#they're all coming out of their dirt pits now

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.5k / 20 / post-apocalypse au, part 1

...

You're injured but moving as fast as you can with your bow slung over your back. Soap is close behind you, giving chase, shouting your name as he does. Doesn't he learn? Doesn't he know you'll pull your bow on him again if he corners you?

He must know, but he's too stubborn to give up the chase. You don’t understand it.

He pushes on, just as graceful and twice as effective as you. You slip through the thick trees and their branches trailing whips of brambles. He shoves past them. You’re injured. He’s not. He's gaining, boots heavy in the soil.

"Watch yourself--!"

Your boot lands on leaf litter that falls out from under you--a pit trap. You’re moving barely fast enough for your momentum to save you from falling in. Your waist hits the edge of the pit. You brace yourself by your elbows, fingers digging into the dirt. The soft underside of your arms drag against something sharp underneath.

Soap grabs you by your coat and pulls you up out of the trap and to your feet before you can scramble out yourself. You're neither surprised nor mollified by his careful handling of you.

"Let me go!"

"Na. You're hurt. Stay still."

"Soap, I swear to God--"

"Shut up. I'm taking a look."

He holds your arm firmly with one large hand and, with the other, pulls your sleeve away from the bleeding gash. You grab his wrist with a pained curse. Whatever caught your arms—the rough wood and metal at the trap's edge—tore you bloody. Soap glares at the gash and then at you. He's close.

You could reach for your bow or for the dagger on your hip. But you know for a fact he's armed. With guns. A sniper rifle on his back and two sidearms at his belt. He knows how to use them, too. If you fight, he wins. But you know better than to back down quickly. The world is crueler than it used to be ever since things went to shit. People who show weakness don’t survive.

"Why are you following me?" you growl, your grip on his wrist tightening.

His grip on you loosens in turn when you speak. "You know why. I'm lookin' out for ya."

"I didn't ask for your help."

"Aye, but you still needed it."

"You're not a soldier anymore, Soap," you retort, trying to pull your wrist away. "It's every person for themselves. Stop following me."

"That's no way to live. The world may be a shithole, but there are still folk around who'll lend you a hand even though they don't need to. Soldier or no'."

You can't get out of his grip when he's determined to keep you there, and he is. As much as you'd like to give him a matching wound for being so goddamn stubborn, the rational part of your brain--the part that makes sure you survive--knows better than to expend energy struggling when it's not strictly necessary.

"Nobody lends a hand unless they want something in return," you mutter, glaring down at your wound as he bandages it. "Even if they're pretending otherwise."

He knows you speak from experience. You're a woman, and that means you're nothing but a resource to the worst of whoever’s left. He can't blame you for being guarded. Then again, you wouldn't be making such heated statements to his face if you really thought he intended to hurt you. You're just... defensive. Hiding under all that anger. That's what he tells himself. So he ignores your grumbled protests.

"That's how you'd look at it," he finally replies as he finishes dressing the wound. "Seein' as you've not met the right people. But some of us don't expect anything back."

"You don't expect it because you think you're better than asking. But you still want it."

"Might be so." His voice is soft, gravelly, but you can hear the steel in it. "But am not asking, now am I? So stop your fussin'. You're safe. Nae need to worry." He releases your bandaged arm.

"You run your hand along the wrapping, checking it. "Fine. But I'm... I'm not coming back with you."

"Can't promise you'll be safe out there. Where do ye plan to go?"

"I don't know. Wouldn't tell you if I did."

"Aye." He rubs his jaw, examining you with flint in his blue eyes. Pressing you for an answer would be pointless. Not that you seem to be lying—but you're not telling the whole truth. The short history you share with him is just enough that he can tell. But he also knows trying to change your mind would be pointless. If you won't listen, he'd have better luck bashing his head against one of these huge, mutated oaks.

"Am nae stoppin' ya. But these woods are full of treacherous paths. If ye run into trouble—when ye run into trouble--my boys and I, we know these woods well enough to dust you off and send you in the right direction. Cannae promise to find you before somethin’ else does, though."

You're fairly sure he's not lying. His boys, as he calls them—his old squad, you think—they've made their home in these woods. It's perilous living—bears, wolves, muties, and terrain just as hazardous as the wildlife. And still those men are the most dangerous things in here.

The offer is tempting. You consider it for longer than you should, looking down at your bandaged arm again. But then you step back, shaking your head slowly. "No, thanks. I have to get going."

It tears him up inside. You're making the wrong choice. If he lets you walk away, he's letting you walk to your death.

He looks at you for a moment. You can tell he's got something more to say. But he changes his mind, stepping back as well. He pulls something from his belt and holds it out. A handgun, scuffed and black, grip held toward you. You stare at it for a second before looking back up at him. He's serious?

"I'm not gonna take that--"

"You're damn well gonna take it." His voice is low and insistent. "You think I don't know you'll run into trouble out here? Don't be a fool. I have spare. Take it."

Your one rule is don't owe anybody anything. How the fuck are you about to owe this man twice?

Fine. Whatever. It's not like you have to use it. Could just barter it. Not like you’re going to see him again. You take the gun, biting back a retort.

He nods his approval. The steely look in his eyes softens, though he still looks dismayed. "Mind where you point that. And when you pull it. Biters'll hear it for a mile and come running. Survivors, too. The curious ones." He glances at your bandaged arm one more time. Then he adjusts the bag over his shoulder and turns his back, walking away from you. Back to camp. "Am expectin' you to keep yourself alive with that," he growls. "Or else it's a lot of good time and material I wasted on ya."

"I didn't ask you to waste your breath," you retort, practically snarling at his retreating back in your irritation. You watch him go until he's disappeared into the trees. You need to make sure he doesn't plan on doubling back and following you.

Then you set off on your own. You take a winding path to throw off any trackers. Never can be too cautious. The gun in your pocket is heavy against your thigh, and you try not to think of it as a comforting security.

You came here to get Roach back, and you don’t care how long you have to wander this Godforsaken forest. You’re not leaving without him.

…

Soap feels your eyes on him until you disappear.

He wants to divorce himself from this, but he’s on edge. People who strike out on their own here come to a nasty end. But he’s not going to take away your agency by deciding what's best for you. You were right about him not being a soldier, after all. He doesn’t have the authority to herd you back to his squad’s campsite. Your life is in your own hands.

He just hopes you live to do better than he believes you will.

That night, he sleeps restlessly. Which is why, when he hears a cluster of gunshots in the distance, he wakes up instantly. It's you. In trouble.

The night watch—Gaz tonight—is already there, tossing Soap's gun to him. "You were right," Gaz says.

"Course I was," Soap says with a lopsided grin. "Owe me a ten-piece in the next poker game, aye?"

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3

more Soap / more multi-141 and poly 141 / masterlist tag

[gayraeofsun]

i just really want to scream about this movie into the void because it was so well done, and i doubt anyone will really see this but i don't really have anyone i could have a deep discussion about this with.

trigger warning and spoiler warning ahead for the movie blink twice. content ahead discusses themes around sa, including r*pe, drugging, manipulation, and general physical/verbal abuse.

i don't keep up with any previews or recent movie releases much anymore, so i was going into this movie almost completely blind like i do with most new movies anymore. i had seen one preview, but it was apparently plain and simple enough for me to mostly forget about it. the irony in that will be made known a bit later on.

the movie automatically opens with a screen that displays a trigger warning, which is something that i had been seeing for the first time in any kind of visual media. normally these things are already listed by the ratings, but as a sa survivor who had no idea what this movie was going to be, it was a good thing to see so i could brace myself for what was to come. do i think this is necessary for any and every movie of this kind? no, it feels a little redundant (again, these things are typically included in the ratings). and, well, asking me to not watch if it would upset me is kind of a no deal, since i paid for a ticket and popcorn to see this on the big screen.

we're immediately introduced to our two main characters, two best friends, and it's hard to not immediately fall for their relationship with each other. so playful and silly and ridiculous, you can immediately tell they adore each other's company in their shitty job living in their shitty apartment, and you can tell that they're written by a woman who loves these characters and wants to portray them as relatable people. the interactions between the whole cast of girls, i think, was just outstandingly done. they felt realistic, not constantly shitting on each other and fighting for the attention of the men (though some jealousy of that fashion is still portrayed). they were all there enjoying the island and they ended up bonding together wonderfully. they were funny without being over-the-top rude or nasty or promiscuous, as is portrayed commonly in female characters in popular media. i can't and won't stop gushing over how much these characters felt just like real life girls that i was hanging out with.

this movie was really great at putting a pit in your stomach and slowly making it grow. of course, the trigger warning at the beginning spoils what's to come, so for me the pit was there from the start. any sensible person who's been socialized to be a woman will know, you don't ever just run away with some random ass group of men you don't know to the middle of nowhere with no cell service. but the little things that make the main character, frida, stop and question are so subtle, and so easily dismissed to start with. the used lip gloss in the drawer, the available clothes despite being an "unexpected" guest, the weird cleaning staff. but they increasingly get more odd. the island is full of venomous snakes and they all have to be killed on sight. something about these flirty interactions isn't quite right anymore, and he's talking about repressed memories. what day even is it? why am i always waking up with dirt under my nails?

who even knows or cares though, since we're all high and/or drunk 24/7. welcome to paradise!

it builds and builds until it begins to unravel, slowly and then all at once as the girls come to the realization of what happens to them every night when they get unbelievably high after dinner. the bond between the first two to piece it together was outstanding, and i love that there wasn't a cheap "find the phones and call authorities" plan. they worked out why that wouldn't work at all, because who would they believe? the "hysterical bitches" making claims without any kind of solid evidence, or the rich white man who's now a reformed soul and probably good friends with some of the cops?

the ending is not a happy one, in my eyes, though i believe it was probably supposed to be portrayed as one? two girls live and three girls die by the end. the ringmaster (ceo) of the whole thing ends up accidentally taking his own forgetfulness juice and suddenly doesn't understand what's going on and why all his friends are dead or have been otherwise brutalized. he knocks over lit candles and then trips and knocks himself out in his stupor, and the island burns down, the photographic evidence (that was later discovered) and all. i thought it was just going to end there and we would be left with the ambiguous ending, and that's never satisfying and feels very overdone anymore.

but instead, we're given a scene where our main character is now the ceo of the company, and legally married to the man who lured her away and horrifically abused her. twice. i interpreted this as her getting her own form of justice/revenge. i doubt she gives him half the treatment he gave her, but now she controls him and everything he owns and knew, and gets every bit of respect she wants. he killed her best friend and two other girls after overpowering the lot of them every single night. in a perfect world, he'd get tried and punished for his crimes legally. but all the evidence of it ever happening burned to the ground. so this is what she does to cope. in the final scene, she seems very satisfied, more than pleased to make her new husband's old crew squirm. she becomes the thing that destroyed her and so many others (but yk, most likely without the rapist cult).

one character i very suddenly grew interested in was the scrawniest boy in the group. he flies perfectly under the radar and doesn't appear in many of scenes that portray the gruesome sa. the one where he's in clear view, he appears to be another victim, trying to flee from one of the bigger men and receiving a black eye, which he would have no memory of getting the next morning. he's told by one of the girls that he smells nice, most likely referencing the perfume that was making them forget everything. it seemed very clear that he was in a victim role here as well, likely also being sa-ed. but he's never seen bound and gagged with the girls.

his final scene gets interesting when the ceo berates him for doing nothing to help the girls the entire time (yeah, the same ceo millionaire who's been basically orchestrating this whole sick fucking show in his perfect little getaway island). how he thinks there's a special place in hell for people who sit and do nothing in the face of evil. there are two very different ways to interpret this. 1) he wasn't actually getting drugged and abused with the girls, and was there as someone who didn't actively participate in abusing the girls, but also didn't do anything to try to stop it either. this could be blatant commentary on the two types of evil; while "not all men" r*pe and abuse people, not enough men will speak out against it or try to run to the victim's defense. or 2) the ceo was casting blame onto someone who was genuinely confused as to what was happening (which seems to ring true in both scenarios), and someone who was also a victim and stuck in a completely helpless situation. both could hold some level of truth, but ultimately i read him as the latter, thinking he was meant to represent the less common male victim. he gets killed by one of the girls, who wasn't specifically targeting him but also wasn't taking any chances, and that's the last we see of him. in my eyes he could either be read as the kind of evil that merely observes and therefore was rightfully murdered, or he could represent his male victims often get forgotten about or less acknowledged, which could speak as to why he was killed off so quickly never to be discussed again.

and i've gotta say, one thing i really appreciate about the scenes depicting r*pe is that it put a lot of the focus on the r*pists and not their victims. they were careful to not show any nudity or any shots of the women getting r*ped, but still showed them getting forced down when they tried to flee. i have not personally seen any other graphic scenes of this nature in other movies, but from what i hear a lot of it can get rather pornographic, and i feel like that's incredibly distasteful when you're trying to depict something that's absolutely vile. this movie does a great job of getting the absolute terror of the moment across without compromising any of the actresses by posing them seductively or showing off their bodies, and same goes for the men (if you don't count a couple of them being shirtless).

the writing is so wonderful, and the little clues as to what's happening beneath the surface are so good and plentiful. this is a movie that i don't think i'd ever be able to sit through again, but the sense of dread that continued to grow and grow will surely stick with me. it was very darkly funny in many places, which did great to break up some of the tension. for anyone who was able to stomach it, i would highly recommend watching through it once you're able. i think it was outstandingly well done and handled certain things as well as it could without watering any of it down.

