#warning!! unedited

[sunshinechay]

Ming is still waiting for Joe. Ming is still waiting for Joe 2 years after his death disappearance. Ming finally realized too late that he loves Joe more than anything and is dedicated to waiting for him so he can make it up to him. It’s heartbreaking, not just from the perspective of the fact that Ming is the lover left behind but also the fact that he knows he is the cause of it. He knows he destroyed Joe’s life in his desperate attempt not to lose the only thing in his life that truly made him happy.

He still waits up for him, leaves the lights on, cooks dinner for him and waits to be able to greet him when he comes home. So many others have accepted that Joe is likely dead and if he isn’t, that he isn’t coming back but not Ming. Ming was excited at the smallest of sounds, at the idea that it might mean that Joe has returned to him.

He has gone from being unable to accept that Tong does not like him and is a bad influence on him, to being unable to accept that Joe is gone and is never coming back.

It makes the fact that he is about to repeat the cycle both interesting and completely heartbreaking. Ming wants to make it up to Joe but never got the chance. Ming has grown stagnant and unchanging because of it. He hasn’t learned to let go and will continue to cling to anything that reminds him of Joe. He will see Joe attempt to reclaim what little bits of his old life that he can (his friends, his co workers, his job) and start anew even if no one ever knows it’s him and Ming will force himself along for the ride.

And Joe will let him, because no matter what has happened between them, Joe still loves Ming. He still loves Ming more than anything else in the world. So he will let Ming repeat the cycle, even as he tries to resist because in the end, there is a large part of him that would rather be a stand in for who he used to be rather than lose Ming completely.

One day though, Ming is going to realize that this new Joe is actually his Joe. That his Joe has come home to him, albeit different than when he left. Ming will finally get the opportunity to welcome him home the way he wants too. He will finally have the opportunity to learn in a way he has been putting off and pushing back because if Joe is not around to see him change, is that change worth it?

Yes it is, but Ming is so focused on getting Joe back, on getting noticed by Joe. Everything he has done for the last two years has been in a effort to make Joe notice him again. To convince Joe in one way or another to come home.

Now Joe is home and it will be up to Ming to prove himself, to finally learn and to leave his toxic behaviour in the past. Hopefully he can do that before he loses this Joe forever.

[myreia]

Sketches of Times Lost

Day 16: Third-rate

lyse has quiet, but difficult, evening. lyse & fordola. lyse POV & character study. early endwalker spoilers. written for ffxivwrite2024. rated: general 1864 words. ao3 link

Since the liberation it has become her custom to walk the walls—and tonight she needs it more than ever.

Lyse tugs at the sleeves of her fleece sweater, thankful for the extra warmth. It was a gift from Cirina sent among the most recent shipment from their allies in Othard, knitted from thick wool and embroidered and dyed with traditional Mol decorations and colours. She appreciates the thoughtfulness. Gyr Abania may have a different climate from the Steppe, but mountains are chilly at night regardless of where they are.  

She slows to a halt and leans against the battlements, resting her folded arms against the roughhewn red stone. The city stretches out before her, calm and peaceful, its spires and towers a subdued reddish purple against a sea of stars. The windows glow warm with the light of candles and lanterns, the streets rumble with the sound of night duty officers preparing for the next day, and vendors have long since closed shop, leaving the market an empty shadow of itself. Some Alliance soldiers have, like her, taken to wandering the city, taking it in for once last time. The bulk of the Ilsabard Contingent takes flight tomorrow—of course many of them, regardless of which city-state they hail from—are sensing more than a little trepidation.

She wonders how many will get a good night’s sleep tonight.

Oh, Papalymo. If only you could see us now.  

“Didn’t expect to see you up here,” a voice drawls behind her.

Lyse pauses, her jaw clenched, her heart clenching painfully in that all too familiar way. A sickened ache that cannot be relieved. “What are you doing up here, Fordola?” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “I thought you would be…”

“Out of the way?” Fordola spits on the ground and comes to join her, leaning against the battlements with a catlike grace. She towers over her, tall like a true Highlander. “Wouldn’t you wish?” She snorts and stretches, raising her hands high above her, her neckline tugged with her movements, revealing the collar glinting at her throat. “I have to do something with my time outside of keeping Arenvald company.”

“Maybe you can go back to that,” Lyse says flatly. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“This? What’s this? Simple conversation?”

“Simple conversation with you.”

Fordola shrugs. “Get your own piece of wall, then, if my presence is so unbearable,” she retorts. “I was here first and there’s plenty of wall to go around.”

Anger twists deep in the pit of her stomach. Lyse opens her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue—and then movement catches her eye. Below, the Scions of the Seventh Dawn are gathering, preparing for the next stages. Perhaps it’s a briefing, or perhaps they are about to head to their airship. Either way, it’s important.

They are already dressed in the winter gear she knows was sourced and lovingly crafted for them by Tataru.

She presses a hand to her cheek. Her eyes are stinging and it’s not the wind’s fault.

It has been a year and a half since she resigned from the organization. Much has happened since then—war, politics, more war, a restoration effort she has yet to fully understand and constantly fears is about to slip out from under her. For her, time has gone slowly, every month, every week, every day passing by to the beat of a slow, constant drum. It has not been so for them. Timed raced forwards—literally so, and accounting for years in some cases, like Thancred’s. She knew what she was letting go of when she left, and she knew it was for the best.

