not famed for his superior skill set despite loudly and constantly claiming to be the best.

what could possibly go wrong?)

------

(i'll be honest u guys, this really got away from me. but i was loling the entire time anyway. insp by this post, several tweets and other posts wondering where tf the gang could possibly get a cybertruck, and my own ponderings about this set of freaks and their particular hobbies. but in any event, i hope u enjoyed)

[wexhappyxfew]

crash landings and all

(a/n): to my annie x brady girlies, here is the piece i’ve since promised and since fallen in love with!!! featuring annie, brady, coffee cups and the rising sun + some heartfelt talks about reality. and of course all those emotions annie doesn’t really need but feels instead. enjoy!

It was 0600 and she couldn't sleep.

But this had been happening far too many times in the past few weeks for her to ignore it and call it nerves, or worry, or any other bothersome symptom that would have one of the girls nudging her and asking her if she was okay.

Which she was, alright?

Or she was at least trying to tell herself that.

When there were mornings without missions, that's usually when she would come and sit out, just outside of the mess hall, and stare out towards where the B-17s sat, silhouetted against the purple and pink skyline as the sun began to appear. She'd usually sit there for about an hour, before she started seeing people moving about, and then she'd disappear inside, grab herself a coffee, avoid one of Major Egan's horrible jokes in the morning, and then be on her way to her crew, or to Silver Bullets, or to anything really - to distract herself, get her mind active, get her brain focused on something other than the worry.

This morning was no different - beautiful as the early dawn was, it was also incredibly reflective. She'd sit in the silence, the only noise the breeze in the trees and past her ears, the birds beginning to wake up and sing. It was usually a lot of her convincing herself things were fine and that everything was okay. That she was okay. But usually that didn't last very long and she was off worrying about one of the girls, or that one damn engine on Silver Bullets, or better yet if Lemmons had screwed that one bolt in enough. It kind of ate her alive at the worst of times.

"Hey." Annie looked up and found, stepping down onto the step, and nestling in beside her was Brady, an outstretched hand with a steaming mug of coffee opposite her, and a tired smile on his face.

"Hey," Annie said, trying to hide her surprise and current spiral that she thought was normally drawn across her face, "you're up early. Thanks." She took the coffee and watched as he settled beside her with a sigh, sipping at his own cup of coffee and glanced her way.

"I could say the same about you." he said back, his voice still waking up it seemed from sleep, knocking her shoulder gently. Annie watched him, the first rays of the morning son painting his face a beautiful golden with his eyes and she nodded.

"Couldn't sleep." she told him honestly, "Haven't been sleeping too well anyway, so. What's not to lose with a sunrise, you know?" Brady watched her for a moment, his lanky knees bent up to his chest, the mug resting on his kneecap and his expression quiet.

"Something worrying you?" he asked her, seemingly the first assumption of many on this base - was something worrying her? The sun would shine and she'd be worried, she'd be sat at a table and someone would cough and she'd think she'd have to get the doctor, someone would come in with a headache and she'd assume the worst. So, yeah, maybe there was something wrong, but she wasn't about to spill that to Brady at 0600 in the morning.

"I just worry about the girls, you know how it is. Making sure people are sleeping, eating, feeling okay, not feeling too homesick they're bedridden. That their letters get sent, get read, they get comforted, listened to." Annie said, "Just making sure they're keeping what smiles they can on their faces." Brady caught her gaze as she glanced his way and she found a small smile lingering on her lips.

"It's just what I have to do. Make sure things work like a well-oiled machine." she told him honestly, sipping at the coffee, "I must say, you know how to make a coffee taste good." Brady smirked slightly, a bit of a laugh escaping his mouth, before he looked at her.

"I'm glad you like it," he told her, his voice tender, "but don't try to worry yourself over your crew. They're a good group of ladies flying a B-17. And they've got a great pilot to lead 'em."

"Thanks, John."

"Just make sure you keep an eye on yourself, alright," Brady said, leaning into her side a bit, causing her to glance his way, "you're a part of that crew and just as important." He spoke with a gentle ease of tone, but equally just as serious, like he was coaxing someone to calm down.

"John Brady, you are full of compliments this morning." Annie said quietly, sipping her coffee and peering at him over the edge of coffee cup, just in time to watch his ears flame red a bit and he gulped and smiled at her.

"I don't lie." he told her and Annie grinned and held his gaze for a moment.

"Humor me then," Annie said and a brief moment of reflection passed over Brady's face, "Croz sort of let it out, about those 'mechanical failures' when he mistook France for England…..what was that about…..?" Annie watched him expectantly and Brady's ears flamed a deeper red to the point it spread to his cheeks.

"Supposedly you covered for Croz, real gentlemanly, too, I must admit." Annie said, "Lying to Major Egan of all people, John Brady, I wouldn't suspect such a thing." Brady chuckled at her words and shook his head.

"I was putting it how it was," Brady said, "God, it was embarrassing though. In front of both Buck and Bucky. Land the plane on its belly, Croz vomiting just below, the thing about to blow up but it doesn't, our first introduction to the base. You do what you gotta do for the crew. I was a bit of a shithead to Croz, but to be flying over France -Nazi-occupied France - it wasn't the most pleasant." Annie smiled, watching him as he spoke.

Knowing how he cared how he flew, how he coped. He was so fluent in what he thought and believed, right and truthful. Caring, gentle, but firm and purposeful in his speech.

"The worst was that belly-landing though," Brady said, shaking his head as he sipped his coffee, "that was horrible." Annie watched as Brady seemed to relive it for a moment. She bit back her lip and then reached a hand forward and placed it on the sleeve of his wrist, the touch warm and welcoming and causing their eyes to meet.

"I crashed an AT-6 when I was doing hours for my license." Annie said - she had never dared to tell a soul such a thing, she wanted to take that to the grave, bury it, hide the humiliation. She'd jumped out of it like she was losing her mind, a lunatic sprinting across the base, with her hair ends crispy and black, her blonde hair suffering from the smoldering smoke, looking more monster than woman in that moment. Not her finest, but it had taught her a whole lot of lessons. Brady watched her for a moment, surprised.

"You?" Brady said with a nod, "Crashed not only a plane, but an AT-6? No, I don't believe you." Annie could get his joking tone pretty solid by this point and instead laughed at his words, leaning back to wrap her slightly cold fingertips around the mug and nodded.

"I did in fact crash-land it. Crazed eyes, hair-on-fire and all." Annie said and Brady watched her as if amazed.

"I must admit, it's hard for me to picture that because you're one of the best pilots I've ever met." Brady said and if she were honest, they both looked surprised as that came out of his mouth, but he was quickly talking next and she took a moment to relive those words.

"I mean, you look so calm and collected….what…what happened to warrant that?" he said, leaning a bit closer, evidently interested in the tale that had her losing her mind for weeks after.

"Truth be told, me learning to fly was like telling a fish to live in a tree," Annie said watching as Brady chuckled, "I wasn't always….this." She pointed to her face and Brady smirked.