[pricetagged]

sacrum

It's not denial, and it's not grief. How can it be when you're not dead? Or: Simon visits your tomb. It wouldn't be the first time he got grave dirt under his fingernails.

2.7k words. GN reader.

Warnings: death; grief; unhealthy coping methods; denial; mild gore and horror; references to ghost's past (being buried alive); implied character death; unhealthy thoughts; grave digging (simon literally tries to dig you up).; unedited.

Look after yourselves please. Read the tags and skip if necessary 💖

_____________

He is overwhelmed with the smell of rot.

That sickly, sweet scent of decay. Vegetation and plant matter transmuting into sticky, pulpy mulch, life rendered into dirt. It's the white lilies that bother him specifically. They're resting there, creamy white petals blooming open and speckled with dustings of heady, brown pollen. It's like looking at his own pale, wan face dusted with pockmarks and freckles, a grotesque mirror image. Beauty and rage. He looks at them and they look back, open and pretty and sweet where he is not.

And they reek. In this place of dirt, in this place of twigs and soil and peaty, earthy humus how did they spray their perfume? An altogether too syrupy, cloying bouquet that stagnates around you, settles at his feat like dense, soupy fog.

He knew that you hated them - funeral flowers, you called them- and he scoffs, toeing at one of the drooping, lurid white petals until it wilts underfoot. Lachrymose, it seems to weep great fat droplets of dew or oil or whatever it is that cries out wet with a wave of pungent redolence. You hated them, and it's so fucking stupid that they're here now because you aren't dead.

He'd nearly bitten Johnny's head off when he asked about your favourite flowers, the sergeant's voice pitched low and thick like he'd half-swallowed the words before they'd even come out. 'Dinnae want to get her something she wouldnae like, but my ma always said that carnations were fittin' for-' the rest of the words seemed to whither, choked like weeds under the weight of his glare. He wasn't quite sure what he said next, only remembering the stricken, glassy look in Soaps eyes and then the weight of his Captain's hand on his shoulder hauling him out for some air. He'd shrugged that off, too. Roughly. Circled around to face him like a dog in a pit. His teeth ached, itched to bite, clamp down and shake and tear, but even mad dogs know not to bite the hand that feeds them. Instead, he'd bristled, hackles raised high as he shoulder-checked Gaz on his way back inside.

Heard them whisper, too, as he passed, hushed and soft like they were all too aware of his pricked ears and quivering, hungry jaw. Mandated compassionate leave, numbers for bereavement counsellors. Denial. Grief. It's a load of shit.

Holding back the words feels like throwing grit on the fire; it's a battle, suppressing the heat and the rage but feeling it pop and spark and simmer beneath the surface. It's not denial and it's not grief. How can it be when you're not dead? He'd crumpled the order of service program, all crisp white parchment and serif-fonted verses. He'd held it so tightly in his shaking hand that it tore and cracked, card-type rendered to clay under his heavy fingerprints. He held it like that, thought about ripping or tossing it but your face looked back at him from the front page.

Smiling. Beautiful. Flat.

True, it wasn't you, but how could he ever damage something made in your image?

It was that pamphlet that led him here, now. He hadn't attended the service, hadn't wanted anything to do with that absolute farce. Had ignored the phone calls, the knocks on the door. You were not dead, and he was not alive. True to his callsign, he existed in some hazy, temporal space. Sustained on rollie cigarettes and tepid tea. It gave his hands something to do, thumbing at filters and glossy, thin paper in lieu of something worse. In lieu of his darker vices. In lieu of disappearing altogether into The Ghost. Faceless form. Nameless, too. But even smoke and shadows move, and he found himself turned Orpheus, drifting past the souls and shades of the departed until-

Until he's face-to-face with those lilies and that little patch of moss on the corner of your grave. Just a little speck of green against black marble. Typical of you, to bring life into desolate spaces. For you to furnish something soft and verdant where others see only hard, cold, dark. You'd burrowed deep into his driftwood body, a little seed that cared not for his splinters and hollowness. He'd been shaped, fractured, by salt and pressure. Twisted into some gnarled, dead branch but maybe that was the beauty of it. Maybe that was a portent, a sign, that he could be useful to you. That you could climb on, cling on and let him pull you up. That you were nestled inside, marrow deep in the mulchy, spongey hollows of his bones. Not hard enough or weathered enough by yourself. No sun-bleached, ossein outer shell of your own.

No matter.

The soil was strangely warm, piled high, and packed tight above where you lay. He dug his hands in, scarred, meaty paws chasing the warmth that surely was coming from you. It was wrong, actually, to say that it was strange. Anywhere that housed you would be warm. He was. His lungs were burning, squeezing at him, oxygen burning like bourbon as it whistled down his throat and smouldered in his belly. His face was cold, though, mouth and nose numb and something wet leaking and pooling down at his chin where he's tugged down his mask. Confusion titled his head, eyes closed towards the sky, neck arched in the closest he'd come to prayer in years. It wasn't raining, but something was dripping down his face.

He'd knelt like this before, put loved ones into the earth and stood stoic under the pitiful gazes and awkward, pinched smiles of acquaintances and strangers. Unbidden, the words from Tommy's - god, Tommy, Joseph, Beth - funeral echoed through his mind. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable.

He'd done it.

Walked in shadow steps across the Mexican border leaking blood and viscera, yes, but undead. It is raised in glory, it is sown in weakness. He'd clawed his way out once. Dragged his weak, struggling body to the surface to draw gasping, ash-tainted breaths and haunt the earth again. He'd help you do the same. You need him to.

Soft thing. You needed him to help you claw at the rich, grave dirt above your body, great scooping handfuls until his hands were stained with it. It was keeping you down there all compressed and boxed in, and he just knows you'd hate it. Hate being from him, hate being alone and in the dark listening only to the writhing of worms and the footfalls from above. You'd always cry a little when he was deployed, resigned and beautiful as you sniffled your farewells. Not goodbyes, superstition or hope preventing you from ever uttering words so final. So severe.

It's not goodbye if I'll see you later!

He swatted hard at his ear, his temples, fingers puppeted by paroxysm as the rich, peaty marl below him turned to dust and loam. Just for a second. Just for a whisper, the air he was breathing was thin and acrid and tasted like sand. He squeezed his eyes shut, screwed so tight that phosphenes danced behind the lids. One breath. Another. He could feel the soil caking and cracking on his skin, smell the heady, peaty turf and he was back.

The last enemy that will be destroyed is death. There was no Vernon here. No Manuel Roba, no Zaragoza Cartel. Just you, the dirt, and the foolish reaper that thought it could keep you from him.

After all those years grave dirt lingered beneath his fingers. It slotted in, filled in the groves of his knuckles and nailbeds like the tide returning to rockpools and crags along the shore. His body was made for this, forged by this, hewn from rock and dirt and left to shamble in the shape of a man. It's why he was numb to it, why stones crumbled to pumice dust as he clawed ever deeper. It was easy to ignore the jagged little pits of sediment that dug under his nails, stabbing until he dripped red from the quick. Watering your grave, he gave an offering of blood, sweat, and tears. You must have accepted this tribute, been satisfied in this champion for your soul because he felt something tugging at his chest. Deep, behind muscle and fat and gristle his heart sped up. Pounding so hard it nearly hit his ribs. He could feel it, see it when he closed his eyes. His red string connected to yours, all twisted and threadbare and fraying where it bored down into the earth, but still there. Still vibrant and raw and red.

And so close.

It was different digging down. When he'd first been reborn, he'd had company. There was him, and a lump of festering meat. A sack of bones moldering beside him in the casket. Dead and useless. Until it wasn't. Until he'd nearly passed out twice, arm shaking and stomach seizing as he raised his broken fingers to what used to be its face. There was no air, just lungs heavy with copper and carbon. He'd been hysterically lucid, thankful that that sick fucks had at least broken his nose before they tossed him in the pit. Probably severed his olfactory nerves but it was a blessing, really, not to smell the putrid, festering thing that was oozing over his fingers as he scratched and gouged until he hit bone. He had enough of his senses to kick at the boards above him, contorting around the hollow spots in the hope that the pressure of the dirt wouldn't do him in. Not killed by fucking soil, not when the bastards who wanted him dead had already tried and failed with greater means.

Digging up was like drowning. Like being dragged away by a current, water pressing and squeezing at your head until your ears popped and your eyes bulged.

It was fighting the urge to breathe, body struggling and kicking so hard against a nature that didn't care. Cruelty from indifference. Lactic acid burning and cramping through muscles that you couldn’t stop moving. Stop moving and you're dead for real. Digging up was rage and hope, something fiery and heavy pulsing under the skin. He remembered some poem he had to memorise back at the state comprehensive. Hope is the thing with feathers. He was shit at English, never cared for it. But he remembered that because it was so bloody trite. He'd told the teacher, first time he'd ever volunteered an answer in her class, and she screwed her nose up at him. Sent him out for cheek. Only it wasn’t cheek. Hope was the worm wriggling around in his guts. The stupid parasite that fed off his fear and made him wonder if he could be purged of it. Those same maggots writhed in his guts, wriggling and squirming as he kicked and pulled up. And up. And up.

Digging down, though. Digging down was harder. He wasn't getting dragged down by the current; no, he was sloshing great bucketfuls of water behind him, wondering why the ocean wasn't yet drained. It was frustrating, endless. Some kind of wank Greek tragedy where he'd been cursed to repeat the same task, over and over again. To have what he wanted, just out of reach, the finishing line set and reset at someone else's whim. Tantalus, Orpheus, Prometheus. He knew what they'd done to offend the Gods, but what about him? What bargain had Shepard and Price struck to have him back? To have him stalk and hunt under their flags, their causes. Would you disappear forever, trapped in the caves of the underworld if he tried to look at you one last time?

His body wasn’t his anymore, hadn't been for a while. Not since Mexico, and maybe even before that. He was more ghoul than man then. Some kind of shambling hellhound they set loose and tasked to kill. But his body wasn't theirs either, not anymore. He'd folded you inside himself so carefully. Made a home for his heart and yours in the cradle of his ribs until he wasn't sure where yours began and his ended. He gave his body in service to you. His heart, his mind, the gristle of his ugly mug - all those chunks of meat were yours. What use was he, then, if he couldn't protect you?