And yet her decision still hurts. Still aches. She has what she wants now, so why can’t she be happy?

Her life has been spent waiting in the wings, looking into something that could never be hers. In Sharlayan, she looked up to her sister—smart, clever, beautiful, capable of going toe-to-toe with the nation’s best and brightest and earning her Archon’s marks fair and square. After, she still idolized Yda, to the point that she became her in order to make something of her life. She wasn’t an Archon, she wasn’t even clever enough to apply to the Studium. She was just a girl who was good at punching things, and Sharlayan doesn’t have much use for that.  

She was given a place with the Scions of the Seventh Dawn, but she never felt she earned it on her own merits. She could become her sister, or be compared to her sister. Lyse, on her own, was never good enough. Except with Papalymo.

And so she left. She chased her dream, as herself—an Ala Mhigo liberated, a Gyr Abania freed. And yet even now she feels uncertain of herself and the position she has claimed. Many doubt her, for her youth and her inexperience. Others compare to her to the likes of Aymeric and Hien, saying she lacks the political acumen to lead a restoration the way Ishgard and Doma have. Others still pass over her and look to Raubahn, the general, the warrior, the man who commands a presence she can only dream of. They listen to him. He may have escaped to Ul’dah, but he is Ala Mhigan in his heart and soul. He looks Ala Mhigan. His was a true homecoming.

Whereas she has her father’s name and not much else. Some say she has more Sharlayan in her than Ala Mhigo.

She is in too far now to return to the Scions, though she knows they would welcome her. She made her choice, she must commit to it. And yet she still feels the longing for company, that feeling of being among close friend that she so sorely misses. Who does she have? Raubahn? Arenvald? Fordola? Gods, no. At least Cirina writes her often, from half a world away. Alisaie, too, though her letters have become more and more infrequent of late.

Lyse exhales a long breath, staring dully down at the road below. Y’shtola, Urianger and G’raha conversing in a corner. Estinien shadowing Alphinaud and Alisaie as they walk the length of the street, arguing loudly, pausing only to speak with an Alliance officer here and there. Even Krile and Tataru are here, fussing over their friends. Thancred and Aureia are huddled down together a little ways away, his hand in hers, her head on his shoulder. They’re married now, it’s hard to believe, their lives taking a wild and unexpected turn while they were on the First.

Alisaie said the ceremony was beautiful. A small affair, organized quickly as they were concerned for Thancred’s failing health and soul. Perhaps they will have another one now they’ve returned to Eorzea, but there simply hasn’t been time.  

So strange. Lyse can’t quite wrap her head around it. Only a few months ago she was still under the impression that Aureia and Thancred hated each other. Which, she supposes, highlights the point: it’s not that the Scions haven’t given her any  

It’s not that the Scions haven’t given her any thought. Nor is it that they don’t care.

It’s simply that they have moved on to a place that no longer includes her.

She grips her sweater, twisting it into a fist over her heart. She knows it’s foolish, but it hurts seeing them gathered all together like this. Perhaps if it was just Aureia and Thancred, Urianger and Y’shtola, the twins… It’s ridiculous, but knowing how quickly G’raha was brought into their fold stings. It stings to know that his failed attempts to summon Aureia to the First were behind their vanishing souls some time ago. That his mistake pulled away those closest to Aureia by accident.

Lyse thought she was close to Aureia. Perhaps that was not so. She was furious with her at the time for reasons she cannot explain, but that does not mean she did not still think of her as a friend. It does not replace the years of friendship they had in the Waking Sands and the Rising Stones all those years ago, nor throughout their time in Othard.

Does it?

She wets her low lip. Even Estinien’s presence stings, though she has nothing against the dragoon. He has been swept into events whether he likes it or not; and she suspects that if he were to say no and leave, Krile and Tataru would simply track him down once more. Even so, he fits in a way she never did, his bond with Alphinaud plain to see.  

She’s missed so much. Some of it because of her own decisions, yes, but it hurts to witness firsthand how easily she has been replaced. No matter how hard she works, no matter how much she cares, her fate is always to be second or third-rate.  

“…should I leave you be?” Fordola says quietly.

Lyse blinks, tears blurring her vision. She wipes them away with the back of her hand, shivering as a wave of cold wind rushes over her. “I… don’t know,” she replies, trailing off awkwardly. She can’t allow herself to be emotional in front of Fordola of all people. To distract herself, she disentangles her hand from her sweater and smooths down the front. She shouldn’t pull the thread when she doesn’t know how to fix it. Cirina made it for her.

“Then please say something,” Fordola continues, blunter this time. “Shout at me. Curse at me. Punch a wall. You are far too quiet and it’s making my insides crawl.”

Lyse snorts quietly. Damn it. Fordola has no right to make her smile. “Good to know I have such a dreadful effect on you.”

“Lyse—”

She meets her gaze.

“You going with them?” Fordola’s eyes are dark and quiet.

“I will. At the head of the Contignent’s Ala Mhigan forces.”

“I meant with the Scions, not with bloody Ala Mhigo.”