"Oh c'mon, you're a goddamn good pilot, Annie, really." Brady said, and then smiled, "Go on though." Annie sent him a look with a playful smirk.

"You, asshole." she said and nudged his shoulder, "Don't try to get back at me with that or something in the future."

"Never, my lips are sealed." Brady said, sending her a wink - why would he do that at six am when she's somewhat still fogged with sleep and brain exhaustion.

"Anyway," Annie said, catching his smile again, "all the engines crapped out on me as I was coming in for the landing, the tower was telling me to eject, ejector was jammed, and the wheels were stuck at 45 degrees. So, I did what I could, braced myself and the thing slid across about hundreds of feet of sand before tilting to the side, me pouring out like Ma's soup for dinner. It was so bad, and horrifically embarrassing. God."

"Hey," Brady said, leaning into her peripheral, "'least you can say you know how it's done." Annie let out a laugh at his words then and there, her heart feeling warm for one of the first mornings sat out here; usually alone and now in good company.

"I mean, it wasn't the first time I even crashed landed." Brady offered with a shoulder shrug. Annie stared at him, trying to keep the smile from her lips.

"You're joking."

"Wish I was, Annie," Brady said, "back in training, went down, Croz could tell you all about it. Became pretty well-known among the base and the training groups." He smiled.

"But," he said, "'least I can say I did it." Annie let out a laugh, clasping a hand over her mouth as she glanced at him and watched him chuckle, his eyes glowing in the morning sun that was slowly peaking its way over the horizon line.

"You should join me for mornings like this more often," Annie said quietly, looking out towards the sunlight, "get some things off your chest. It's why I do well….usually alone, but it helps me think. Through things like that." She looked over and met his gaze and smiled. His expressions in the early morning were so much gentler than at dinner, and it almost made her wish he could stay like that forever in some selfish way. All of them, truth be told.

"I think I will," Brady said, "I'm glad you like the coffee. I wasn't sure what you went for, but….you seemed like a cream type of person."

"You either are really good as guessing or someone snitched." Annie said, catching Brady smirking.

"Nah, Bessie was in there the other day getting coffee for you two. I know she drinks straight black and was wondering who the hell she'd be getting a coffee full of creamer for so…." Brady admitted, glancing her way, "I hope you enjoy it." Annie looked to the cup of coffee and took another lingering sip. She wanted to stay like this for a while, freeze time maybe. But that would never be such a thing in their lives.

"We should take a spin together some time," Annie said looking towards him, a smile growing on her lips, "if you ever wanted to be in Silver Bullets when she gets going in the air. You could be my co-pilot." Brady watched her, his face still for a moment, held in a graceful balance of seriousness and surprise and then the corner of his lips ticked upwards.

"I think Francis would drop-kick me from the cockpit." Brady whispered quietly to her and Annie chuckled.

"She'd be fine with it, I swear to you," Annie said, "maybe not anytime soon, as long as we're going up, dropping bombs and all. But maybe when this whole thing ends. And we just get to be. When we get to go home." Looking over, she found Brady already watching her. Home, seemed to echo in her mind the longer she held his gaze.

"Hey! That you Brady?" Annie watched Brady turn away from her face and glance behind her, her own gaze following to find Crank coming towards them, waving an arm, "Buck's been trying to get a-hold of you!" Brady nodded and then looked back at her, a sudden shift in whatever it was that existed between them. He slowly got to his feet, brushed off his pants and then stopped to lean down towards her ear.

"I'd love to be your co-pilot," Brady whispered, sending chills up her neck, "ma'am." Then, he was up and off, sending her cheeks flaming red, her eyes going over her shoulder, as he went and caught up to Crank, shaking his hand and nodding to him, exchanging all the pleasantries. Annie caught his eyes one final time as he glanced back at her. He winked.

[eastwindmlk]

Welp, this turned into a @jilymicro-oops! Not that we mind those!

Prompt: Touched, March 11. Word count: 1337 Content Warning: Negative self speech, a little angsty I guess.

The graceful swish of the A at the top of her Transfiguration essay seemed to laugh at Lily from where it lay among her many notes, scattering the library table she’d claimed for herself. 

She had hoped to use the despicable grade as motivation to finish the extra credit work she had practically begged Professor McGonagall for. The professor had looked at her with concern but riffled through her desk for a moment before producing another essay for her to do. “You are under a lot of pressure. There is no need to worry about one A. Everyone misses one everyone once in a while.” 

Her impulses had got the better of her then, and Lily had snapped back. “Everyone, really?” She bit her tongue before she mentioned the two people that she was certain never got a grade as pathetic as an A. Her jaw clenched to keep the flood of words from rolling off her tongue. 

She was tired. Tired of always feeling like she had something to prove. Tired of the news that flashed before her eyes whenever she tried to sleep. Tired of the shudder that ran down her spine when she caught some of her fellow students looking at her with disgust. Of it happening more and more often. 

She almost longed for a time when the word mudblood would phase her. Where it elicited more than just a tired sigh. 

It wasn’t like it did not bother him anymore, but it no longer stung. Rather, is stuck to her like pitch. Making her feel dirty, stuck somehow. Like a bird trapped in an oil spill.

Her spiral of thoughts was interrupted by the strong gasp of her head of house. Her hands, though frail looking, were soft and capable, a surprising amount of strength still lingering in the ageing bones. 

Minerva McGonagall offered her a parchment with questions for her to research and answer. The look on her face was reluctant. “Comparison is the thief of joy, Miss Evans,” she said with a warm smile she reserved for special occasions. 

The words still echoed in her head, and she wished she’d had scoffed at them then. They always felt so disingenuous when there were things like class rankings to be considered. But she did not want to fight with the professor, not when the heat was already building behind her eyes, the threat of tears so much worse than seeming indignant or ungrateful.

Lily had pushed down these feelings as best she could, being snappy and short with people over dinner. The voice in the back of her head, the one that sounded an awful lot like Petunia, kept up a constant string of doubts and insults. 

You’re useless. Can’t even do this right. Maybe they’re right about you, just pretending to belong. 

Words that got louder and louder and louder every time she looked at the glaring A. 

Worthless freak.

It was now, in the quiet of the library, that Lily finally allowed the mounting sadness that she’d battled from the moment she’d talked to Professor McGonagall to overwhelm her. Quiet sobs shook her shoulder, the corners of her lips down-turned like a Greek tragedy mask.

She folded her arms over her stomach protectively, rocking forward with the sheer force of her bereavement. All the while, that little voice still nagging her. 

You’re crying over this? Really? Don’t you have actual problems? People are dying, you know? You’ve always been selfish like that. 

Lily sat and shook quietly, her jaw clenched tight enough to make her ears ring and drown the world around her. 

Maybe that was why she did not hear the footsteps coming closer. Not noticing that someone had come close enough to touch her when a hand landed on her shoulder. The sudden weight made her jolt, frantically wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. 