Six-foot-something and 200lbs of weapon rendered flesh, and you're damned bloody right he'd use it to reach you.

Except, something was broken. Salt stung at his eyes; whether perspiration or tears he wasn't entirely sure. Because there were tears, he could admit that now. He could admit that to the magpies watching him from the cracked, weather-worn tombstones littered around. He could admit that in the thick silence - heh, quiet as the grave - settling eerily as dusk fell like a blanket.

'Fuck.'

Regret punched him in the liver, bent and stooped him under his face was buried in the upturned earth below his hands. The first word he'd said to you since his last mission and it was 'fuck'. He didn't even say it properly, just gasped it out as he crumpled in on himself like wet tissue. Voice all damp and cracking like even that one word didn't want to come out. Soul of a poet, him.

You knew he wasn't a man of many words, though. You'd forgive him.

He was tired now. Exertion drank from him, stripped him down to his crypt-cold bones. He didn't think ghosts got tired, but here he was shaking and kneeling in the hollow of your grave like a starving mutt. Pawing and pawing at you until his nails cracked and his fingers bled. It was sapping out of him, now, candle in his chest flickering lower as he got closer and closer to where you were waiting for him. His face was wet, the wind stinging at bitter trails that swelled over his pallid cheeks. Blinking sluggishly, he licked at his cracked lips. Apprehension lingered there, danced along the seam for a second.

Whatever he finds down there, whatever state you are in he will join. You will rise together or rot together, there is no other way this can go.

His breaths catch in his ribs, jumping too quickly past his diaphragm but not quite strong enough to breach. Instead, they flutter downwards. Or something does, something sets his fingers to shake as they brush against polished wood slick with condensation. It's so cold, you must be so fucking cold in there. It sounds hollow, too, knock reverberating like a church bell from where his clumsy, swollen knuckles bump across the lid.

A person cannot enter the realm of the dead more than once. Not while they're alive. So this is it.

And he's so tired, thoughts turning sluggish and foggy as he folds his body over yours. There's just that panel of wood separating you now. The closest you've been to each other in weeks. Christ, he's given so much of himself already. So much, from such a young age. He's not sure he could even go on without giving, without a mission. But he swore to you, swore just before he left that this was the last one. Told you that he'd speak to Price, ask for family leave or an active service break or something so that you and he -

so that -

so-

Fuck, he couldn't quite catch the thought before it slipped away. Couldn't quite get his eyes to open, either. Just feathery lashes fluttering against his cheekbones until he gave in. Until he let them drift shut.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to fall asleep here. Just you and him, together. He could picture it; your head must be somewhere just below his. You'd probably tucked a hand under your cheek, angled slightly to the right so that he could reach out and touch you from his left. His hand slid across the slick, dirt speckled board, tapping out the syllables of your name with his fingertips. Curled around each other, forever, in the cold, dark earth.

________________

Sorry, I hurt our boy 😢 Not really confident in doing Simon's PoV - I always write from reader's perspective but, uhh, not really possible here. Just had to get the idea out bc it's been rolling around in here, gathering dust. Maybe it's been done before? Idk.

Some biblical, wuthering heights, and Greek myth references. And no shade to emily dickinson; that's ghost's opinion, not mine!

Knight ghost part ii will be out this week (finally lol, yay). Then some of the other stuff I've banged on about.

[salemoleander]

BigB brings a pickaxe down against the soft limestone. It's not dirt, or loam, or even sand, but it makes him think of a burrow. Something safe to hide in.

He knows he's acting strangely, knows the others didn't all beeline to complete their tasks. But the second he opened that letter anxiety wound up his spine, like seaweed ready to pull him under. So, y'know. Might as well deal with it now? He keeps digging.

Digging and saying hi to Scar and being mean to Scar so he leaves and digging and digging. The prickling fear under his skin only abates once he's well underground, in the coolness. Not 'all the way down' yet, but the tension in chest eases.

Finally, some measure of peace. BigB supposes the 'and quiet' has been there the whole time, and he laughs quietly at his own joke. Leans against the wall at the bottom of the pit to rest. He's tired and achy and a tiny bit mad. Of course his task would make him miss out on the chance for allies. Well, maybe if he keeps–

A ghostly hand swats past his head, nails sharp and flesh see-through.

BigB whips to the side, looks around, again, again, and sees nothing. Just faint dust motes and occasional grains of sand falling from above.

It's not even cold? Or whatever ghosts are supposed to make happen, he's not sure.

Sighing, BigB says, "If you're here to kill me, can you at least make it entertaining, man? This task sucks."

His voice bounces and echoes strangely off the stone around him. Nothing responds.

He gives a forced laugh, lowers his head, and keeps digging.

His peace is interrupted not too many minutes later, after he's clambered back to the top to gather more wood for picks. BigB hears footsteps, and then Grian slides the last few blocks down an incline of sand into the cave.

Grian grins at him. BigB smiles back, slow and easy. Last game they'd ended allies, and that has helped a lot to loosen tensions. Still not interested in a day 1 alliance, though. Doubt submerged in friendliness, he greets Grian and asks what he's up to.

"Just bouncing around! Day 1, you know how it is." Grian seems energized, a bit furtive– normal Grian stuff. He looks past BigB, and an indent appears between his eyebrows. "Uh, what's with the hole, B?"

He has a defensive answer lined up, something circuitous and confusing about Jimmy and broken mineshaft generation and new stripmining techniques. Can't let anyone know your secret, after all; even if Grian's sly smile indicates he's probably just going to joke a bit and let it go.

Instead, BigB opens his mouth, and the words that crawl out are, "I don't know, G, where do the tasks come from?"

It's not a question that makes sense, not really. The tasks don't have to come from anywhere! BigB may just be overthinking it, or underthinking it, or something. And he shouldn't have even said that, because it might be giving away his task. Why did he say that?

There's a fire behind the words, anger that scrapes and burns on its way out. He's not sure why that's there either.

Color high on his cheeks, Grian says, "I'm not sure, er– not sure, yeah."

BigB knows he's lying. To be fair, he thinks most people could tell Grian was lying– he's not very good at doing it on the spot.

The smells of acrid smoke and dirt and sea-salt are there and then gone. His hand tremors; he tucks it through a belt loop.

Tasks don't have to come from anywhere, except these aren't just tasks: they're secrets. This game would be called Task Life, or Goal Life, or something, if that was the important thing. He knows how careful Grian is with his words (words like safe and soulmate and mine, all used to very particular definitions).

BigB is familiar with what being one of Grian's secrets feels like. The letter in his pocket feels like a friend. He decides not to ask any more questions, because he's not sure what will come out.

"Okay, just gonna cook some fish, and then I'll be out of your hair." Grian steps past him and hunkers down in front of the furnace. BigB feels a bead of sweat roll down the back of his neck. He looks away.

When he looks back, he startles. Scar is right next to Grian, looming by his side.

Except this isn't Scar as he'd seen him earlier, standing around in a circle. BigB locks eyes with this other Scar, his eyes beady-bright crimson and set into a face wrapped in bandages. His hooded cloak is purple and embroidered, threads hanging ragged at the edges. The fabric around his neck is dark.

Slowly, movements jerky, Scar holds up a single bony finger in front of his mouth.

BigB's eyes flick down to Grian's back- does he not notice, in his periphery? Is he just ignoring this? Should he say something?

When he looks back up, the spectre is gone.

Standing in uncharacteristic silence, he awkwardly waits for Grian to collect the rest of his fish. Grian, happy to cause problems on purpose but allergic to tension he isn't the cause of, quickly folds and grabs the remaining fish with an "I'll get out of your hair, then."

They shuffle together to the entrance of the cave; he really needs to get some doors going in here.

Grian turns and fixes a stare just to his side, for a moment. BigB ignores it, and finally manages to shoo Grian off. He doesn't want to know who's haunting him.

Sighing, he shifts a pick into his hand and gets back to work. BigB finishes the task quickly after that, because when he pays attention the fear guides him. This task isn't about digging deep - it's about being hunted, about burrowing, tunneling.

He finishes it and turns in the quest book, receives his rewards. Resolutely, he does not look at the spectres trailing after his friends. It's fine if he just doesn't look, right? Yeah.

The rest of the session passes in a blur. At the end, trying to hang back and keep his eyes on the middle of the statue rather than any ghosts that may or may not exist, he hears Grian share his task.

Jokes no one would laugh at. Of course.

He idly considers a task based on his experiences in the last series. Something furtive and spy-based would be fun. Maybe something frog themed?

He does not think about what secrets his lives in the other games would want to share. Those seem like a late-game thing, anyways.

[twst-drabbles]

Malleus 14

Summary: It's winter and you're in the mood for burning stuff with Silver's pet Malleus.

(Fun fact, I used to set fire to stuff all the time when I was but a wee kiddo. I grew out of it. Now I just like to watch the fireplace burn wood.)

Malleus was like you own little mini flamethrower when winter comes with it's snow white embrace. For whatever reason, it seems Silver and the rest of the pets get a little antsy during this time of year, probably overwhelmed by the near pure silence of the part of woods they lives in.

They're so used to living with nature's noises that it has become a habit to basically camp up with you until the end of winter. Or at least until the animals start waking up once more for their usual activities.

All this to say that you like to goof off with Malleus by indulging in a hobby that you used to scare Crowley all the time with: burning stuff.

Not burning houses or causing any sustainable damage, you just make a nice fire pit in a patch of dirt in the backyard, put in some fuel and let Malleus blow green flames right into it.

"Hoho," you laughed as you watch old papers burn, real satisfied with how fast the flames took them, "Oh that's nice. Anything you want to throw in there, Hornton?"

You know his name but eh, you like being silly. Hornton, snuggled deeply into your puffy sleeves, poked out his head before retreating inside as soon as a snowflake landed on his nose. You can only see his horns resting on your wrist and an outline of his wings fluttering underneath your clothing.

"Yeah, I guess it is a bit too cold, huh?"

You heard a huff, but Malleus crawled out in his all his green teddy bear onesie glory. He kept his wings as close to his body as possible as he sat on your wrist. He peeked out at you, visibly brightened at the sight of you with his weird, almost too-wide smile, before pointing to a cardboard box that was once filled with mosquito nets.

"Alrighty," you said and kicked the box into the pit. But the fire didn't catch. It was snuffed out by the wind instead. "Uh-oh. Hornton, mind doing the honors?"

You're pretty sure Silver would be judging you if he saw you and Malleus doing this. Well, actually probably not. More that he'd give a gentle warning but it would feel like he's judging you in some way. Whether that's true or not, you don't want to ponder on that, so you like to burn things when no one is watching.

Well, no one except Malleus.

Malleus crawled back into your sleeve legs first until only his mouth was poking out. He opened up and you aimed at the pit like he was an arm canon. Malleus let loose a powerful torrent of green fire. It covered the entire pit and lit up the box no problem.

When he stopped, you can see his cheeks visibly flushed underneath that smattering of scales on his face. Even his eyes are starting to flutter close.

"Feeling sleepy, little guy?"

A little whiny chap of a noise, soft and quick.

You pulled your sleeve over him.

"Alright, get some sleep then."

You're satisfied with this for now. You can burn everything else tomorrow.

[virtualcarrot]

[KKIR] All it takes is one stumble

(Posted on AO3)

-

By the time Iruka's putting the finishing touches to the training ground, the sun's hanging low in the sky.

Some of his hair's come loose over the day's work, sweat-slick threads of it striking unevenly along his hairline. He wipes his brows with the back of his hand and--oh great, from the gritty feel of it, guess now he has dirt on his face. He huffs in tired amusement and looks over.

The spread of land around him looks as untouched as ever, with only his leftover supplies to give his presence away, along with the pale vest he cast off when he started heating up from the exertion. Once everything's picked up, it'll be like he was never here.