She swallows the lump in her throat. “Then, no. I will be serving my country, not my friends.”

Silence. Wind howls in her ears, turning the tips raw and red. Perhaps she should write to Cirina and ask for a hat.

“A bit of advice—” Fordola begins.

“No, thank you.”

She sighs, irritation flickering across her face. “Look, you don’t have to like to me in order to listen to me,” she says firmly. “But I know something about looking for something in all the wrong places. Maybe you belonged to that group down there once, but you don’t anymore. Stop looking for what you want with people who barely acknowledge you, and look for it with those who do.”

Her stomach drops. She’s not sure what’s worse—that she knows it is true, or that Fordola was the one to say it. “I’m going to tell you this once,” Lyse hisses. “That’s the last time you’re going to give me advice, all right?”

Fordola shrugs in that irritating ambivalent way of hers. “If you say so.”

Lyse lets out an aggravated sigh. Pushing away from the wall, she grips Cirina’s sweater around herself and stalks down the stairs and out of sight.

[myulmang]

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[oatmealdaydreams]

Burning Timber, Grey Fog

Woo boy, it's day four already? Damn. Finally made a taglist! Just a general one for my fics. If ya want to be on it, pls ask.

Pairing: Logince, gen

Trigger/Content Warning: depression, overworking, insecurity

Description: Roman has a horrible creative block due to burnout, and Logan experiences brain fog unlike any other. They decide to take care of each other for a nice day of rest and self-care.

Extra: written for Day 4: Block by Burnout of @loginceweek2024! Inputting a little bit of ‘Logan struggles with depression’ because I say so. Also, making creative burnout literal for Creativity is a must (change my mind, you can’t). Got rushed, sorry folks!

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[read under the cut]

When Roman’s hand sparks, he realizes that it won’t be a productive day. 

When Logan wakes up in figurative fog and struggles with moving much, he knows it’ll be a day of grey. 

When Roman’s hand sparks, he realizes that it won’t be a productive day. 

He has so much to do. He has to reword a few things in this paragraph, finish the draft for another project, rework an entire section of this other one… He’s already late on a lot of these, and Thomas has commitments he agreed to. He can’t just not go because his Creativity is being slow and not doing its job. Roman needs to be creative, he needs to get these things done. He has to. He knows, everyone knows, he has to. 

His ink-stained hands ache and start to burn, but he just pushes on. The feathered pen he writes with is an extension of his arm by now, and it scribbles words onto the pages before him. The words themselves look blurry- he can’t tell if it says want or won’t- and the paper seems to blend in with his desk. He can’t quite remember which project he’s working on right now. Is it the short story? Is it the poetry collection, the one he needs to reframe a little? He’s not sure, but he still needs to write, write, write. What kind of Prince would he be if he let down his family and his centre? He can’t afford to let down the Others, to let down Thomas. He can’t stop. Even if his hands burn now, he can’t stop. 

His hands disagree with him, however, when one sparks and catches the paper on fire. It’s only a small flame, but it breaks Roman from his thoughts. He immediately pulls his hands away, dropping his pen. He tries to blow the fire out. He resorts to dumping some of his water on it- wait, when did he get water- which puts out the fire, but it also wets the thin paper. A corner of the paper is burnt and ashy. Roman sets his forgotten water cup down and stares at his ruined project. He put all that work, all that hard work, into finishing this project and now he has get new paper and rewrite everything, and- and- 

Roman hands spark again as spots of wet drip onto his desk. He realizes a minute late that he’s crying, eyes red-rimmed already. He inhales a shaky breath as he shrinks in his chair. He knows what this means, when his hands spark and he catches things on fire and ruins things. He sniffles as he holds his hands tucked against his chest, still staring at what he did. It hurts, very much so, to see all of the time and energy wasted because of his stupid, stupid hands. He curses under his breath, conceding to the fact that this means it won’t be a productive day for him. At least, not what he considers productive. He’s heard Janus’ lecture before: self-care is productive, it helps your health, you need to rest for a bit and listen to your body and blah, blah, blah. Guilt bubbles up in his gut and to his chest. His chest aches, his heart aches, at the thought of not getting work done.

Lazy, lazy, lazy, he can practically hear his thoughts. 

Roman can’t sit here, he knows. He’ll just try to work more and catch more things on fire, and ruin more things, and he can’t do that ‘cause it doesn’t help. 

Stupid, f*cking burnout. 

And he can’t think if he could still work on projects. His mind feels all jumbled and messy and it’s like… like… well, he can't even think of a simple metaphour. He sighs, sniffling again. He should go find someone. It’s better when he can be distracted with someone. He wants comfort, though he feels so icky to want. 

“It’s okay that I want things,” he mumbles to himself, a reminder the Others often tell him. 