She quickly tucked the failed paper under her stack of books, blinking furiously in the hopes of stopping the flow of tears. She did not want to look as pathetic as she felt, as the voice told her she was. 

“You alright, Evans?” 

Lily almost laughed at the cruel fate of James Potter being the one to find her in this remote corner, crying to herself. Just as she started to like him, too. The normal flutter his soft tone conjured in her stomach seemed to twist itself around like it wanted to wring out the rest of the tears. 

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, she nodded, not turning around to look at James. “Perfectly peachy. Thank you, Potter,” she lied, her voice strained. 

She did not need to turn around to know his shoulders sagged. She did not want to see the disappointed look on his face. Barely able to bear the thought of having someone else’s disappointment weighing down on her already crushed mood. 

Lily flipped open one of the many books she’d compiled on her topic, pretending to get on with things in the hopes he would just move on. Why would he care, after all? He was only nice to her because they were supposed to work together. 

At least, that is what her inner Petunia told her. A sentiment she would usually fight. When she wasn’t already fighting, the weight of all the expectations she placed on herself collapsed in on her. 

Her eyes lifted from the page at the sound of wood scraping against stone, a chair being pulled back. “What are you doing, Potter?” She could not summon the usual bite, though, nor the flirty quips that had permeated their conversations as of late. 

“I am catching up on potions,” he replied simply, dumping half the contents of his bag onto the table.

The messiness irked Lily. She reached out to place a chocolate frog card, which had slipped onto her notes, back on his side of the table. When she was about to let go, his hand met hers, a not-so-subtle attempt to touch her. 

James’ hand was warm and surprisingly soft, his thumb trailing along the side of her hand. The small gesture sparked something in her chest. A glow that she usually only associated with the people she held closest. 

That had never been him, though. James had always been in her orbit. He had been nice. But there were degrees of separation. Apprehension and walls that kept his warmth at arm’s length. Lily wasn’t sure when that had changed. 

“Look, James, I am touched that you want to… Help?” she swallowed, hoping that her voice would sound less thick with tears after. “I-” she started to say when he cut her off. 

“Don’t. People only say that before a but. You don’t need to push me away, Lils. I am not here to check on you.” 

Lies. “Then why are you here?” She watched as he pulled up his shoulder nonchalantly and motioned to the book in front of him. Right, potions. She had to admit, though, that the casualness of his motion was soothing somehow. Like the restless ocean in her was learning from his calm waves. 

“I didn’t know we had homework,” Lily admitted sheepishly, leaning a little closer to look at what section he was working on. Eyebrows drew together in confusion when she noticed a chapter they’d covered nearly a month ago. “Personal reasons?” 

James chuckled, the shake of his head causing his glasses to slip down even further and now balanced precariously on the tip of his nose. “I might not have handed in this particular essay. Sluggy finally caught on.” 

She watched as his hand carded through his hair and could not help but roll her eyes at the motion, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips. “You’ll be fine. Valerian Root is pretty straightforward,” she offered, turning back to her own assignment. 

Lily paused for a moment, massaging her lower lip between her teeth before offering. “If you need help, I’m here.” 

There was a pause, the silence between them blooming with promise. 

“Likewise.”

[andileighwrites]

Crumbs

...

There were blackbirds Conversing in the middle Of the road,

Looking like an excited oil spill As their feathers collected The winter sun.

They hopped And picked at the road salt—

Those pieces weren't crumbs. I hoped the birds knew.

...

Andi Leigh 12/22/2024

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Well since ye threw some prompts at me, here’s some for you!

28. “Don’t Worry I’ll be Careful”

And

45. “Shhh… just sleep… you’re safe”

Bad Plant:

“Lana! Are you alright?” Sesa’s voice rumbled from above as the ground shook. The small woman shivered at the tremors but tried to hold still. Not knowing what she was stuck in. it felt… it felt like webbing almost. Almost like something that was slick and fussy that clung to her skin and clothes. 

Lana froze, trying, trying so hard to not to shiver at the idea it was webbing. She did not want to see a giant spider. The earth was moving above and a chunk was just lifted away, spilling light into the odd chamber. The human, Bitta, squinted at the blinding light, trying to find out what she was as a massive hand reached down. 

“Sesa, help.” Lana whined, scared as it looked like there was a deeper pit of black under her. Feeling a now familiar giant hand wrapping around her. The weird sticky strings clinging still and pulling on her as Sesa’s knife flashed by to slice through the threads. 

“I have you, don’t worry Lana,” the giant woman soothed, wincing once she saw what was sticking to the Bitta. “Bloody hells.”

“What is it?” Lana felt better up in the full light again. 

“A bad plant,” Sesa cupped Lana between her hands, getting up and starting going back into the cabin. “Don’t try to pull it off your skin yet, Lana. We needed oil to get it off.” 

“What kind of plant?” Lana asked, realizing that the pale, root-like cords and fibers were clinging to her. It was numb. A lot of her felt numb now as she shivered. “Did I just get poisoned?”

“I think so,” Sesa said honestly as she shouldered her way into her cabin, grabbing an unused tea cup. Reaching for her clear cooking oil, and side the shivering human in the cup at the same time as pouring the oil. “It won't last, I promise, everything that's gotten stung with that plant once free starts moving again after a day.”

Sesa seemed so confident as Lana sat up on the teacup. The small woman gasped as the oil soaked her first attempt at her own hand made clothes. There was an itching sensation she was only partly aware of through the spreading numbness. But it eased in the oil. Lana shivered as if cold, feeling her jaw chittering but could sit up in the cup on her own. 

The Bitta looked up, squeaking in shock at seeing… tweezers. Sesa's tweezers that the giant normally used when they were working on their model projects together. 

“Um… what's that for?” Lana asked even though she had a feeling. Leaning away from the ends of the massive tweezers as they approached. 

Sesa paused, pulling the tool back and then reached to grab her chair and pull it to the kitchen counter. Cupping her hands around the teacup, lifting it and the human up to draw closer. “I need to get the root nettles off you Lana. They just irritate me, I don't know what they will do, being stuck to your skin long term.”

Lana looked at the white things looped around her legs and arms, twisted up a good chunk of the skirt she made. As lopsided as it was, it was something that she had made all by herself. Lana looked up, “Can you be that careful?”

“Don’t worry I’ll be careful, I promise Lana.” Sesa said, “The oil will help neutralize it, Ive gotten the roots off the garden birds without hurting them.”

Some lost a few feathers, and Sesa was pretty sure she would need to cut Lana out ever so gently out of her now root knotted clothes.

The little Bitta whimpered in her new teacup of oil. “Okay…”

Sesa gently set the teacup down, the giant woman sighed, took a deep calming breath. To make sure her hands were steady. “I promise to be as careful as I can, but the roots need to come out. It might still hurt.”