His spine protests with a crack when he draws himself up, the old scar tugging unpleasantly with the motion. He frames his lower back right under the hem of his mesh armor, pulls his shoulders wide open and arches in a stretch.

The relief is such that he groans with it.

"Ah!" A yelp sounds from over the treeline, followed by a thud.

A couple of startled pigeons take flight.

Iruka sighs. He was so very clear, when booking the training ground, to claim it as off limits while he makes use of it. Honestly, it's a wonder anyone even bothers with the schedules.

When he makes his way over, the great Hatake Kakashi, retired Rokudaime, looks up sheepishly at him from a sprawl in the bottom of the pit.

"Yo."

"I--How?!"

"Hazards of the road of life."

"Right."

"There are sirens on it. You know. Creatures of the sea. Very distracting ones."

"I'm sure..."

Apparently quite content to sit in the dirt, Kakashi gives no signs of getting up. Moreso, for a man already at ground-level, he looks strangely unsteady. His torso sways from side to side, like it's tempted to slump even further.

Iruka narrows his eyes. "What the hell did you do to be chakra deprived?"

"Aah, kocho-sensei... Let's take it as a lesson. I am but a humble, living reminder to warn your students against hubris."

"You were pushing the limits of your chakra pool, weren't you?"

"Never had time when I was Hokage. Did you know I can now use close to thirteen chidori ?"

"Make it twelve next time so you're still able to walk back."

At the edge of the pit, Iruka finds a protruding root. He ties a piece of rope to it and throws down the other end.

The softly sloped walls shouldn't be hard to climb back.

"Aaah, about that..."

Iruka groans. "You're hurt, aren't you?"

"Sprained my ankle," Kakashi says cheerfully. "Nice trap, by the way."

"You never should've--It's a trap for pre-genin," Iruka grumbles as he makes his way down.

There aren't a great many dignified ways of picking up a grown-ass man, yet Kakashi plain refuses to settle in a fireman's carry. Even on low chakra reserves, he's serious enough about struggling out of the hold that, short of employing actual force, Iruka has to retreat.

Hands on his hips, Iruka glares down at him, aggrieved. "Really, Kakashi? Nobody will care about your bony ass sticking up!"

"Naive of you to think so." Kakashi holds his arms up. "Come on, sensei, I'm sure you give great piggybacks."

"Oh for the love of--!" Iruka grouses. Yet he still crouches and presents his back to Kakashi.

For someone so worried about appearances, Kakashi clearly doesn't mind the ridiculous fumbling that follows. His legs have to grip Iruka's waist like a baby monkey's to leave Iruka's hands free ro grasp the rope, but they eventually figure it out.

Once they're out, Iruka catches Kakashi's thighs behind the knee and proceeds to make his careful way out of the trap field. It's unlike him to show himself in public looking so underdressed, but needs must. He'll come back for his supplies and vest later.

Kakashi shifts like he's inspecting the field before settling back.

"Nice thing you've got going on, here. Tell me about it," he says from on over, bony chin digging in the top of Iruka's head while he speaks.

Iruka frowns distractedly as he counts his steps before walking around what should be a mild exploding ink tag burried under a thin layer of dirt. "You know about it already."

There's something almost hug-like to the squeeze of Kakashi's arms over his shoulders.

"Hm. But you like talking about it."

Now Iruka's just embarrassed. "You should tell me to stop when I'm prattling at you, you know."

Kakashi sinks deeper against his back, the soft cloth of his mask rubbing gently against Iruka's temple that Kakashi has seen fit to touch his lower jaw to.

"...I'm doing the opposite, if you haven't noticed," he says, voice warm and sleepy.

Iruka sighs again, but this time it's fond. The walk back to the center of Konoha is made to the tale of his hopes for the Academy's new lesson plans and the room they give students for experimentation and discovery and specialization. It's been a longtime project of his, in this time of peace, to transform the ninja Academy into a place of learning instead of the soldier-popping machine it used to aspire to be.

Kakashi gives a few encouraging hums at appropriate times, and a few renewed not-quite-hugs-but-close-enough. Very close enough.

Just before they reach the first building of the village, Iruka gives into the urge to nuzzle Kakashi's arm and gently squeezes his thighs in response. Kakashi's breath stutters.

Then, little by little, he melts against Iruka's back with a sigh of contentment.

*

Sakura looks entirely unimpressed at their sight.

''What's he done now?" she asks, stepping aside to let them in.

Kakashi gives her a lazy wave of acknowledgement and droops into a dead weight across Iruka's back. It's too deliberate not to raise some warning bells.

''I fell head over heels,'' Kakashi drawls, the shape of a smirk sounding his words.

And, well... What a circumvoluted way of coming clear.

Iruka drops him unceremoniously on the couch and begins making meal plans for their evening together.

[eriexplosion]

I have nothing to do this weekend so it is Catch Up On Rewatch time. We're up to Decomissioned!

I genuinely love that this episode begins a very long tradition of the batch making basically Zero goddamn money for Cid because they never accomplish the actual goal she sent them there for

I love the Grime of Ord Mantell so much

Like this? It is a fucking look.

"What if it was shiny" WHAT IF IT WAS GROSS AND COVERED IN DIRT AND RUST AND HAD SOME GUY SLEEPING ON IT?

The woman wandering into Cid's looked drunk already but Omega nearly shooting her in the face sobered her up REAL goddamn quick.

Bolo and Ketch are my beloved boys, crime uncles to go with the crime grandma for Omega. I don't know what their crimes actually are but look at them. They're definitely up to crimes.

This is just a sweet moment though, even if Omega is getting frustrated, everyone gathered around to watch her practice. She's not a natural but SHE'S LEARNING.

Cid: I assume you boys know what a tactical droid is?

Tech:

This is unsurprisingly one of my favorite moments he literally looks like he's going to explode when no one speaks up. IS NO ONE ELSE GOING TO TAKE THIS INCREDIBLY EASY QUESTION?

"You make money, I make money, and I watch your back." You fool. You will never get any money from these people.

CID WITH THE BOW IS HOT OKAY, I AM AN EASY MARK.

You know I'm surprised this facility doesn't sell the tactical droid modules themselves, like I'm sure it's imperial funded to get rid of all the separatist droids but come on, no one in the factory other than the Martez sisters is stealing these things?

BEING THE LOOKOUT WAS CROSSHAIR'S JOB. I'm sure Hunter loves getting that reminder of his Failure to keep his family together.

THE GIRLS ARE HERE <3

DON'T JUST STAND THERE. GRAB A WEAPON. "I had one >:T"

Omega was literally about to shoot Rafa at point blank range though like imagine her first kill was from about 2 feet away

SHOULD I HAVE LET THE DROID SHOOT YOU? Hunter has zero patience right now he is So Grouchy the instant Rafa opens her mouth

No worries just jump over the flaming pit of death Wrecker. Nothing bad can happen when you jump over the flaming pit of death.

LITERALLY STOLE THE DROID HEAD AND LEFT THE CHILD TRAPPED ON THE CONVEYOR BELT TO HELL.

God this moment with Wrecker's chip partially activating is so good.

Trace literally stops and realizes the child is going to be dumped into the slag and does NOTHING ABOUT IT FOR SO DAMN LONG. SHE COMES THROUGH IN THE END BUT GOD HOW LONG YOU GONNA STAND THERE?

I love them, they're disasters.

"Fine but I still don't like you." "I'M USED TO IT." This is very much like Hunter with Phee in season 2 he just gets so fucking cranky.

WRECKER HEARING "GOOD SOLDIERS FOLLOW ORDERS" IN CROSSHAIR'S VOICE IS SO FUCKING MUCH. Love this set up for next episode by which I mean I am horrified by it.

I'm easy, I find it hilarious when Echo makes a dad joke about their name.

THIS WILL HELP ME ACCESS THE PROGRAM. *TECH LITERALLY STABS THE DROID WITH SOME FORM OF SPIKE*

Honestly seeing Rafa again makes me remember those fake leaks when everyone was freaking the absolute fuck out over the idea that Rex/Rafa was going to be a thing in season 2 and honestly I still love the idea. I think that Rex falling for a garbage girl with thieving little raccoon hands is the funniest thing I've ever heard. He found a girlfriend in the dumpster.

Our first real push towards 'you can't just endlessly run away while doing it all for the money' from Trace. Again I am stuck on this, that you can't push for two seasons for the batch to actually stand up to the Empire and fight, to actually push back, and then have it turn out they should have just kept never getting involved anyway if they wanted to live. I'm chewing on the walls and the beams.

"in the end, we all choose sides" anyway this is why I think the very end of the show will be the batch together and actively choosing to go against the Empire, not because they're soldiers but because they're a family and they're fighting for each other. But unfortunately I don't think it will be as simple as retirement even if it's what they deserve, because of bits like this. At the very least, they're active in helping Rex get the other clones somewhere safe, even if they're not diving in to fight directly.

The way they hide who Rex is to make it look like the girls immediately turned on them doijsofd

SOON WE'RE GONNA HAVE REX THOUGH. THE BOY.

[themorticians-world]

I. Death .I

Xavier Thorpe x O.C

Helloooooo, this is my first time writing a fan fiction (I know lame) I usually just read them and whatever but I've had this idea for months now so I figured better late than never. *All copy rights go to the creators of Wednesday, and the music to Melanie Martinez. Those are their's to claim they just helped inspire me.* Also this has an Original Character and OC family. The last name hasn't been mentioned yet but it's Cauldron! Pls be nice, and let me know if there's anything I missed. This story WILL have smut, but I'm doing chapters.. Enjoy:)

"They're carving my name in the grave again

Their flowers fresh and their faces wet

my body has died, but I'm still alive

look over your shoulder I'm back from the dead.."

As I awaken, I feel my wings flutter. I know this is a rebirth, my previous body leaving this plane. I can feel as my body ignites, and I go through stages of hatching. As I breath in my new life and what's to come of my physical body, the flashbacks of what happened start to come full force. Fire surrounds me, everywhere I look I see the tall burning hot flames engulfing my once childhood home. I whimper as I realize I can’t find my family, “MOM” I yell into the whooshing of the flames “MOM PLEASE” I shout again, my voice cracking this time. Gathering myself I assess the situation, I know we can’t die, we’re Nymph’s, each one of us has different parts that makes us a unique type of nymph. I pick up my tethered dress from the floor searching for anyone who could be here, “Dad? Evan? Mom?” I try again. Realization starts to sink in, as I crumple myself onto the floor as tears wrack through my body. I know my fate, I know we’ll meet again in another life but each time this happens there is always a fear it’ll be my last time having my family with me. Gasping, I emerge from the dirt and gravel that was once my grave. I shake my wings and exhale a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Shaking the dirt and debris off my wings, I expand my chest to inhale a large breath before sending my signal in search of my family. 

As I wait I can feel the burning hot pit in my lower stomach, aching for a feeding. Looking around I see nothing but trees, for miles. Huffing I began my journey in search of a mate to feed off their energy. Ever since I could remember my mother, a beautiful nymph met and fell in love with my father, a daring incubus. Ever since they first met, as Adam and Eve, they had been inseparable in each life time. Eventually having my brother, Evan, myself Ophelia, and our dearly departed baby sister Angelica. Each life being difficult in its own way, losing Angelica was a different type of pain for everyone. We all knew permanent death was possible for any nymph or demon, we just hadn’t realized how quick it could happen to babies during the French Revolution. 