So, before his thoughts can yell at him more, he forces himself out of his chair and out his door. 

~~~ 

When Logan wakes up in figurative fog and struggles with moving much, he knows it’ll be a day of grey. 

He can hardly open his eyes.  He feels icky and gross and sweaty as he lays in bed with sheets this way and that. It takes great effort to just look around and spot his clock. It reads 11pm. He sighs, realizing how late he slept in. Late for him, at least. Logan hears static in his ears, and his mind buzzes slowly and unsure. Every moment he makes to adjust his position or feel around for his glasses makes his body groan in protest like an old machine, unoiled and rusty. Everything feels so grey. It’s like… his brain feels soaked in figurative fog, and it takes a lot to move. It sucks, especially because he’d promised Janus yesterday they’d play chess today. He has work to do, a commitment he can’t just get out of, and he’s just being so lazy.

He tucks his arm back under him when he can’t find his glasses. Frustration shifts into upset and tears prick his eyes. He doesn’t understand why. It’s just his glasses, there’s no reason to be emotional. He whimpers pathetically as it gets worse. He’s going to fail like this. He can’t fail, he’s Logic. Logic can’t fail. That’s not how it works, he can’t fail, Logic can’t fail, he can’t- can’t-

A knock on his door gets left unanswered, no energy to even get out of bed. He tries to stifle a stupid whine, but it slips quietly through his throat. The person knocks again, and he hopes they go away. He hopes they won’t see and hear how lazy and pathetic he’s being. 

I need to get up. I need to work. I can’t be lazy, I can’t.

“...Lo?” a soft, familiar voice calls from beyond the door. 

If only he could think, he’d name the voice. 

“Logan, I'm coming in, okay?”

Logan shuts his eyes again, giving up on moving. He hears a distant concerned noise as someone walks over to his bedside. He feels the sheet ruffle and shift as the person sits beside him. They brush strands of greasy hair out of his face, and the warm hand makes him lean into the touch. The person coos at him, repeating the action. After a little bit, Logan’s eyes slowly crack open. It’s blurry, but he can make out red and gold and white. 

“Hey there, specs. Welcome to the waking world,” it’s Roman, his brain finally supplies, brushing his hair back. 

His voice is soft and gentle, and it makes Logan float a little. He hums at the nerd. 

“Can you move today, or is it a lot?” the Prince asks. 

As soon as the nerd groans, he has his answer. 

“Okay, sweetheart. How about a bath, hm? I bet that’d help get all the ickiness off.”

“Then I- I’d get up,” Logan slurs, whining. 

“Don’t worry, little nerd, I’ll help you. Okay?”

“Okay…”

Roman slowly scoops his struggling detective in his arms, easing him up a little against his pillows. 

“Alright, I’m going to sit you up all the way. Squeeze my hand if you need to stop, little nerd.”

Logan nods, and Roman takes one of his hands in his. He squeezes lightly and Logan responds, showing he can tell him to stop if need be. He gently helps the logical Side sit up, keeping an eye on him as he does so. As soon as he’s sat up, he places a light kiss on his icky hair, not caring how icky it may be because Logan is more important. 

“There we go. Good job, sweetheart. I’m proud of you,” Roman mumbles against his hair. 

“Mm, yeah?”

“Yeah. Now, do you think you can try standing up, or do you want me to carry you?”

Logan heistates, “...carry, please?”

“Of course, sweetheart. Lean on your headboard for me, alright?”

The detective does as bid as Roman separates himself from him. A whine slips from his lips as he pulls away, and the Prince shushes him as he hooks his arms under Logan’s knees and behind his back. Logan takes the opportunity to place his arms around Roman’s neck and lean on him. Or at least, attempt to move his arms the best he can. Roman slowly lifts him as his hands end up resting on his chest. Logan can’t find it in him to care. 

Eventually, they make it to the bathroom. The knight sets his nerd on the toilet as he starts the bath. He makes sure it’s warm enough, but not burning, before he turns back to his nerd. 

“Need help in, sweetheart?”

“No,” he speaks so softly.

“Okay, want me in here with you, or are you okay by yourself?”

“Mm, myself.”

“Alright. Just yell for me if you need anything. I’ll be right out the door, okay? I’ll put some soft clothes for you on the sink before I leave.”

Logan just nods as Roman places a pair of soft clothes on the sink next to him. He kisses Logan’s forehead before he leaves and shuts the door behind him. Logan takes a breath for a minute before he prepares for his bath. Roman sits against the door, almost as if to keep watch while his companion takes care of himself. 

~~~

After a while of helping Logan out the bath and down to the living room, he sets them both up on the couch. 

There’s two water glasses on the coffee table in front of them, along with selections of snacks and such to keep fed. Logan wears his unicorn onesie, fiddling with a small crow plushie with fabric glasses on it. Its eyes are orange. Roman sits beside him, now in soft things instead of his prince outfit, pulling up Netflix on the tv. There’s a space blanket wrapped around the nerd that huddles in. 

“Roman?” 

“Yeah, what is it, specs?”

“Why… what were you doing in front of my door earlier?”

Roman shifts in his spot.

“Well, it was late for you, and you weren’t up, so… I came to check on you.”

“...you noticed I was gone?”

Roman lightly scoffs, “Of course, I did. What kind of quest- oh, oh hey.”

He turns to see tears sluggishly fall down Logan’s face. He makes a concerned noise as he thumbs the tears away, cupping his face and sitting down the remote. Logan avoids his eyes, sniffling quietly. 

“Oh, sweetheart, what’s going on in that mind of yours?” Roman asks gently. 