Lana shifted slowly shifting her numbed right hand out of the oil to offer to Sesa. “I understand. Please, let's get this over with. I'll… I'll take a bath in that real numbing cream from the medicine box after.”

“Good idea.” Sesa gently, oh so gently reached to grasp the end of the pale fuzzy root with her tweezers. Having to bend over to put her head near the teacup of Bitta. Only then to see what direction of the micro barbs on the root. Warm, almost hot breath washing over the still shivering Bitta. Human. Sesa's little fairy friend.

Able to curl the root the right way to get the barbs to let go.

Lana had no shame with crying as the pain got through the numbing poison of the roots. It hurt and though she cried, the tiny woman stayed where she was in the oil. Watching as Sesa finest plant scissors were picked up to snip at her clothes. It broke the giant's heart with each sound and tiny miniscule expression of pain.

Sesa made sure to get Lana out and into a new cup. Using fresh oil to be sure no little root hairs would stay in Lana's skin. Washed away with the fresh oil. While the other cup was tinted from the plant poison.

Unlike the garden birds, lana was able to pick out any leftover fibers from the roots. She was shivering between Sesa’s hands on the counter some… Lana was not sure how long it had been. At least an hour, maybe more before the human was wrapped up in a soft, fussy cloth. Lana had a few more clothes more like towels for her size, but her shaking and numb limbs meant she needed some help being patted dry. 

The giant offered a shallow tin of the real medical numbing gel like substance. Lana laughed, stressed but she nodded. “I don’t feel good, Sesa…”

“I’m sorry Lana,” Sesa said gently, making sure the bitta was in a new dry, warm wash cloth that had been set near her oven. “Can you try and get that on the spots on your skin where the roots touched? It’ll keep the spots numb until tomorrow.”

“Do I have to?”

Sesa softened, dabbing her pinky finger into the medicine. Still with the same care as before rubbing it on the Bitta’s exposed back. The giant woman’s voice was a low worried tone, both that soft and gentle tone when she was really worried. “I think you should, my little fairy. You might be in a lot of pain tomorrow morning otherwise.”

“This stuff makes me sleepy,” Lana complained, nearly at the end of her tolerance. Of pain, of just dealing with this giant’s world she was stuck in. She got a little bit more help with getting the medicine on. But had to do some mostly herself, at least the cloth was warm still when warped around her. “I don’t want to go back outside… for a while.”

“You don’t have to,” Sesa reassured, unable to help but lift the whole pile of cloth and Bitta into her arms and hold them against her front. “I’ll take care of that plant, and check around. But you can stay in the cabin as long as you need Lana.”

The little Bitta, human, whined at the movement, still not feeling good from the plain poison.

“Shhh…” Sesa hummed, trying to make that low rumble she found out that her tiny friend liked. “Just sleep then Lana. You’re safe now.”

The giant would burn that whole section of the weed infested dirt in a fire pit. And check for any other signs of a plant like that. Even normally Sesa did not want that weed around, now with a real live Bitta around… that just seemed horrifying now.

[gerbiloftriumph]

Shiny Gold Coins, a super no stakes gen fic about markets and food and friends and all things soft and wonderful (also on ao3)

~*~

A stack of shiny gold coins—Graham’s first wages as an actual knight of Daventry, what a thought—rattled in his pocket. It was a cheerful jingle that put even more of a spring in his step than he usually had. He should send most of it home, like he’d promised he’d do with his first paycheck. But he figured his family would understand if he didn’t.

Because Daventry was holding its last farmers market of the season.

Daventry’s sheer beauty still caught him off guard, even after a handful of weeks living here and calling it home. The autumn morning practically glittered, hardly a cloud in the endless sky. It promised to get awfully hot later, summer giving one final hurrah before giving way to icy winds, but for right now it was perfect. Birds and squirrels chirped and chattered in the trees around him, and he inhaled deeply, the sweet air full of promises.

Promises of baked goods, specifically. He knew Wente had been prepping for this day for a week, his ovens hardly ever allowed to cool. He could taste sugar on the air as he neared town.

The market was supposed to be held in the town square, but the walled town had its limits, and the market had grown over the years. Booths spilled out of the open gate, lining the front entrance. Tablecloths and tents flapped in the breeze, held in place by a dizzying array of goods of all types. Crafts and foods and art and all kinds of wonderful trinkets magical and mundane.

Daventry townsfolk were freely wandering between the stalls, chatting and laughing, but Graham saw plenty of people he didn’t recognize, too—travelers from all over. People from further afield in Daventry, like Mannerly Stove, sure, but more than that. He saw some Serenian style cloaks, and he was certain that the little sunburned group over there was made of Llewdorians. According to Amaya, the market was a popular destination, and the last one of the season always drew a crowd. She especially liked it since it was one of the few times she was sure to get a customer base that could afford her wares properly.

Speaking of Amaya. Her booth was right in front of her forge. It gave off a metallic tang of oil, almost spicy, and sharp things glinted in the sunlight. At least for half of it. With geometrical precision, her table was divided in half, not one thing allowed to cross into the other half. One side was full of weaponry, and the other side…petunias.

“And they are most lovely,” Amaya said sternly when she saw him looking. Each multicolored bouquet was beautifully arranged, and not a single petal so much as shivered over the invisible line dividing her table between weapons and flowers. Not just petunias. Roses and sunflowers and all kinds of other flowers he didn’t recognize.

“From your garden?” he asked.

“I always grow a section for this. Besides, the first frost’ll be here before we know it. Better to send them off to a good home before that.”

“They grow up so fast,” Graham joked.

She chucked an acorn at him.

“How much?” he asked, ducking and laughing.

“One shiny gold coin, of course.”

Flowers would definitely make his little knight-assigned tower room look great and smell nice, and he could press and dry them after to make the winter feel brighter. He hadn’t done much to decorate yet—the pumpkin lantern was on the bedside table, and he’d pinned up his favorite rumpled map of Daventry. The map was worn soft as Triumph’s belly from repeated wear and tear, folding and unfolding, tracing his fingers along the paths he’d meant to walk, someday. He still couldn’t quite believe he’d made it, that the landscape outside his window was the same as what was printed on his paper. He’d also pinned up a little picture, an entrance form. Not his entrance form. Someone else’s. Something small, and special, and important.

He flipped a coin at Amaya, which she deftly caught, and she let him choose his favorite pot. He went for something with a ton of purple, his smile a little sadder than before as he made his selection. His fingers traced the delicate petals, and he inhaled deeply. But it wasn’t just flowers he could smell—Wente’s booth was just over there, and Graham knew where he was headed next. He held the pot in the crook of his elbow and happily wandered over, boots ringing against cobblestones.

It was a good thing his cloak had lots of pockets, he thought, as he studied trays upon trays of every baked treat he could think of, and plenty more he couldn’t. Pies, of course, and tarts, and cupcakes, and loaves of bread still steaming in the sunlight. Studded with nuts, cheese, chocolate chips, berries, and more wild things like starberries and sugarshrooms and—

“Graham!” Wente eased himself around the edge of the stall, going for a hug. “I’m so glad you could make it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it! Is that strudel? I didn’t get to try it at the tournament.”