Landing on the ground, I begin to observe where I am, to memorize this lay out and hope I can fly my way back before my family finds my signal and comes to me. As I walk through the forest, in the dark and cold night, I become overly aware of how naked I am. Searching for anything, I find a shed with a light on inside. Flying up to peek through the window I see a handsome young man, painting a horrifying monster. ‘This could be my feed’ I thought as I landed on the ground ready to take on the appearance of who this man could want to mate with. I straighten my back and throw my long black hair over my shoulder, and lower my horns back into my head to hide my indifference. I began to feign my innocence, as I knock on the door to the shed. “Uh, yeah just a second!” Says the young man, I can hear scrambling and something falling to the ground, as foot steps approach I wrap my arms around my chest and use one of my hands to cover my pubic area. “Hey sorry Principal Weems I’m just finishing t-“ He cuts himself off as he sees me. “Hi, I got lost in the woods, do you think you could help me?” I give a shy smile and tilt my head, hoping he can see his dream person in front of him. “Uh yeah uh, here come in, I’ll get a blanket” he manages to strain out, whipping himself around to grab a black blanket off the old ratty couch he has. Smiling gracefully I wrap myself in the blanket, giving him full view of my body before ‘adjusting’ it to feel more comfortable against my hardened nipples. “Thank you, I don’t know how much longer I could’ve lasted without something to warm me up” I say in a hushed whisper, leaning in towards him with a blush on my face. “Yeah of course, not a problem” he says scratching his head, fixing his half up half down pony tail. “Care to introduce yourself?” I smirk, loosening my grip on the blanket a bit, in hopes he catches more skin. “My name is Xavier Thorpe, I’m a student here at Nevermore Academy, its nice to meet you” Xavier extends his hand with a blush covering his cheeks, he seems nervous as I shake his hand and give him a perfect smile back. As I’m about to introduce myself, I hear my fathers signal through the wind, telling me they are here for me. Xavier looks around confused at the high pitch whistle, but I turn to face the door, “I think I’ll be seeing you again, thank you for the help.. See you later, Xavier.” I whisper to him. “Wait what?” He yells after me but I’ve already gained my wings to fly towards my parents. I smile feeling a light pinch in my stomach and ache in my core as I leave without feeding. I fly as fast as I can, excited to see my parents and brother, and land shortly after my flight began. “Momma! Dad! Where’s Evan?” I proclaim, wrapping them in my arms and squeezing tightly. “Oh honey, he hasn’t hatched again yet. We’re waiting to hear his signal” my mom reassures me, squeezing me back in the hug. I push her back slightly, confused because Evan is usually the fastest to rebirth. 

“Mom what do you mean? We have to keep signalling for him then, he has to find us!” I say, tears threatening to spill over onto my cheeks. 

“Ophelia, relax, not much time has passed since we died last time. I’m sure he’s just being lazy, you know how Ev is!” My dad tries to cheer me up, rubbing my shoulder. “How are you guys already in clothes? We need to find shelter, I need a feed, desperately.” I say to the couple, in hopes they can’t sense my eagerness to mate. “Well honey, we’ve been hatched for a few months now, we’ve settled down in a town not far from here called Jericho, and they have a school for people like us” My mom tells me, smiling at me and playing with the ends of my hair. I nod quietly, and motion for them to show me the way to where I will live out this life. Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I suddenly feel exposed and confused. What do they mean they’ve been hatched for a few months? And why did it take me so long to come back to them this time? Where is Evan? Thoughts race through my head, as I follow in the steps of my parents. As we reach town, my mom pulls me into a small side hug and smiles down at my small stature. “Honey, here’s our new home, we’ve already decorated a room for you, but we need to have a discussion tomorrow about some new rules your father and I have set.” She says firmly. I nod again, not quite ready to speak as I take in my new surroundings. 

The house is cute, cozy but not small, inviting and warm. I take in the outdoor decorations, and take notice of the trees, that are a variety of orange, yellow, red and brown leaves. The house itself is a black brick house, with white windows and a signature red door. There’s pumpkins on the steps, and little ghosts hanging from some of the trees. My dad unlocks the front door, gesturing me into the heat of the house. My jaw falls as I take in my new home, it’s beyond perfect for our family. The grey walls are the perfect shade of cool neutral, the antiques my mother must have thrifted decorate the area beautifully, a gorgeous wood burning fire place is in the middle of the living room, surrounded by black velvet couches, a coffee table shaped like a coffin, and perfectly preserved bats all over the walls as decor. The perfect amount of spooky and cozy, just like we like it. 

“Mom, could you show me to my room? We will need to go clothes shopping tomorrow!” I smile at her, adjusting the blanket that now feels too warm in the heat of the living room. My mom nods, and motions me to follow her up the black spiral staircase. I take in the paintings as I take my time going up the stairs, admiring the craftsmanship of the artist. When I reach the final step, my mom turns and points to the black door with a sign shaped like a bat on it, stating “Ophelia’s room”. I jump and squeal, excited to see my room and bed, I barge in and turn the light on. Instantly I’m consumed with the comfort of my favourite items. A large black canopy bed in the centre of the room, with black nightstands on either side, and matching black and white lamps. I can’t help myself as I drink in all the details of the room, I see a glass chandelier, a black desk with a type writer, a coffin shaped mirror hanging on my wall beside what appears to be a Jack and Jill bathroom with a room on the opposite side. As I step into my room, I open a door to my right, to see a rather large walk in closet- that is filled to the brink with black, brown and grey clothes, shoes and purses. I turn to my mother with a big smile, “Thank you so much mom, you always know exactly what I love.” I bring her into a hug. “Of Course honey, have a shower, get changed into some comfy clothes and hop into bed, it’s pretty late.” She smiles softly before turning to the door and closing it gently behind her. 

I take the blanket off and toss it to the side, and retrieve a towel, a black tank top and black plaid pj shorts from my closet and head towards the bathroom. Humming a tune, I turn the light on and begin my search for a hairbrush. Once I’ve located my brush, I turn the shower on and wait for it to heat up. Fixing my posture, I take in my new appearance in the mirror. I’m short, with my usual long black straight hair. I have a curvier figure this time around, with more of a tummy than I’m use to. I shake my head, adjust my eyes and relax- allowing my natural form to come out. My hazel eyes darken to almost black, my horns make their appearance and my ears point. My tongue feels heavy in my mouth as I take in its pointed snake appearance, that’s new. Shrugging, I finish brushing my hair, and get into the heat of the shower. As I let the water run over me, my mind begins to become engulfed with the ache that has settled in my core. Ignoring the feeling, I shampoo twice, condition, wash my face and shave, before washing my body and rinsing off. Turning the shower off, I grab my towel and begin a night routine, taking notice of the very expensive skin care products my mother must have researched before purchasing. Once I’ve finished my skin care, and brushing my teeth, I throw my hair into a towel and head into my room to settle in for the night. As I hear what sounds like a television show coming from downstairs, I nod off into a deep sleep, preparing for the next day, and my next feeding.

[kbandtrash]

Too Real to Call it Magic (Joshua x Reader) (Part 4--Final)

~Rachel~

Masterlist

If you want a relationship with Joshua, you should probably end things with Dream Boy. If they're the same person, then you wouldn't have to do that, but how are you supposed to find out?

Word count: 2.9k

Part 1

There was only one way to find out if he knew you, and you hated that option. There was no way you were going to ask Joshua, someone you barely knew, if he had had dreams about you before you met. And then if you said you had met him in your dreams, and he had no idea what you were talking about, you weren’t sure you could keep meeting him. That was too embarrassing.

There was the possibility that he would know exactly what you were talking about, and even though that was technically ideal, you weren’t sure you wanted that to happen, either. What you really wanted was for this problem to go away so that you wouldn’t have to deal with it, and you couldn’t think of any way for that to happen in a happy way.

So you sat on the bench in the clearing, bent over with your head in your hands, hoping he didn’t show up tonight. You needed more time to think of what you were going to tell him. You knew that neither of you controlled coming to this place, so it wasn’t like you could just ask him to stop coming here, but you had to find a way to tell him you didn’t want your interactions to continue in the way they had been going lately. Whether he was real or not, you were sure that he would respect your wishes to just be friends in this strange in-between place.

But you still needed time to figure out how to tell him that in a way that didn’t give too much away about why you wanted to draw the boundary between the two of you. You didn’t want him to find out how much you really liked him. It wouldn’t affect much if he was just a figment of your imagination, but if he was real, then you didn’t want him to think that you liked him better in your dreams than in real life.

You didn’t want him to show up tonight. You needed more time, that was what you told yourself. But the chill of the clearing was getting to you, and the quiet was starting to eat at you. Why had this become so complicated?

The scratch of quiet footsteps on the dirt floor of the clearing startled you from your inner monologue, and you whipped around to see the dream boy with his arm hesitantly outstretched toward your shoulder. His eyes met yours, wide with worry. He didn’t even have to say it; you knew his question. Are you okay?

The warmth of a teardrop sliding down your cheek made you blink in surprise. When had you started crying? You wiped it away hurriedly, checking the other side of your face to see if there were more.

“Sorry,” you apologized. “Hi. Sorry.”

“For what?” he asked. He took his seat by your side and offered you his extra sweatshirt, more like he was holding it out for you to take it whenever you were ready. “Is there anything I can do?”

For your sanity? The best thing he could do was disappear.

The thought twisted into a hard pit in your chest. Maybe it was true, but you didn’t want that. It was probably actually best for your real life, but right now, all you wanted was to stay here with him and hide from your real problems. He didn’t do anything wrong, so why did he have to be punished for something that was your fault?

“No,” you answered with a sniffle. “Just me being stupid.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” he said, shaking his head slightly.

“No, really. It’s just a stupid problem that I made up in my head.”

“Try me.”

He had a little spark of challenge in his eyes that made you wonder if he already knew what you were upset about. He still held out his sweatshirt to you. You felt like if you took it now, it would mean something. If you really wanted to put distance between you, you might have to stop borrowing his clothes.

Your body language was not subtle, and he obviously noticed you trying to ignore the sweatshirt. He raised it a little, trying to get your attention with it. 

“I can see the goosebumps on your arm,” he told you, almost in a scolding tone. “I bet you’ll feel better if you’re a little warmer.”

“Right, yeah, sorry,” you apologized again, trying to pull off your attempt at standoffishness as lost in thought, or something. This was going to be hard if you kept giving yourself away.

You took the sweatshirt and pulled it over your head. As soon as the scent inside hit your nose, you recognized it immediately. No wonder Joshua’s cologne had been so familiar; you had been smelling it on this sweatshirt for a long time before you had met him.

All signs pointed to Dream Joshua and Real Joshua being the same person. They did, it only made sense—so why couldn’t you believe it?

“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” you admitted without meeting his eyes. It was easier to watch the base of the trees.

He waited for you to look at him, but it became clear that wasn’t going to happen. “Yeah,” he said, his voice heavy. “Me, too, I think.”

But neither of you wanted to say it first. This was the first time you had encountered awkward silence with him, and it felt unbearably unnatural. Everything with him had felt natural before, even if this environment was strange. What you were about to do, the conversation you were about to have, that felt unnatural, too.

“I think—”

“I’ve been—”

You had started at the same time. The awkward laughter that followed didn’t exactly break the tension, but it certainly felt more natural than the silence a moment ago.

“You can go first,” he said. Before you could protest, he held up his hand and reasoned, “You said you wanted to talk first, anyway.”

For a split second, you had hoped that whatever he wanted to talk about could postpone you having to tell him your grievances, but he and his darn manners were right. Not that correctness made it easier.

“I wanted to talk about the way we’ve been going lately,” you began, the words now magically putting themselves in place. You still wouldn’t look at him, though, at least, not until you were done. “You haven’t done anything wrong, I promise, I just…I’ve been thinking about us, and I don’t think what we have here is sustainable.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you could see that he had given up trying to get you to look at him. While you watched the ground, his eyes were turned to the stars. “I was kind of thinking the same thing.” 

Then he was in the same boat as you, if he was real. He was giving you up in his dreams so he could find out if he liked you in real life. What if he found out he liked the dream version of you better?