“I, I just-”

To his horror, he cries harder. Roman scoops him up in his arms, into his lap, and rocks him. Logan buries himself under his chin, breathing shakily as he cries. When it sounds painful, Roman shushes him and rubs soothing circles on his back. 

“I just didn’t…” Logan speaks as his cries slowly calm down, gulping around the lodge in his throat. “I didn’t think anyone would notice. I- there’s a lot I need to do, and I can’t.”

“Oh, Logan… someone will always notice. Not just me. Patton would, and Virgil, and what do you think Janus and Remus would do? Hm?”

“Remus would break my door,” he grumbles.

Roman lightly chuckles, because he’s seen Remus break doors to get to others before, and he knows he does more than just that. He can’t count the number of times his brother smashed his door or plop in on top of him from the ceiling, all because he sensed Roman having a Bad Brain Day. 

“Yeah, he would. And Janus would start talking about how it’s okay to feel like that. Because it is, sweetheart. It’s okay if your brain isn’t cooperating, or if today’s a grey one.”

Logan nods smally against his chest, “I know. You know that too, right?”

Roman heistates, “Um, yeah, of course I do.”

Logan gives him a look as he turns up at him. 

“What?”

“You’re burntout, Roman.”

The Prince pauses at the bluntness, glancing away from the detective in his arms. 

“I saw your hands sparking and twitching earlier. Which is why,” he grabs one of Roman’s hands for emphasis. “I asked why you were outside my door.”

“I did notice, by the way. The Others would’ve gotten to spoil you, and I want a turn.”

Logan smiles slightly, “I know. But you know you also have to be spoiled.”

“But I have things to do, and I can’t just stop, and let people down-”

“Someone told me it’s okay if you need rest, Roman.”

Roman scoffs, “Using my own words against me.”

“Technically, they’re Janus’ words-”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Guess it’s a Bad Brain Day for both of us.”

���Then let me spoil you, too. I want to.”

Roman rests his chin on Logan’s head as his detective leans back against his chest. 

“Only if I can still spoil you, nerd.”

“We’ll spoil each other, then.”

Roman smiles at that, picking the remote up with his free hand. 

“So, what should we watch then?”

The pair do as promised and take care of each other for the rest of the day. Caring for Logan is the perfect distraction Roman needs, and it helps Logan feel all the more loved and appreciated. Logan reminds his prince that taking a break from creating is okay, and that he’s happy to spoil the sh*t out of him. They cuddle and watch movies for a long while before one of the Others starts making dinner, spotting the duo on the couch. 

Janus watches from the shadows, smiling as he sees them rest and relax for once in their workaholic lives.

Taglist: @lost-in-thought-20

[thesunshinecourts]

countdown to tsc: apr 6., 2024, 07:48 pdt

17. your bed after travelling // jean moreau thinks about belonging

They had an away game against UT Austin, which was more exhausting in flight time than as an actual form of competition.

It’s three hours to Austin from Los Angeles. (“Non-stop flight time is 2 hours, 55 minutes,” Sebastian says, pushing his sunglasses further up the bridge of his nose because he thinks it makes him look cool. It makes Jean want to spit on him. It makes Jean think about Kevin at age thirteen, when he dubiously tested out reading glasses at the recommendation of one of the doctors at Evermore. That kind of makes Jean want to spit on Sebastian more, but he restrains himself. Kevin Day at the beginning of teenagehood is not a crime that anyone should have to answer for, save the man himself and maybe Riko. He can’t, though. He’s dead.

It still thrills Jean, that thought, explicit and direct and true. It had been a fantasy for years, the kind he could never share, and certainly not with Kevin, who had loved Riko as desperately as he had come to fear him. It had been a wish, once or twice, entrusted only into Renee’s steady hands, the kind phrased not as a request, but as an expression of guilt given to the only person to whom he could lay himself bare. It is a fact, a gun pointed by Neil and a trigger squeezed by Ichirou and a new type of shackle on Jean, still heavy, but lacking teeth.

No, Jeremy Knox’s Sunshine Court has no such skin-torn, blood-soaked, jagged edges, except those which Jean brings with him. It’s almost harder to bear.)

Three hours to Austin from Los Angeles, meaning six hours round trip.

Jean is used to playing for that long on the Ravens’ court: a much more punishing endeavour than any training plan Rhemann and his cohort of coaches at USC could come up with. Playing the game against UT is laughably easy for Jean, at least when it comes to stamina and skill. Patience is a different matter, but while the Trojans are no Ravens, they are an exceptional team. When Jean makes his meagre attempts at forbearance, he thinks to himself that he is lucky to not have been a Fox. He would likely have lost his voice, given the arguing necessary to whip them into a vaguely-tolerable shape.

Kevin had always been better at that. Jean is not a natural teacher. He taught Kevin French out of loneliness, and he taught Neil to survive out of necessity. Kevin would always have been more suited to the walking catastrophe that called itself the PSU Foxes Exy team.

Belonging is always easier, Jean thinks, when one has a foothold. Personality aside—and truly, Jean has never met a person more stubborn than Kevin, which is less a compliment and more an expulsion of grief—Kevin would always have been better-suited to the Foxes than Jean, for Kevin had a man who would never turn him away simply because of who his mother was, even without knowing Kevin was his son.