“Heard Princess Madeline had a sweet tooth.”

“And a good sense of vengeance for Acorn’s sake.”

“Did you know he’s here? He got a booth after all! He’s just over there!”

“Oh! That’s really good! I wasn’t sure if he would, he’d been so nervous about going for it.” Graham waved, but Acorn didn’t notice him over the crowd. He’d have to go over to say hi properly.

“Wish he hadn’t,” Chester interrupted. He’d been standing at the corner of Wente’s table, with a perfectly innocent look on his face that didn’t match the crumbs all over his tunic. “He’s doing folk art, the lowest craft you can imagine.”

“Now, Chester, you know a good piece of art can feel like a warm hug for your eyes!” Wente said. “And that’ll be a gold coin for all those muffins, thanks.”

“I can craft you a better potion that’ll actually hug your eyes,” Chester grumbled, passing over a grubby coin and shaking crumbs into the cobblestones. “None of this knitwear, how embarrassing. Come to our booth, boy, and we’ll show you some properly interesting art. Of the magical kind.”

First, Graham loaded his pockets with all kinds of treats and snacks. Wente handed over a couple soft loaves of bread that smelled of rosemary and lavender, chocolate chip cupcakes, and other berry-filled treats, asking for just a single gold coin in return. Then, with a wink, he tossed in a free walnut strudel. “Enjoy the rest of the market,” he said brightly.

“Graham!” Muriel chirped, waving him over to her stand next door. “Or, is it Sir Graham, now?”

“Yep!” Graham beamed.

“I can hardly believe it,” she said. “Seems like that tournament was only yesterday. How’s castle life treating you?”

“Really great, I’ve got my own room, and Royal Guard Number One’s been teaching me the marches, and I’ve been practicing my archery. King Edward said something about my first quest soon, I think he wants to send me up to the Cliffs of Insanity—I guess we need iocane powder for something, from the flowers there?”

“Oh, that’s for us!” Muriel said. “Some rare and miraculous ingredients are too hard for even that Merchant to get his hands on. You’ve got to send knights off on those quests sometimes.”

“What’s it for?”

“I can’t recall. Some order. I’ll have to double check what it’s supposed to make. You be careful handling those flowers, though, they can make you sick if you touch them with your bare skin.”

“I shall be cautious in all my flower picking,” he said, with a sharp salute.

“But before all that, anything you’re looking for in the market?” she asked. She spread her hands wide, showing off the table in front of her. It was littered with tiny little bottles full of interesting things, glittery potions and funny trinkets. Some glass marbles moved under their own power, spinning gently, with what looked like galaxies held in their centers. She had spell books arranged in a teetering pile, and feathers pinned under glass, and rings and necklaces that glowed even in the sunlight.

“Just looking,” Graham said. And then something caught his eye. “Oooh, what’s that?”

A little brooch sat on the table, half buried behind all the other bits and baubles and things. It was the little red gems that had caught his attention, rubies flashing in the sunlight.

“It’s a cloak pin,” she said. “You like it? It’s the same type I use for my shawl.”

“I kinda do, yeah.” He couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from it. It didn’t feel magical, exactly, but he was drawn to it, nevertheless.

“Lean over here, boy, let me pin it on.” She gestured him forward, and he leaned close. She smelled like magic and mint, and she gently gathered up some of his cloak fabric and slipped the little brooch in place. “Now, stand back, let’s get a good look at you.” He posed for her, and she laughed. “Like it was meant to be yours!”

“How much?” He fingered it, the soft rubies almost warm against his touch.

“Oh, it looks so grand on you. It doesn’t have any magic, it’s only a little thing I made a while ago. Ages ago, now I think of it. Waiting for the right person. I think I’d be honored if you wore it, Sir Graham.”

“Plus, it’s free shop advertising for us,” Chester said.

Graham insisted on a shiny gold coin, and the Hobblepots agreed, though Muriel pushed a couple tiny vials of starlight into his hands too, for the coin. “To light your path, if it gets too dark on your quest,” she said, smiling fondly at him. “It really does look like it was made for you, you know.”

“Thank you, truly.” He’d been thinking about what he wanted his knight’s uniform to look like—knights could pick what they wanted in Daventry, and he had that minor in Creative Costuming from Knight School. He thought he could work this brooch into something great. He almost couldn’t wait to get back to the castle so he could sketch out a couple ideas, but there was still more to see here.

Acorn’s booth was next. Graham remembered how nervous Acorn had been, fussing back and forth about submitting his application to be added to the roster, and apparently he’d built up enough courage—and knitted enough stuff—to make it in. At least, partly. His nerves and time must have gotten the better of him, because he hadn’t managed to fill a whole table by himself. His booth was neatly divided in half, like Amaya’s. One half was covered in soft blankets, scarves, socks, in a huge array of colors and yarns.

The other half was Whisper.

Huge copies of Whisper’s application form, sketched to silly sizes, while the true Whisper posed in front of them and offered autographs to everyone passing by, if they looked at his posters or not. He also had a little array of pots on the table in front of him, with drawings of Whisper on them. “Whisper’s deLUX hair ointment,” they read, in beautiful looping signatures.

Royal Guard Number One was standing nearby, leaning in to whisper to Whisper. He had one of the hair ointment bottles in his gauntleted hands, rotating it almost nervously. Graham couldn’t help but lean in to listen:

“And you’re certain this works on mustaches without a problem?”

“It’ll make your face hair as silky smooth as Whisper’s top hair!”

“Yes, but, you see, the last mustache shampoo I bought from the Hobblepots turned it pink. It never washed out. I had to start over. You understand why I cannot repeat that tragedy. You swear that won’t happen with this?”

“It’s animal tested!” Whisper said brightly, pointing to a little animal drawing on the side of the label.

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“Whisper snuck into the royal stables and washed Graham’s gerbil with it, and Graham’s gerbil did not turn pink. It did get lovely and extra fluffy, though. Mane for days. Almost as good as Whisper’s!”

Graham nodded thoughtfully. So that’s why Triumph had been so soft last week. He’d thought it was just good castle feed. He’d have to pick up a jar of that stuff for his best buddy; Triumph deserved everything after all the hard work he’d done getting them from Llewdor to here. And…yes, the tiny animal drawing was of Triumph, not of a bunny as he’d first thought. Another shiny gold coin gone: his pockets were starting to get a bit light.

“Hey, Acorn!” he said, waving.

“Graham!” Acorn looked up from the pile of scarves he was meticulously rearranging. “Hey buddy, how’s the festival?”

“Really good so far, I’ve found some really great things. How’s business?”

“Oh, y’know, surprisingly good. I didn’t think Daventry had good taste, after that sock thing in the tournament, but everyone really loves them. Aside from the pairs the castle bought, a ton of people here want them, too!”