“The question you asked me the other night—the one about if we’re real or not,” he went on, “I realized the answer doesn’t really matter. Even if I’m real, if you’re real, it doesn’t matter because none of this is, right?”

He was doing it for you. All of your half-baked reasons for putting distance between the two of you, and he had already put them together himself. If he were just a figment of your imagination, then these really were your thoughts, just better organized. “Yeah,” you agreed plainly.

“This isn’t something we make happen on purpose,” he pointed out. “What if it just stops one day and we never see each other again?”

Your stomach turned sour at the thought put into words. “I…” Your mind was suddenly empty of words to say. Even though you had been sort of wishing for that to happen, to never come to this place again, hearing it from him made you realize that you hated the thought, and not just because you wanted to keep meeting him here. If you never came back, you would never know that a next time would never come. The possibility of coming back would drive you crazy. “That would be so awful, I don’t even know how to say it,” you told him honestly.

“And that’s why I feel terrible asking this of you, because I know it’s not gonna help you or me,” he said. The movement of his head in your periphery made you finally turn and look at him, and he was right there, the same distance apart you had been this whole time, but he felt so much closer. He held your gaze for a moment, but ended up looking away in guilt before he could ask. “Can I kiss you just this once?”

And then his eyes were back on yours. He was right—it wouldn’t help either of you move on. It would keep you going down the exact path you were trying to turn away from. So why did you tell him yes?

Could you even kiss here? In the half-second it took for him to cup your face in his hand, you remembered the last time he had tried something like this. He had just tried to kiss your hand that time, so what would happen now? You didn’t know if it was courage or cowardice that kept you from telling him to wait.

—

Not quite like deja vu, you jolted awake with your heart beating at a wild pace. Maybe because you had expected it this time, you weren’t as confused as the last time this had happened, but your body was still panicking. In the dark, you pushed yourself to sit up and wriggle out of your covers so you could try to cool down.

Of all the emotions filling your chest, the heaviest one was disappointment. It was disappointment for a lot of things, but your brain couldn’t decide whether you were more disappointed in yourself for failing to set a boundary or more disappointed that the dream couldn’t have lasted just a second longer. 

You needed to get a grip. It was a dream, nothing more. You had a perfectly real boy in front of you that met every standard on your list, and most importantly, he already liked you—why couldn’t you look at him?

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand, startling you out of your thoughts. It was 4 am; who on earth had texted you?

The brightness of your phone screen, even at a minimum, almost blinded you. It took a moment for your eyes to adjust, but even when you could read the name of who sent you a text message at 4 am, you almost didn’t believe it.

If you could quit your job and do whatever you wanted for the rest of your life, what would you do?

What was Joshua doing awake? And…did he know he had asked you that question before?

You typed out your answer and stared at it for a while. There was no use in pretending that you were asleep since the message had already been marked as read. He probably knew that you had read it, probably saw your typing bubble bouncing as you hesitated. What did you have to lose here? Your answer was the same no matter what.

I would go see the cherry blossoms with you.

He read it immediately. His typing bubble popped up, then disappeared, then popped up again, then disappeared again, this time for longer. When it popped up again, the message sent within two seconds.

Can I meet you on the rooftop in 15 minutes?

Sure, it was 4 am, and you had work in the morning, but you could suffer through a day for this. For him. You were almost sure now, with that response, that his first text had been intentional.

Your hands shook a little bit as you wandered around your apartment, passing the time and trying to think if you would need anything on the rooftop. He had probably been scared about you, too. You had thought about his perspective from time to time, but because in both the forest clearing and in reality he had possessed such a bright countenance, you had never wondered if he was as scared as you were.

You stopped at your closet and more specifically your jackets and coats inside. Was it still too cold to wait outside without an extra layer? Probably a little bit. You didn’t want to make the same mistake again, so you decided to put on something just in case. But…would he need something?

With a few minutes to spare, you were waiting for him on the rooftop, sitting on the wood deck with the lights on and an extra hoodie on your lap. You hoped it would fit him.

What if this didn’t mean what you thought it meant? What if he just happened to wake up in the middle of the night and text you a question that was totally random to him? And then maybe your answer had just been so touching that he wanted to see you as soon as possible? Thinking it out like that made it seem stupid and impossible, but the part of you that always expected everything to go poorly was the loudest part of you tonight.

The door opened with a metallic click and he poked his head through to look at the rooftop first. A smile warmed his face when he saw you already waiting for him. As he stepped through further, he raised his hand to wave at you. “Hi.”

Despite your nerves, you couldn’t help but smile back. “Hey,” you returned, waving back.

He took a few steps toward you. “Is it okay if I sit next to you?” he asked. You noticed he had come without a jacket.

“Of course,” you said. “I can’t imagine why you would sit anywhere else.”

“Well, I mean, you seemed to prefer the ground over there last time,” he said as he sat down next to you, gesturing over to where you had been sitting the night you had first met. “Right?”

You leaned over to elbow him playfully. “That was a little different.” But you realized it might not have been all that different. You were here meeting him again after waking up from a dream in which his counterpart had tried to kiss you. The difference was that you had your wits about you this time.

A breeze passed through the air, and you were grateful for your jacket. You watched to see if it was just you that was cold, or if he was feeling the chill, too. When his hands adjusted to wrap around his arms a little more, you took it as your sign to act. You wordlessly offered your sweatshirt to him, making as if to pass it to him casually if he wanted it.

You didn’t let his little gasp pass you by. He took hold of your sweatshirt, but before he moved to actually take it from you, he looked up at you. “Isn’t this usually the other way around?” he asked you.

If there were ever an opportunity for a leap of faith, this was it. Maybe he was just talking about how boys were usually the ones that gave their sweatshirts to girls, but his deliberation before he asked and the tone of his voice told you he meant something else by it.

“I figured I’ve been borrowing your sweatshirt long enough—I should return the favor.”

With an exhale, his eyes widened and his features relaxed in relief. He finally took the sweatshirt, but instead of putting it on, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. “You’re not talking about my sweatshirt I left here, right?”

“No,” you answered, returning the hug. “I’m talking about the bench in the forest.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” he said in another relieved exhale. One of his hands reached up to cradle your head. “I was so scared I was wrong.”

“I know,” you said, almost choking up as you realized that you didn’t have to worry anymore. You lowered your face to hide it a little in his shoulder. “I was, too.”

He could be everything to you now, if he wanted. The reason you had rejected him earlier was because you wanted to get to know him better, but that didn’t matter anymore. You had been meeting each other for much longer than you had known each other, and there wasn’t any real reason to wait now.

“Where would you go?” you asked, letting your arms slip down to hang around his lower back so you could pull away and look at him. “If you could quit your job and do whatever you wanted?”

“Me?” His hand that had been on the back of your head was now absent-mindedly touching your cheek, and you were reminded of how you had almost kissed just half an hour ago. “Well, if you’ve got cherry blossoms in the spring covered,” he started, seeming to realize your familiar proximity as he glanced down at your lips, “I think I’ll say going to see the leaves in the fall.”

You raised your eyebrows, starting to close the gap. “With me?”

He smiled. “With you.”

Done :) This spent about a year and a half in the works and most of it was within the last 3 months lol. I debated for a long time about whether I wanted Joshua to be real in the end or not but I eventually decided it wouldn't make sense if he weren't you know?Anyway I hope you enjoyed reading because I loved writing it

[pure-garbage]

Overcome The Shadows! Hunt The Infuriating Facsimiles

Chapter Warnings: Violence, Injury

As the straw hats rampaged through Thriller Bark searching for an abducted Nami and their warrior's shadows, it didn't take long for them all to get separated. Lana was hardly surprised. If anything, she'd anticipated that her crew would end up scattered. It seemed inevitable that they always managed to split up any time the going got tough.

"No matter," she said aloud. "We always find each other again."

She had faith in her friends abilities. They could take care of themselves while she pursued her own goals.

"Luffy said a swordsman in clogs," she reminded herself. "He'll be carrying three swords if it's really Zoro's zombie. Shouldn't be too hard to find."

That being said, an hour of searching and brawling with zombies left Lana frustrated and questioning her own logic.

"Aw, this is impossible," she groaned, using the power of the calm-calm fruit to help her slip silently past another posse of useless zombies. "None of these are Zoro or Sanji's, and I'm gonna run out of salt if I keep engaging all these random reanimated corpses. How big is this stupid ship anyway?! It might as well be an island all its own. Stupid bark ship... stupid zombies... stupid, lousy warlord... I can't wait to see Luffy kick his ass."

She kept muttering to herself unhappily, words inaudible to the outside world thanks to the bubble of silence she'd created using her power. Grumpy and quickly losing hope, Lana's ire turned inward, pessimism pitting her against herself as she passed under a tall tower.

"And this is just great!" she seethed. "A whole devil fruit just falls into my hands and I get calm powers. What good is the power of peace and quiet to a pirate anyway, huh? All I'm using it for is talking to myself... ugh, I can't believe I traded my ability to swim for this. I'm such an idiot! What kind of dope takes a stupid gamble like that? I'm a sailor who can't swim and who talks to herself constantly! Damn! My luck is usually so much better than this!"

Lana stopped, pinching the bridge of her nose in aggravation. She was too preoccupied to notice the commotion in the tower high above her, growing louder and more heated by the minute.

"No! This can't be it! I refuse to believe my luck has abandoned me!" Lana declared, smacking the bottom of her right fist into the palm of her open left hand with a resounding, resolute smack. "I'm lucky, damn it! And even if I'm not anymore, who gives a crap?! I'll make my own fate!"

Above her, two figures leapt off the tower, tearing straight through the wall and into the open air outside. Lana didn't notice them plummeting toward her. She was too wrapped up in her stalwart determination that she would turn things around for herself.

"I'll find a useful application for these calm powers if it's the last thing I do! I'm gonna be an asset to this crew, a help to my friends! I'm gonna find Zoro and Sanji's zombies and make them eat this damned salt even it it kills-"

The falling figures landed on either side of her hard enough to shake the ground. A piece of a brick bounced off her head, leaving her vision blurry and her world spinning.

"Uugghh..."

She steadied, examining the people who'd fallen.

"Zombies!" she realized with alarm. "A penguin-dog monster and a swordsman in clogs... what?! No way! Zoro's shadow! And Sanji's too! You... you just fell out of the sky! Literally!"

Lana kissed her sash enthusiastically as the two struggled slowly to their feet.

"I knew my luck hadn't really abandoned me... I just let my attitude sour! Never again! Now..."

Lana drew two daggers and took a solid stance, challenging the shadows of her shipmates.

"Let's go, boys!" she declared. "Time for you to give those shadows back!"

The struggle that ensued was brutal and protracted. It ended with Lana in the dirt, felled by a kick from Sanji's zombie.

'I can't take them both at once! If I don't come up with a strategy they're gonna murder me!' she realized grimly, struggling back to her feet as the zombies advanced. 'And it doesn't help that Sanji never let me spar with him! Damn it, Sanji, your chivalry can be a real pain in the ass sometimes... I'm way more familiar with Zoro's attack patterns. I'll take his zombie down first, then come back to Sanji's after!'

That just left the issue of separating them.

"Hey, are you two fighting me or each other?!" Lana demanded as the pair traded blows.

"Stupid bird-dog!"

"Shitty clown-swordsman!"

"I'll cut you to shreds!"

"Not if I kick you into oblivion first!"

"ARE YOU MORONS NOT CAPABLE OF GIVING IT A REST?!" Lana raged, fury consuming her as she watched the familiar display unfold. She barely had the patience to deal with the real Zoro and Sanji when they brawled. This clash between their stolen shadows was just uncalled for.

Zoro's zombie dropped into a pose she recognized at once.

"Wait, is he..."

"Tatsu Maki!" the zombie drawled. He spun rapidly, sending Sanji's zombie hurtling into the sky and away with the powerful technique. The smaller rag-tag collection of animal pieces flew quite far, landing among trees a considerable distance away.