Jean does not envy Kevin his father. Jean prefers not to think of fathers at all.

So no, the game is not especially taxing. The Trojans have a strong roster, and are less inclined to allow personal pique to have a say in which players get substituted, and when. (This isn’t to say that there is no personal pique to be found amongst the Trojans; whilst Jean’s experiences with them thus far have proven—if exasperatingly—that the Day Spirit Award has been rightfully awarded all these years, he’s also discovered that Alvarez has stroppy tendencies when she’s tired, and Jeremy’s occasional remarks about the Ravens are cavalier not out of ignorance, but a quiet disdain for their conduct.

So it’s not that the Trojans are all foolish Golden Retrievers rolling over to show their bellies to the world; it’s mostly that none of them are Riko, and nor are they Foxes. They can afford to offer grace as they move through the world. Jean is not sure he can.)

The flights are infinitely worse, because without an Exy racquet in his hand and the court beneath his feet, there is no escape from Jean’s own head.

The flight to Austin is better, of the two. It’s still not ideal, but Jeremy and Laila sit Jean firmly between them and essentially force him into conversation. It’s mostly grudging, and almost entirely about the upcoming match—there is not a single player at UT who Jean finds compelling, but one of their assistant coaches is a former player who once suggested something rude about Thea, who responded by checking him so hard when he next had the ball that he sprawled to the ground and slid three metres across the court.

Jean enjoys this story. He thinks Laila and Jeremy did too, from the way Laila’s eyes gleamed and how Jeremy’s voice had a laugh in it when he said, not exactly a strategy in our playbook, but I daresay it would have been satisfying to watch.

The flight back to Los Angeles is worse.

The ache from the game is settling into his body now, muscle and flesh and bone. It’s not enough to draw him out of his own head.

One of UT’s dealers had pitched herself right at him, driving herself into his hip. That level of force wouldn’t usually have knocked him over, but there’s an old ache there from Riko’s fingers and favourite toys. Mostly Jean stays standing, but sometimes he gives in.

When Jean had lived in Abby’s spare bedroom, there had been a revolving cast of visitors, though there was more frequency than variety. Renee had visited most, then Wymack. If Jean counts the times he shut his door and refused to let Kevin into his room and Kevin stayed in the kitchen asking Abby questions in a quiet voice that was never quite quiet enough, then Kevin probably takes third place. Otherwise, Jean thinks it would be Aaron.

This was less about Jean, and more about the lesson he could provide in Abby’s hands. Jean didn’t care. His whole life had been made of debt and pain and prodding. Cool fingers re-dressing his wounds—all steady hands and clinical efficiency and blunt responses—was almost a balm in the face of it.

Besides, there was something comforting in his lack of expectation. Jean has no idea what most people want from a doctor. He’s heard grumblings about bedside manner and seen some memes through the Twitter timeline Xavier and Alvarez inflicted upon him, but he found his greatest relief in the way Aaron inspected all his wounds without flinching.

Sometimes Kevin would come quietly into the room, and Aaron would roll his eyes at him, and then look to Jean, as if waiting. Jean did not mind so much if Kevin came in with someone else, like Renee or Aaron or Thea. (Well, he had minded very much the time he came in with Thea, but that was due more to the lack of warning. Thea herself had been someone Jean found himself missing.) He liked it more when Kevin came in with Aaron, which was less to do with their behaviour—Aaron was more likely to tell Kevin to shut up or fuck off, but Renee’s quiet presence was equally effective at keeping him in check—and more to do with the fact that Jean preferred to speak to Renee alone, because she was the person he could trust most in the world.

Once upon a time, that had been Kevin, but then Kevin left Evermore, and left Jean, and the first time Jean heard from him in months was when a terrified Kevin called him to beg Jean to tell him that the rumours were false, that Edgar Allan was not coming south.

The rumours had been true, and Jean Moreau has never been a liar, not even for Kevin.

Jean thinks about this as he thinks about the thudding ache at his hip, where Aaron’s fingers once re-dressed a wound, where Kevin had placed a cool compress years before, where Jean’s younger sister had once drawn a rose when they were five and seven, because a rose had been the only thing she had known how to draw.

He supposes it still might be. He wouldn’t know.

Jeremy shifts in the seat beside him, and Jean cracks open an eyelid to glare at him. He hadn’t even realised he’d shut his eyes, but no matter. He cracks open an eyelid, glaring, and finds Jeremy making a half-apologetic, half-beleaguered expression back at him. It’s an astounding combination, one he would have considered impossible prior to the Trojans, but sometimes Jean wonders if it’s less that Jeremy is particularly talented at facial expressiveness and more that no Raven ever had cause to teach Jean what apology looked like in the lines of a furrowed brow and downturned lips.

“Sorry,” Jeremy whispers, as if the facial expression wasn’t enough. “Were you napping?”

Jeremy has known Jean for several months now, so Jean feels as if this is a foolish question. He makes a derisive noise. Something flickers in his chest when Jeremy shakes his head, looking rueful and amused and sleepy-soft all at once.

Jean ignores it, obviously.

“Right, right, Mr No Naps,” Jeremy says. Jean has suffered many indignities since his arrival in Los Angeles, but being dubbed something that a six year old child would name an especially belligerent cat is a new low.