“That’s because they’re like walking on clouds,” Graham said, repeating something Number One had said a couple weeks ago. Nearby, Number One glanced up, then turned back to his whispered conversation about hair products. “How long did all this take you?” He ran a hand along one of the blankets, the deep blue so eye catching in the sunlight. It was ridiculously soft, and he could tell it would be wonderfully warm in winter.

“Oh, not too long. I listened to my stories while knitting.”

“Stories?”

“Squirrel chatter. Good as any gossip you get from guards. Princess Madeline has seen some things, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do…but I don’t think I want to ask.”

“Well, I want to thank you for pushing me to apply for this,” Acorn said. “I wasn’t gonna, you know. But I thought, well, with the rebranding, now’s probably a great time to really show off my stuff. Get a foothold in the town, you know.”

“So, you’re staying in Daventry?”

“Yeah. I only applied for the tournament for my parents, remember? Since that fell through, I’ve got all the time in the world, and I like it here. I think I wanna settle.”

Of all the places to end up, Daventry felt like a pretty good spot. Graham had certainly been more than happy enough with his choice so far.

Graham realized he was still touching the blanket, dragging his hand back and forth across it. It reminded him of Triumph’s fur. He thought about winter, about his little tower room that overlooked the lavender fields, and he thought about how in a few months’ time the fields would be laden with snow. “Hey, Acorn, how much for this one?”

“That’s a good one! Love the color; it’s almost the same as my cloak. Turned out super great. For that one, one shiny gold coin should do it.”

“You got it, big guy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Acorn said, rolling his eyes and catching Graham’s coin out of the air. “You got anything else you’re after today?”

“Not really. I’ll probably just wander around now, there’s all the little offshoot alleys. You could spend half the day here.” And he intended to do just that.

He could see vegetables, brightly colored fruit, bundles of lavender, and jars full of sweet golden honey. His coin purse was light, but his pockets had a comforting weight to them now instead, his hard-earned wages in the hands of his friends. The morning’s golden light glittered. The warming air smelled strongly of lavender, sugar, bread, and, just beneath it, that crisp autumn scent of Daventry itself. There were a couple bards wandering around now, too, strumming and singing. Someone selling sparkling apple cider was calling. All told, it was a perfect start to the day.

He fingered the brooch on his cloak again, this little piece of his new life pinned to his old life. He checked his pockets, to make sure none of the pies were getting smooshed or the bottle of shampoo was leaking or his beautiful purple flowers were wilting. He set off for another booth piled high with tapestries and books and maps, and another one filled with the last fruit of the season, and another filled with lavender products freshly made from Daventry’s fields. Ready to see everything this town had to offer him, all the things they had made and grown and built and loved. Just for him.

He could get used to living in a place like this.

[stillfacingthesky]

it’s half past noon, and you’re still in bed.

everything aches, and you can see the thin lines of sunlight around the blinds of your window. it’s too bright, even with your eyes closed. you roll over.

your joints crack, and your muscles tighten, and you should get up, but you don’t. your alarm went off hours ago, but you don’t remember turning it off.

you should get up. you have emails to answer, errands to run, applications to send, phone calls to return, people to talk to, places to go, a life to live.

that life does not feel like yours right now. it feels distant, far away, somewhere in the future, somewhere in the past. out of reach.

you look at the ceiling, at where the lights would be glowing if you had the energy to turn them on.

you wonder if you are your own shadow. aimless, temporary.

there is an unopened bag of spinach in the fridge. the use by date was three days ago, but you haven’t thrown it away.

you should clean your bathroom sink, and you should put away the dishes. you should sweep, and change your bedsheets. you pretend to be asleep.

you wonder where you would be if you were anywhere

but here.

maybe at the grocery store down the street, inspecting the pomegranates and wondering why they’re all so pale. meandering, looking for chilli oil and cinnamon. looking at the ice cream flavours and thinking about the empty space in the freezer.

maybe at your parents’ house, doing exactly what you’re doing now, hiding away from the rest of the world, hiding away from yourself, but with the sound of them living their lives downstairs.

maybe on holiday, somewhere bright and sunny, somewhere beautiful.

when you close your eyes, you can pretend you are anywhere, but you find that you can’t decide where you want to be. you kind of want to be right here, right where you are, but you want it in a different way than you have it.

your mouth tastes like smog, and you consider getting up to use mouthwash, but you dismiss the thought. the idea of sitting up is exhausting, so you don’t. you use what little energy you do have to roll over again, to twist your back until it relaxes, to bury your face in your pillow and groan. nobody hears it. you yourself barely hear it.

your window is closed, but you can hear the world passing by outside. a child screams and then laughs. some teenagers walk down the sidewalk, their voices overlapping until they’re unintelligible. a bus drives by, slowing to a stop at the light before it continues on its way. a car follows behind, the windows down to let the world hear the driver’s music. you don’t recognise the song. a bird sings to the sky, and an ambulance sings in response. somebody is having a worse day than you.

you can’t tell if your eyes are open or not. you forget for a moment that you have a body, that you have a face, and you are fleetingly, blissfully numb. the feeling subsides, and you wait somewhat patiently for it to return. you wonder if you might fade from here, if you might melt into a puddle of spilled water, if you might leave the glass you came from half-empty. you might seep into your blankets, into your mattress, and you might evaporate into more nothing than you already are, and you will leave behind nothing but the vague shape of a human, a macabre self-portrait in your bed. the empty space left behind will pulse— it will have your heartbeat.

you should take your garbage out. your room probably smells, but you wouldn’t know, already used to the stagnant air. you should open your window. the fresh air and the smell of exhaust and cigarette smoke will make you feel better. you should get groceries and do your laundry. you’ve been wearing the same shirt for three days now. it passed its use by date at the same time as the wilted spinach in the fridge. you should text your friends and tell them that you’re alive. you should text your parents and tell them that you’re fine. you can feel your pulse when you shift your weight, and it’s steady, but it’s too fast. you should go to the gym, or at least go on a walk. you don’t even know if it’s raining today or not. you don’t even have proper shoes to wear to the gym, and you don’t have the money to get any.

you would feel better if you took a shower, if you washed the grease from your hair and the grime from your skin and put on some nice lotion and fresh clothes, if you drank some water or maybe made some tea, if you got groceries or even takeaway, if you changed the bedsheets and washed your favourite blanket, if you swept and dusted, if you opened the window, if you texted your friends and checked your emails. if you knew if it was raining, cloudy, or sunny. if you knew what day of the week it was.

you pretend to be asleep, and you wait to evaporate.