"Well, that took care of itself," Lana noted with a raised eyebrow."Maybe luck feels bad about giving me the cold shoulder before and now it's gonna treat me extra nice to make up for it."

She shook herself, powering through fatigue and ignoring the aching protests of her already battered body.

"Alright, zombie-Zoro, you and me. One on one. I always wondered if I could take Zoro down in a serious fight... let's find out, shall we?

"I'm not Zoro, stop calling me that," the zombie complained.

"Sure, you're only stealing all his techniques," Lana sneered. "You can't imagine how repulsive it is... seeing an empty shell imitating moves he came up with himself! This whole sad excuse for a pirate crew disgusts me! You're all nothing but a bunch of no good, lousy, pathetic copycat curs!"

"Focus when you fight a swordsman or you'll pay with your life," the zombie droned, stoking the fire of Lana's wrath.

"Stop quoting Zoro!" she snarled, charging the zombie. "Eat salt, bastard!"

"Thirty-six..."

"Aw crap!"

"... Caliber phoenix!"

Lana didn't have time to dodge. She used both blades to block the flying slash, the force of the attack sending her sliding back, heels digging into the dust as she went. She grunted and refused to give. She managed to sent the attack hurtling away, panting from the exertion.

'Damn! I think he's actually stronger than Zoro... physically, at least. I need to focus and anticipate his next move... it's weird, though. I haven't been able to sense what these zombies will do next. Maybe it's tied to intent... they're puppets with no free will of their own. All they can do is rely on the skills of the shadows they're imbued with. It must be like relying on muscle memory.'

Lana advanced on the zombie again, watching him carefully. Would he use the same tactic to keep her at bay?

'I don't need my special intuition to beat this jerk. I have eyes, don't I?'

This time, he raised two swords.

"Seventy-two..."

"Oh no you don't! Shrike reign.."

"... caliber phoenix!"

"... whirlwind impalement!"

The attacks collided, sparks flying as they defracted off one another sending razor-sharp air currents whistling past both combatants. Lana managed to deflect the worst of the storm with her daggers while the zombie absorbed all the slashes, staggering back.

"Ha!"

Lana took a few cuts, but crowed victoriously anyway, assuming the zombie was finished. The creature, however, stepped forward once more, ready to try again.

'Did it not even feel the slashes?!' Lana gaped with dismay. 'Do these cursed things not feel pain?!'

"Time to get serious," the zombie declared. It unsheathed a third sword and clamped its teeth around the handle.

Lana's fury knew no bounds.

"I'm going to make you suffer for every poor impersonation of him you put on," she vowed.

"Bring it on. Suffering is welcome on the path to bloodshed."

"Oh shut your undead trap!"

_________________________________________________

<== Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ==>

== First Chapter ==

[themarginalthinker]

Epicenter

'1906, when the big one hit San Francisco, this place took a header, right into the crack. Now it's ours.'

-

Sleep all day, party all night, ever grow old and never die. Vampirism indeed had its perks.

Those were of course the obvious ones. There was also the ability to stuff yourself with more substances than could kill a bull elephant and get up the next night perfectly fine (if perhaps walking a little wobbly.) You could hear a mouse's heartbeat from half a mile away (if you really wanted to, and if your packmates would stop projecting that stupid fucking song into your head for half a fucking minute.) You could even fly!

That one really did have basically no downsides, save for being a mite hungry after an extended time in the air. Nothing above you but stars and the moon, falling upwards into a velvet void, while the world dissipated below. Weightless. Careless.

The senses made for things humans didn't need.

David supposes it's why he could tell something was off enough to rouse him from the daysleep only moments before it happened.

One moment he was unconscious, drifting, in that space were dreams have ended and there is only rest, and the next, his eyes are snapping wide open, and staring at the far wall like he expects it to come forward and hit him.

In fact, maybe some part of his brain actually does expect that. There was a tension in the back of his head, and it was pulling tighter and tighter with ever second, his claws digging into the bar above him, unable to make sense of what was happening when a sudden pit of move now, move now, MOVE NOWNOWNOW- dropped like a lead weight in his chest.

"UP!" He shouted, reaching to the side. "UP, NOW!"

He hits Dwayne first, closest to him, who startles awake enough at the hard physical contact, but the moment he returns to consciousness, the shrieking in David's head enters his own, and he's moving like lighting. No questions, no panic, (thank god, David doesn't know what he'd do without Dwayne's steadiness to calm his own flighty anxiousness at times...) Just pure, concentrated action.

Dwayne flips around, reaching out and shoving Marko and Paul, arms locked around each other. Again, the moment they wake, they're like skittering animals in each other's heads.

Well, Paul is anyway.

Marko, on the other hand, has a moment of fear, bleeding over from David and Dwayne and Paul, and then it's almost like...expectation settles over his features. A calmness that seems almost incongruous with the rest. Much like Dwayne, anyway, he's a pragmatist, and doesn't give way to panic.

The four of them don't waste time, however. David is first down, swinging to catch his hands on the roosting bars and swing around to land in a crouch on the ground. The others follow, Dwayne landing like a cat, Marko bounding a few times as he lands, and Paul somehow managing all his gangly limbs in something almost graceful.

They're out of the crawl space in seconds, speed being the key. They can't be in the enclosed space.

Luckily, it's far enough in the day that the long hours of afternoon are passed, and the sunlight can't get through the few cracks in the 'roof' of the hotel atrium. It's dark, but they aren't going to be lighting any fires.

The pack gathers upwards, towards the ceiling, perching on an old beam. Not on the floor, not in the shadows of the old, massive marble pillars. They sit, claws digging into cracks in the stone.

A second ticks by. Then another. That feeling builds in David's head, like a breath inwards but too much, twice as long.

And then it breaks.

The the fist of an angry god, like the world itself fracturing, it shakes.

Paul cries out, and Marko reaches out to steady him. Dwayne presses against David, who presses back, keeping each other from tumbling even with their grips. Like someone had gripped the Earth as if it were a card table and then violently started to push and pull at it, the stone under them jerked. Plumes of dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling, little rocks bouncing off their heads. Below, their trinkets and baubles rattled and crashed against each other - something deep in the back of the caves crashing and David hears Paul's distant hope that a nook where he stored his stuff hadn't collapsed.

And....it's over. A single, frantic movement of the world, and then it's over.

Marko and Paul don't let go of each other, blinking. David pulls away from Dwayne, and takes an immediate look around.

There are still wafts of dirt shimmying from the ceiling, letting in a dangerous bit of light (to a human it would be imperceptible, but for David and his, it spells a nasty burn if they're not careful.) There are more roots hanging down, displaced. Some of the rock formations that held up the shape of the cave have shifted, and at one side, a marble column that had fallen at an angle years and years ago, had now fully collapsed to the ground. (So much for the books Dwayne had stashed under it...)

But. No one was hurt. Nothing had been lost that couldn't be dug out, or dusted off, or done without.

David breathes a sigh. Finally, the tension was gone.

"Just call you Mister Richter, huh?" Marko says.

David rolls his eyes.

[raemanzu]

Garden updaaaate. We've been renting this place from friends for about 9 months and have been slowly trying to make better use of the yard than just mowing a weed lawn full of burr-y plants. I've planted a few native trees out front but they're still very small. Also planted baby blue eyes and some poppies and other native flower seeds. My most recent additions to the native stuff is coyote mint and another salvia. Pilfered stumps and logs from a neighbor's green waste bin to add habitat for insects, we have a small brush pile and a dirt pile where we've been putting all the clay soil we dig up that is extra after we've mixed in the free (!!) municipal compost. Got free wood chips from the county utility company too, to use for mulch, an some nice redwood chips from someone on a buy nothing facebook group, which has been a big help in trying to get our vegetable garden going.

The raised beds were constructed from disassembled pallets (just taking them apart was more work than using the lumber to put the raised beds together). We have 18 tomato plants, several tiny pepper plants, some edamame, purple greenbeans, cucumbers, small winter squash, snow and snap peas, small asian greens, strawberries, cilantro (which has bolted and is 5 feet tall lol), a few lettuces, lots of volunteer borage (lol), and the most exciting recent development is that Cal scored a bunch of really cheap flowers AND the spanish peanuts they planted are coming up!

We also got not one but TWO volunteer grapevines (our next door neighbors have grapevines). The most recent one was, fascinatingly, attached to a stick or something?? makes me wonder if a piece broke off the original vine and propagated itself in the dirt?

Anyway our yard is apparently acceptable to at least some wildlife now because a pair of mockingbirds built a nest over our catio this spring and successfully raised 1 chick, who has fledged and who we saw preening in the orange tree this afternoon. The fledgling left the nest about 3 weeks ago which means it's almost ready to be fully on its own, but it has been fun seeing the parents bring it all kinds of food to eat, from craneflies to bits of cherry which I watched them separate from the pit carefully before giving it to their child. Now the parents are building a new nest in the plum tree, which is a much better spot where they won't be stressed out by the cats.

This weekend has felt good, I managed to bake a few loaves of bread (well, I'm in process of making the second and third loaves because the first one I FORGOT THE SALT AAAH) and make lasagna and do yardwork AND trim my hair, do my laundry, and get all my homework done, which is.. a lot, actually, and I should be proud of that. I think doing all those things was important for my mental health so I don't feel like my life is nothing but work and school. There are also mockingbirds, and soil, and sprouts, and kneaded dough, and the miracle of things changing under your hands from one thing to another over time. Considering how bad I felt on Thursday this is really great.

[aerodaltonimperial]

I would love any follow up scenes you are willing to give us.

Okay, here's some of that same night... 🥰

Hook has to hand it to Tony Khan: the man has stubbornness and tenacity in spades. Anyone else, when faced with one of your rather valuable wrestlers obtaining an injury bad enough to warrant stitches, would cancel the whole thing, but nope, not Khan. Hook expected to be shuttled immediately back down the mountain and instead, finds himself sitting around a campfire. With Adam Page strumming a guitar and singing folk songs.

What, and Hook cannot emphasize this enough, the fuck.

Sitting in the open air with the branches crackling a few feet away from him, all Hook can think of is that the woods are still out there; not five miles away, not safely tucked behind a fence, but right there, filled with more than one entity fully capable of pulling them apart, one muscle at a time, until the whole limb unravels. They should be running and alerting some kind of authority, and instead he is sitting on a wooden bench that's making his ass hurt while holding a metal spit hosting a marshmallow aloft.

What the actual fuck.

Hook glances at Danhausen, to his right. "Seriously?"

"Re-booking all these flights?" Danhausen shrugs. "Tony Elite would never. Not without solid proof."

"Darby took an arrow to the shoulder."

"Yes," Danhausen says, "and no one will ever believe us if we try to explain that."

Hook shakes his head. "This is how the whole thing works, huh. How all those...things manage to be out there. Because no one believes in them."

"People are like that." Danhausen smiles, though it's more of a grimace. "It's difficult to believe what you can't see for yourself."

The Elite have joined in with the song. It sounds like a bunch of stray cats yodeling into the night, and oh, Hook is absolutely not going to be able to handle any of this. He's so fucking exhausted. He tosses the metal spear, marshmallow and all, onto the dirt as he stands up. "I'm going to the cabin."

Cabin is a bit of a strong word, really, for the rudimentary structures that circle the fire pit, but it's better than being stuck in tents. Hook stomps his way to the door even though he knows that, from everyone else's perspective, he looks like a spoiled rich kid who doesn't want to sleep out in the wilderness with his coworkers. If only they knew.

The good thing about their rag-tag group being put together for the scavenger hunt means that they have also been placed together in the cabin. Each of the wooden buildings contains six rickety metal beds with little more than lump mattresses, three on each side, lined up against the wall. Hook stares at them as Danhausen enters the cabin behind him.