“We’re not that far now,” Jeremy says, glancing up at the flight map in interest. Jean looks over. He’s right. Twenty minutes or so. “Which means there’s no point in sleeping…” Jeremy continues, almost cajolingly. That gleam from Laila’s eyes earlier seems to have jumped to Jeremy’s as he looks at Jean.

Jean sighs, surrenders. He seems to be doing this a lot lately. Riko never managed to break down that last final inch, that holdout within Jean that refused to lose his accent or stop speaking French to Kevin or any of the tiny rebellions that Neil dismissed but Jean needed in order to have any pieces of himself left for Renee to save that day.

Riko tore every concession from Jean’s bare throat, but the Trojans seem just as adept as getting what they want out of Jean with teeth bared in smiles instead of snarls.

“You should have knocked over that backliner,” Jean says. “He’s a lunk. He would have taken seconds to get up. You could have scored in that time.”

Jeremy, because he is terrible, laughs. “You have such a way with words, Jean,” he says, but he sounds amused. Almost infectiously so. “I ought to be able to score without knocking anyone down,” Jeremy points out.

“Yes,” Jean agrees immediately, “but until that’s the case, you should drop them.”

There is probably something seriously wrong with Jeremy Knox, Jean thinks, watching him laugh. He seems as delighted as ever by Jean’s honesty. He won’t abide unfair barbed statements to his team, but he always seems game to field Jean’s criticisms himself.

It’s only right, Jean thinks. They’re Kevin’s favourite team, and they took Jean in when the backlash would be far greater than whatever meagre thanks they managed to get out of Kevin. Of course there’s something wrong with them.

They pass the rest of the flight in much the same manner, until the descent swoops a little steeper than expected and Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut and grips one hand over his arm rest and the other over Jean’s forearm. Laila wakes up during this, blinking sleepily at Jeremy, before saying, “Oh, babe, your cuticles look awful,” which makes Jean look incredulously at her and Jeremy laugh.

Sleepy chatter gets them through disembarking the plane, and baggage claim, and onto the bus, winding all the way back to campus, traffic egregious even at this hour. Alvarez tows an exhausted Laila by the elbows with an excruciatingly fond expression, Sebastian almost snaps his sunglasses underfoot when they slip off his nose before Derek says, “Dude,” while Emma throws up an arm to stop him in his tracks, and Jeremy half-stumbles into the door before he gets his key in the lock and opens up their room.

Tomorrow, at some point after breakfast and coffee prepared with entirely too much creamer by an overzealous Cox, Jean will marvel at that thought. At the ease with which it sprung to his mind: their room, meaning Jeremy’s and Jean’s, meaning Jean’s, meaning that which belongs.

In the morning, he will think about what it has meant to be Jean Moreau: his first home lost to him through a transaction, where he was an object and not a person, a thing to barter and not a boy with a bed and a family and his own mind; Evermore, his second place to exist, where his bed was so often a landscape of his own destruction; and that bed that he slept in when staying with Abby, crisp and clean and safe and entirely, undeniably unknown to him.

Kevin asked Jean once, when they were younger, to tell him about his home. Jean had looked at him and asked in the blankest possible tone, what home? A home is a space you’re meant to belong, Jean had meant, and there was no place like that for him. There was Riko and his chains, and everyone told Jean that was his place, but he would never call that home.

In the morning, Jean will think about this, and what it means to have a space that belongs to you – to be a boy who owns something for once, instead of just being owned –

In the morning, Jean will think about this, but for now, he kicks off his shoes, peels off his socks, and falls onto his bed, a place he trusts enough to sink into a dreamless sleep, long enough to start to soothe his tired bones.

[eccentrcks]

WIP Wednesday

I’m pretty sure someone tagged me before @sergeiravenov, but I count find them in my notifications. 😭 anyways, thank you so much for the tag and I’ll do three pieces of my girls.

Gone Through Time

Marlene can still smell the stench of death through her nightmares and hallucinations. A rather familiarized smell, but that was something she hated. Especially if it involved him. I’m sorry, Anthony… she wanted to hold him close to her and apologize profusely for being the cause of his death.

“It wasn’t your fault.” His hallucination form would try to console her. It didn’t do much, in fact, seeing him this way just made it worse. Covered and blood with a metal shard shoved into his sternum. His bashed head caused from the impact of falling just made her go through a bad spiral as her PTSD was triggered badly.

She gagged so much after sobbing hard while yanking on her own hair. Even thrown back about five decades in the last, his ghost still follows her.

Her moments of pure vulnerability mostly happened in private. Completely overwhelmed after holding all of this pain in after repressing all of that grief and all.

Dane was right. Her eyes showed more grief and pain more than her face, she needed to keep this under control so no one can detect her true identity at the CIA. She didn’t had her antidepressants on her, not that they’ll do any help, yet the man insists she gets it together.

“Don’t let Adler catch onto you. He’s already suspicious enough. Just say the word and I’ll get one of our own to deter him off your tail.” He insists.

Marlene shook her head in refusal. “I can handle that asshole by myself, just… just let me do this. I’m sorry, it’s just a panic attack. I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” She’s Mylene to them, not Marlene, they only see a typical linguist among them. Not the real her.