[calebwittebane]

so fucking funny when my brain is like. hey bitch. i see youre going to sleep well heres the thing. im gonna give you some dreams now. picture this. imagine youre staying in a truly bizarre, labyrinth-like hotel thats not even rly divided into rooms, its just like, heres your pile of shit, loose furniture, make yourself at home. anyway theres creatures roaming the place. they can stun you and cause you profound pain. ohh yeah reminder you feel pain in dreams. full sensory experience. remember that. anyway you contact the hotel owner to gently point out a civil engineering safety regulation issue in the building (unrelated to the already mentioned flaws). he seems grateful. it hurts you when you try to speak, btw.

there are, also, flocks of small birds stuck in time, everywhere, dont touch them or theyll crash into what from their perspective is a solid object moving at light speed, and theyll be obliterated. okay so the hotel owner is like thanks for the tip i will get that checked out. Surprise! youre a demon whos been on the run. the hotel owner is your uncle and also a demon hunter whos been Waiting for you. you were supposed to be outside of the solar system, but looks like not only were you paying a visit to earth, you were foolish and arrogant enough to disguise yourself as a human and pull this kind of stupid stunt! well, thats not fucking good.

you dont know what he plans to do, so you do your best to escape His Twisted Hotel Realm. its not easy, but thanks to your ability to fly and to briefly become invisible and able to phase through solid matter, you manage to get out. youre out in the city now. its a Twisted Fucked Up version of warsaw. i mean like Continent Sized. whatever. youre gonna try to get to a train station and then figure out the rest. you take off flying in a direction that seems right.

well, flying is hard. its tiresome. and there are power lines everywhere. get above the power lines level you idiot. oh oops theyre at Every Altitude. gotta make sure you dont fly into them. so dont fly too fast. but you have to maintain a good speed, otherwise youll lose lift. oough oof ouch, you touched some of those wires, that sure hurt! well, this will be an ordeal.

oh geeze! it seems like youve flown into Gargantuan Horrifying Industrial Zone. its the part of the city thats all Mind Bendingly Huge machinery, excavators, pipes, endless fields of moving parts, saws, pumps, i mean theres nowhere to land. theres like, Walking Coal Excavators. walking moving coal plants. huge collapsing exploding structures--everything is so gargantuan, red-hot, horrible and dangerous, theres shit exploding and collapsing all the time. there are fires everywhere. oil spilling. toxic smoke. and of course power lines at every altitude. and enormous moving parts. well good luck flying through this Zone.

oh well! you try. you have powers after all. you try to fly through this Zone. a walking power plant almost crushes you with its incomprehensibly huge, rusty, titan limbs and machinery. maintaining invincibility while flying is Really hard and at a certain level of exhaustion its likely to malfunction, and if it does at a bad moment, youll be obliterated painfully.

well it happens. it hurts. but instead of dying you clip thru the ground into Huge Underground Tunne Network where the workers live and work and navigate the place. you try to hide in storages and unused tunnels and shit, but thing is, due to how Enormous all the shit upstairs is, the whole tthing is like a living organism. when a walking coal plant passes above, the tunnels contract and loosen up and give in, and some of them get squeezed completely. the workers know how to navigate this, but you dont, so you get painfully squished by a contracting tunnel. youre too exhausted to turn invincible.

well you decide trying to blend in is your best chance. best you can do with how tired you are is take the form of a young worker and pretend to be a new guy. some other workers (theyre all like combination coal miners and prisoners) immediately fall in love with you and try to hook up with you. you accept their advances to get information. they tell you about a train line running thru the zone that can take you to the outskirts. next one is tomorrow. you accept that as your best bet. after hours of grueling work and a painful experience all around, you get on the train. its old and falling apart. hard to tell where its going exactly. it breaks down. youre stranded. where are you? you dont know.

ugh! this wouldnt be happening if you werent a demon. which btw other workers figured out that you are. they start drowning you in a bucket of water. you start laughing at them. its not funny. you hurt all over. you want to die, but you never will. youre cursed to live through your own painful horrifying death endlessly, over and over.

also youre 10 and your parents are fighting

[smallraindrops-blog]

Untangle

(A WMFTD oneshot)

WMFTD!Y/N x Hypnos

Word count: 1k

warnings: no beta

Summary: It is said that you could tell how loved someone is by their braids.

notes: A gift for @jun-yng, since he is responsible for the idea and it wouldn’t leave me alone. Enjoy!

This takes place after Hades 2 but there are no spoilers.

~~

You felt your heart stop when you saw Hypnos sitting in front of his large mirror with a fistful of his white -beautiful- locks held up high and a pair of scissors in his other hand. He wore a hard, determined expression.

“Love, stop- what are you doing?” You called out as you went over to him, trying to sound calmer than you actually were. You forced your legs to keep a normal pace even though you wanted to run over and yank those scissors right out his hands.

Hypnos blinked in surprise, dropping his hair as he turned around to face you. His hair fell in soft, delicate curls down his back, a few spilling over his shoulder. The god of sleep had never lacked beauty but there was a touch of unearthly elegance to him now.

The first time you had seen him again with his hair spilling like clouds around his beaming smile had been enough to knock the breath out of you. You still couldn’t find the words for how gorgeous he was.

You felt a cool relief bloom in your chest when you realized there were no stray locks of hair on the floor, you have gotten here just in time.

“What does it look like?” Hypnos waved the scissors, closing and opening the blades as he did. “It is time for this mess to go.”

Gently, you caught his wrist and took the scissors out of his hand before he took his eye out. “Mess?”

With a loud groan of annoyance, Hypnos returned to the mirror and gave one of the curls a tug. “This mess. I am sick of dealing with this bird nest.”

Tucking the scissors away and far out of Hypnos’ reach, you brushed your fingers along his curls. His hair was ridiculously soft, it almost didn’t feel real. There were a few painful looking knots, but nothing matted or anything like that.

Hypnos’ golden eyes met yours through the mirror. You offered a smile. “You could try putting up in a ponytail like Meg.” 

At that suggestion he laughed, the sound of it filling your soul. “No, I already tried that. I don’t like it. Meg can pull off the egghead look but not me. And it doesn’t fix the tangling and knots. I even tried to braid it but I couldn't get it to stay together.”

“I can help with that.” You told him quietly, moving to stand behind him. Holding his gaze, you dipped down to kiss the top of his head. Hypnos swayed, his shoulders brushing against you.

”I didn’t know you knew how to braid.” Hypnos said, his voice just as quiet as yours. You nodded, pulling back to study Hypnos’ curls. You began to separate the hair, careful to avoid the tangled parts.

“Pa and Chrion’s wife taught me some. Nothing fancy but I can do some basic ones.” You said, nodded toward the light oil and wide tooth comb. Wordlessly, Hypnos gave them over, his back tensing up a little bit when you touch the first knot with oiled fingers.

You made sure to move with slow and careful touches, starting at the bottom with the comb and gradually working your way up under the hair fell down in smooth, graceful stands. 

The tension unspooled from Hypnos’ body once he realized that no pain was coming. He sighed, closing his eyes as you worked on the next knot. 