"Hook?" Danhausen asks.

Hook whirls past him, yanking the door open again that creaks and moans like a ghost in the night. He spots Anna and Julia immediately, but Jack and Darby take a few more moments. His motion must alert them, because within a few moments, all four are looking at him. Hook jerks his head towards the interior of the cabin.

When the six of them pack into the too-warm space, there's a lingering minute of quiet. Then, Jack says, "Oh fuck this, come on."

In tandem, he and Hook grab for the beds and yank them across the floor. It's loud; it must be loud outside, but maybe the off-tune singing drowns out the sound of metal shrieking against the floorboards. By the time they're finished, they've rearranged the six to form one long, unbroken line, with barely enough room at the walls to walk through.

Julia smiles. "I like it."

"Didn't think you liked us much," Hook says.

"That was before," she replies, and refuses to elaborate on, but Hook gets it. Something about shared trauma, right? The horror has etched itself down into their bones. They are connected now, like it or not.

They pile into the beds while the warbling sing-along continues outside, punctuated by laughter: Danhausen at one end, then Hook and Jack, followed by Darby and the girls. They made it, all of them, even with the worst sort of monsters snapping teeth at their heels.

Hook rolls, turning into Danhausen’s shoulder. He sighs against the other's neck. "Christ."

"Can't believe we're still here," Anna grumbles.

"Is there a threat, out here?" Jack asks, voice pitched low. "I mean, at the campsite."

"Probably not." Julia sighs. "Too many witnesses. And the woods still have a boundary, even if it's expanded somehow."

Danhausen’s fingers cord through Hook’s hair, infinitely gentle. In the wake of everything, the caress nearly brings tears to Hook’s eyes. He blinks back the sting. Against Hook’s temples, Danhausen whispers, "Danhausen thinks we are safe enough for tonight."

Hook cranes his chin over his shoulder to check if Jack heard and finds the other looking at him. Jack nods. Darby’s fingers, inked with skeletal outlines, play with the hem of Jack’s shirt, absent-minded. At the far end, illuminated by the fire outside that streams in through the badly-covered window, Anna and Julia have curled around each other like twin crescent moons.

For better or worse, they are all stuck with each other.

"Sleep," Danhausen murmurs. His breath tickles Hook’s forehead.

And Hook can't even fight the command, because his eyes were already settling closed, too heavy to keep open any longer.

[zmediaoutlet]

abandoned(?) wip: the cult fic

Here's one that I really really really want to write because it was for a charity run and it is NOT the fault of the fic or the donator that I got hit with a depression meteor, nor indeed that somehow it was 'easier' to write a bunch of other fics instead of the charity fics that I still owe!! Ugh. The self is a real garbage pit sometimes. So hopefully let's call this one dormant and not abandoned, and so --

Big Idea: which isn't mine, bc charity fic as aforementioned, but -- Jared runs a cult and Jensen joins and there's lots of sexy sex. Pretty much. :) But because it's a cult fic, I really wanted to dive into that, which required plot [spits on floor], and it's really more now about like... lost youth getting wrapped up into a personality & lifestyle just for somewhere to belong. Like cult stories always go. It's an unusual fic for me in that I'd normally never do ageswap (even with J2 -- I prefer to keep them as is) and I don't actually have much interest in irl cults, but it's interesting as a stretch in that sense.

Why it was abandoned: because plot!!! Ugh. Plot is the worst, idk how people are like 'ooh I wanna get all involved in this murder mystery'. Yack. But if it's gonna have a plot it's got to work, and it also has to have a bunch of legible and interesting and not-quirky-stand-in characters -- like I want it to read like actual humans, not goofy nonsense a la the cult in Bad Times at the El Royale. So that requires some genuine thought and time put in and probably even a chart, and... #lazy writer noises. But I have some random scenes I think might be good already planned. Trouble would be if I could make Jared-the-cult-leader seem believable and not just like a doofy romance novel figure. My personal trouble with cults is that whenever someone's holding themselves up as a leader because of whatever mystical whatever I'm like, this motherfucker? Are y'all kidding? So I'll have to get over that instinct, lol.

Snippet:

"He renamed it when we came," Allie says, easy. She taps her thumb on the steering wheel, smiling. "He said Wildheart was more right, for what we were going to be." Jensen nods but he has no idea what that means. Whatever the name was before, the wild part at least is right. His grandpa had a farm, outside Dallas, and that was all neat rows, trimmed up hedges, smoothed-out roads with everything exactly in place. Jensen didn't mind it—driving it was easier, he thinks, as they're jolted by the Volkswagen rocking over yet another huge tree root—but it was… Well, it doesn't matter. He'll never see that farm again. He's about to ask another question when Allie turns, again, and the screen of oaks gives sudden way to—open air, a field. The sky opens up above them and Jensen leans forward, trying to see everything. They're on a dirt drive and there are—people, young, maybe his age or maybe Allie's, on the grounds on either side of the drive, working squared-off garden plots—tomatoes, in chickenwire cages. More that Jensen doesn't recognize as they roll past. A boy with red hair waves at the car and Allie waves back, grinning. "Good to be home," she says, to Jensen. Home, Jensen thinks, and chews his thumbnail, scanning the grounds. A medium-sized house, at the end of the lane, painted a faded yellow that needs redoing. On the west side of the house Allie pulls the Volkswagen up next to a purple Gremlin with messy handpainted yellow flowers on the rear hatch, a Cadillac with a rusted-out door and some kind of viney plant spilling out of the broken back window. "C'mon," Allie says, turning off the engine, so Jensen takes a deep breath and gets out of the car into the sunshine, holding his duffle up against his chest, looking around. No one's running up to bug them—the dozen people gardening are still gardening, down by the lane—and Allie flips her keys into her palm, comes around the hood of the car, touches his arm, soft. "Nothing be scared of, sweetie," she says, quiet even though it's just the two of them, and Jensen—believes her. He has to. He wouldn't have gotten into her car, otherwise.

[queranavaughne]

true sadist (a short story)

I wish to never roam these lands no more. I have no regard as to where else these harsh winds will take me, be it the heavenly touch of the clouds that loom over me, casting a shadow on these pitifully built "homes," or the fiery pits of lava gurgling beneath the piles of soot and dirt that I now stand on, hell, I'll even count the endless void of nothingness as an option. I'll take anything, anything but this.

It was bad enough that my men had to die in the battlefields, but the feeling of helplessness has only slowly seeped into my skin at the realization that I couldn't retrieve not a single body, an arm, a finger, and not even their ashes.

Why must this world be so cruel? Why must she be so cruel? I would've gladly offered my bone and veins on a silver platter to her, to have her play with them, tear them cell by cell, and have them in between her teeth. But no, chained in iron, I had to watch as she burned my men from the waist down, feed their torsos to her mutts, and have their heads be skewered with pitchforks, only to be dipped in hot acid the next day.

She committed all these gruesome acts and yet, she only watched me. As my men were enthusiastically tortured, she only watched me. She found entertainment in my wails, and squirms, and cries, but not in the men she ordered her things to "mess around with." And when I finally tore my voice box out of desperation, she laughed.

It was all my fault. It was my fault that I went home that night naked and alone, to see the people who once cheered me on months ago gaze at me now with fear and betrayal.

I never understood why I came back here in the first place. To find comfort perhaps? To seek reassurance? To share my disappointment to the rest of the townsfolk? That may be the answer. What a mistake it was, to think that coming here would solve anything. It was an even bigger mistake to think that coming to her would solve anything, that she would allow us to merely waltz in her den and hear us out, it was a mistake to think that she had even a mere fiber of humanity remaining in her being. It was foolish.

But what good is it to realize that now? Anna's gone, Ruben's gone, even Jack. They're all gone.

And yet, here I am, inside one of the inns, with a thick robe wrapped around my body and a warm meal sitting right in front of me.

It was treason.

They say it's not my fault, they say I never would've wanted this to happen, and at some point, they were right. At some point, there was anger boiling inside of me, determination flowing in my veins, and a burning desire to seek revenge for my fallen comrades, for the people that I lost, and for the children I couldn't save.

At some point, I longed for justice.

But now, I sat confused and bewildered as I recalled the events of that night. Recollections of my fellow men screaming, crying, and begging to be set free echoed in my head. Images of their severed head flashed before my eyes, and a vivid scene of the last bits of them disintegrating in a pail of acid.

I couldn't understand why it refuses to leave my head, why I couldn't shut it out, why it won't let me be. I covered my ears, but I could still hear it, I closed my eyes, and I still felt it. I just don't understand!

I just don't understand how I found myself laughing along with her that night.

rana

[bornfromthecosmos]

Been eons but fuck it! Aiden deserves a epilogue, I think its important for him to realize how traumatic his relationship was with Marmora, I was leaning into it towards the end before I abandoned everything all together but Mainverse! Aiden gets with Rosa and completely retires from piloting Green to becoming a engineering professor! I believe the last "episode" was when Aiden visited his two younger siblings- vowing to do better for them... he ends up mentoring Elitor as Blue decided to pick her! Aiden was apart of the Garrison for decades before retiring indefinitely after his third born... Rosa and Aid have twins of their own! They have sunday dinners with Merc and Lance- and Aiden finally views Merc as family!!! He's warmed up!! They bond over how fuck up Marmora was. What a creep.

To conclude Aiden finally rid himself of that dingy shack and found himself surrounded by the embrace of those that love him.

Now for my hardcore canon divergence au of BP! Aiden? He had a lot more twists! I was teasing/testing the idea of him being a clone of a dead version of himself or a druid experiment gone wrong... including a arc where it's revealed Akane was working with Haggar to triple cross Merla- (the daughter of Lotura!) who wants to eradicate all that sympathize with the Empire- I was only beginning to delve into Quintessence and it's colour properties AND Merla and Jeremy's son being the red paladin, needless to say a lot of plot of planned.

Aiden returning to Black and his team- more Aiden and Marx as co leaders or just bonding in general.

Yuki and Rosita are the precursor of Lumity- go back and read/watch their scenes.

I wanted to explore a possible anti hero arc for Jeremy... ouu omg I was excited for his arc in general- it was just beginning to heat up for his character and I was excited for how the shift of Allura griefing her dead child to the dead child being revived and slightly corrupted being groomed to kill her own birth mother.. being intrigued by a human group and falling for one of the pilots.. leading to James

Endgames that were teased but I might as well feed yall!! Jeremy/Aiden- they get together during a diplomatic mission that ended up being a set up- scenes of Aiden teaching him to cool his temper and giving him pointers on diplomacy and losing themselves in eachothers gazes... THEM! BEING! A! POWER COUPLE!" They're fighting back to back and cover eachothers's weaknesses while they were harmonious before.. this is after Aiden's crush wears off and they start naturally connecting.. Jeremy looked at him one day and said "fuck."

Yuki/Rosita.. or Aster??? I honestly think if they kept going there would've been a rift.. oh and Yuki would've sacrificed herself in a "Bury-Your-Gays" fashion! Period! Maybe Jeremy but after Aiden-Yuki passes and its more out of comfort now.. they thought they could love eachother as they did when they were kids.. before their dead lovers.

Ryou and Marxal deserve the cosmos!! Marx is a diplomatic symbol becoming extremely efficient with politics.. aside from that though he loves coming home seeing his trophy husband passed out in the dirt with their dog playing dead to be silly- I actually can see this couple being veryyy passionate compared to Yuki x Rosa(upon "rewatch" these two were a bit.. rushed and forced- we should've nurtured it a lot more.)Ryou is a social worker at the Galactic pit. He takes in experiments and every other child that's been harmed and makes it his duty they find their happiness like his teammates and husband did for him.

THE WHITE LION WAS GONNA GE MARX'S ARC. DONT ASK! I teased it for Rosa and Aiden interchangeably.. but honestly it could be a Jeremy and Marx moment.