It was meditative, to slowly unravel the knots, listening to Hypnos’ breathing deepened. When the hair was free of tangles, you ran the comb through his locks a few times more than necessary, admiring how the soft, cloud-like tresses parted and bounced together.

He blinked awake with a yawn when you placed the comb down and picked three equal pieces near the top of his head. It took you a moment to remember the first few steps, carefully adding more hair as you created the braid. 

Holding the ends together, you studied the thick braid. Thankfully, it came out even and solid. You remembered Khariklo used to have little hair jewelry she would place in her braids or occasionally, colorful wildflowers. 

You will have to buy Hypnos some. The thought of it, of shining gemstones in those white curls, of Hypnos wearing something marking him as yours, made your mouth go dry.

“Hair tie?” You whispered.

Hypnos took a moment to pick out a ribbon, then handed over a simple gold one. You tied it off then placed it over Hypnos’ shoulder. 

You waited, a little nervous as Hypnos leaned forward to study your handiwork. A few loose strands fell around his face, resting against his cheeks. His fingers brushed along his temple. Then he added the sleep mask on as a test. 

He looked beautiful. And ready for a nap. 

A smile grew on his face as he met your eyes in the mirror. “It actually looks good on me, y/n, I like it.” 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Good.” 

Hypnos twisted around as he floated up and cupped your face between his hands, pulling you down for a kiss. His lips were gentle, sweet as nectar and you hummed into the kiss, placing a hand on his lower back to keep him close. 

Then Hypnos pulled back with a pleased, mischievous glint in his eyes. “You would have been a little upset if I cut my hair, huh?”

You chuckled, trying to not reveal how sad it would have made you. It was Hypnos’ hair and he could do whatever he wanted but you had grown attached. Often when Hypnos was asleep in your arms, you would play with his hair, letting it curl around your fingers.

“Oh yes, just a little bit of wailing and gnashing of teeth.” You muttered, brushing a stray lock from his cheek. A splash of pink bloomed on his face, and he was unable to hide how pleased he was.

Hopeless, you kissed him again, cupping the back of his head, savoring the way he sunk into your arms. 

Later, you hid the scissors in the one place Hypnos will never search, a forgotten stack of overdue paperwork in the corner of the bedchamber.

[fappellmoan]

not to sit here and weave a story out of nothing like a little protagonist via my quirky online storytelling but i rekindled my friendship with sam who is such an interesting person there are just a lot of stories of all sorts and this is funny timing but truly we just fell into such an easy banter this past class so we were like omg lets hang right so. his roommate really is just like stupid hot right. i could get corny with it but i wont. a face sculpted by the hands of god though. all this prefaced i will now tell u an absolutely nothing story and i really mean that read at your own discretion ((A/N: trust and believe i yapped. putting under keep reading to be somewhat forgivable) (i am not in my best of states rn. okay.)

anyway so we're chillin in sams room im getting caught up on the latest construction projects and shit.. one thing abt sam hes always up to something. they've got an entire work desk #butchrealness. then i hear some singing out in the hallway but from where im sitting cant actually see anyone so convo just goes sam and roommate 'hey' 'hey' and then i peeked my little head out and waved and said hey and they stopped and set down their basket and said 'Hey' and then i did not introduce myself (flop) (combo of cramped room and sam talking and me being wildly awkward) (also keep in mind i dont know if this person has swiped left on me or not been on tinder or if theyd even recognize me anyway and hating that that's even a situation bc i hate that stupid app but just hoping worst case scenario i dont come off as an insane stalker but rather a victim of circumstance) but they just chatted for a sec abt whatever shelf sam needs to fix and that was that. and then they went back to humming which was cute or whatever

to set the next scene we're down in the kitchen and sams cooking and this is a while after we took his homemade gummies so im not rlly high per se but chillin and something about the noise and setup in their kitchen is so overstimulating for me lol when shes cooking im just like frozen. i always offer to help but he always just gets in a groove it's best i dont intervene. one time he had to tell me to go sit down in the other room bc i was freakin out a little lol

so im perched on this single high chair they have in the kitchen right next to their washer and dryer as sams whipping up some food and im kind of obnoxiously saying Unfortch in response to a story he was telling me and he gives me a look so im like UnfortunateLy. and then hes like 'psh i know unfortch i live with this guy' cue roommate strollin in with laundry and theyre just like Whaat and sam explains and theyre like Oh ofc you gotta know unfortch or whatever. forgot to mention that earlier in sams room they said three similar abbreviated words in a row just during a normal sentence and it caught me so off guard i wanted to giggle. so naturally my brain is going through Immediate social response of a semi awk laugh or quippy remark about that but also theyre literally like a foot away from me and im largely nonverbal atm lmfaoo so i just mumble smth to try and go along w the bit but then trailed off cause i was like wtf am i even saying. brain was overloaded

and then i was like um. i literally was just staring around doing fuck all like a perched bird or something but i was fighting a war in my mind of like ok do i introduce myself or look to sam to do so or do we not do that or is that rude idk but also they have headphones on one ear and are doing all their laundry shit and i once again dont want to be like overbearing but also well come on now we gotta feel out the vibe (and i do a great job here.) idk so im like Ok dont just look at them but dont Not look at them just behave like a normal person. you know. the usual. sam comes over to give me a bit of bread with balsamic vinegar and oil and i spilled it on my sweater fuck this stupid baka life (didnt really show. but still they were right there..)

and so after a min of this they were kinda like awkward laugh 'dont mind me' and i once again was very self conscious and had several things that wanted to come out 'not at all' 'dont mind me' 'it's your house' 'these all sound awful abby' then i got anxious that i was in the way the whole time but they were almost done and if i got into a weird apology thing well i would have had to kill myself so i just once again kind of uttered something that would have sounded like 'youresogoodicanmovetoo' and also 'sorry if i just keep like looking over at you' WTF IS THAT SHIT. FUMBLE BOOOOO and my follow up was essentially nothing cause i couldnt decide if i should say 'im just a bit out of it/high' 'im easily distracted (kys)' 'idk what to do w myself haha' 'im useless in the kitchen' (not entirely true) i mean just a few minutes before sam and i had talked about how ill just wander around peoples rooms and observe things to avoid feeling awkward and it's just how i am and so i was kinda just doing that due to the nerves of the sitch but there was only so much to look at. and i just sat there. offputting realness. whatever. so. straight face emoji. and that was mostly the extent of that i dont remember what they said in response just like a lil laugh or w/e. probably couldnt hear my stupid ass mumbling. so im thinking my chances of charming them at all are really stellar

if you read all this i want you to just take note that the events depicted here could not have been more than 3-4 minutes collectively. and yet the yap goes on..

for future reference, what did we learn? probably best to just continue convo with sam, excuse urself to br, or perhaps even attempt a conversation w them if ever in a similar situation again and they talk to you first again. also stop inventing complicated situations in ur head chill the hell out. idiot. says the bitch with the anxiety disorder. feel free to egg me on or tell me to fuck off ok xoxoxoxxo love u