Dane bit his inside cheek and gave her a look when she said that. Something tells him that she’s telling that to herself instead of him.

The Collapses of Three Facades

Teresa felt numb when finding out that she was pregnant. She was already responsible for three lives who are so precious that were given to her by someone who genuinely trusted her. A part of her wasn’t sure who exactly the father is, but some part of her says she already knows.

Does it really matter at this point? They were nothing more than friends with benefits and both made sure that it was nothing more. Although Teresa was painfully aware that he wanted a big family of his own someday with someone whom he trusts and actually loves.

And she’s positive that it wasn’t her.

There was no room to get pregnant on this job. She was far from done and this revelation is nothing more than an obstacle. No one would approve of this, neither her mother, or them, and if they were to find out about her little escapees. He would be dead.

So no, Teresa knows this is way too risky for the two of them. Her soft brown eyes glanced at the box of morning after pills and gulped. Surely it won’t hurt that bad, won’t it? She can handle some bad cramps, but not the emotional impact of killing her own unborn baby.

Distortion and Clarity

Jane lost feeling to her fingers and continued scurrying away while cradling her left injured hand. Breathing heavily as she continuously looked over her shoulder.

Not sure if she can wear anymore rings after this.

Everything doesn’t feel right and it was suffocating her. She can feel herself twitching and almost hyperventilating. Everything was loud again. Michael wasn’t here to comfort her this time, no, she needs him, he always knew what to do compared to everyone else.

It wasn’t long before she slipped and fallen into a puddle of blood in the dark hallway…the texture was thick, that she almost gagged, and the clumps certainly didn’t helped her sensitive sensory, then she realizes there was more than just blood.

Jane was completely shaking when she lifted her bloodied hand to see hair tangled with her fingers and the sight was enough for her to actually vomit this time.

Tagging: @efingart, @revnah1406, @alypink, @adlerboi, @welldonekhushi, @walder-138, @alexxmason, @ravsbloodbunny, @starcrossedspirit, @rosebarry16, @kaitaiga, @sleepyconfusedpotato, and you 🫵 (the tag list is small because it won’t let be tag others for some reason-)

[smidgen-of-hotboy]

Out in the Cold Field, pt. i

Hello Travelers. Friends. It is an old song, a love song, and we're gonna sing it again. This part of the story takes place BEFORE what Zeph is currently writing. Long before. This is the story of Buddy, Vespa, and Jet.

@ananxiousgenz @urjover @one-joe-spoopy @demonic-panini @waters-and-the-wilde @ceaseless-watchers-special-girl @the-private-eye

“You are going to bed, and when you wake up tomorrow, you’re going to start being grateful for everything. You don’t know how good you got it, Kid, until it’s all gone. Until I’m gone.” 

Having recurring nightmares about her childhood was not what Buddy had planned for her future, but these are the cards she was dealt and had to play with. She let out a long groan and raised her hand to rub feeling back– and raised her hand– and raised her hand–

Something was wrong with her. Everything felt terribly heavy and sharp and not at all normal. She thinks back to the last thing that happened before she woke up:

Docked the Carte Blanche, disembarked, and headed into town. 

Talked with the locals, confirmed her location, and started her trek down the road to find the train tracks. 

She found the tracks but ran out of food. The wind picked up, whisking the scarf around her neck away with it. She could’ve turned back to chase after it but would’ve lost the tracks if she had. In every story she knew the train tracks only revealed themselves to those who were lost. And if you turned away or walked back, they vanished, and would not show again until it was your time. 

With no other choice, Buddy pressed forward. 

The wind picked up, the snow fell heavier, the cold nipped at her skin, and… then she fell. Stumbled more like it, less than graceful, disgrace to her mother (wherever she disappeared to). 

Her knee throbbed. Still is throbbing. But that isn’t it. What happened between then and now and why is she here? She should be dead. She should be… unless…

She isn’t dead. 

Against all odds, somehow, Buddy Aurinko is still alive. And she should be bursting with joy for this second chance. 

So why was she so damn angry. 

“It’s not fair.” Her voice rasps. She licks her lips and clears her throat. “It’s not– fair!” With every last ounce of energy Buddy has left, she pulls on her limbs. Slowly she brings herself up just enough off the cot she’s been laid out on to get a better view of the room. Her eyes jump from one wall to the next and fall on a lone figure huddled in the corner over a small fire. When was the last time she had seen a fire?

The figure’s shoulders rolled back. They stayed seated on a stool, hunched over a pot set on the fire. They turn just enough to look at her. Their face is covered by a thick scarf and goggles. 

"Oh good, you’re awake.” Their voice is low rumble sending chills down her spine. They turn back to the pot to stirs its contents. Buddy frowns, resuming her fight to get her arms to cooperate to pull herself up. A drop of sweat rolls down her temple. “I would not move if I were you. You were lying in the snow for a while.” 

She hisses through clenched teeth as a jolt of pain runs up and down her arms and legs. It doesn’t go away. “It’s frostbite. Because you were out in the cold for so long without proper cover, you developed frostbite. You have frostbite.” 

She grunts, falling back on the cot with a snarl. “Who the hell are you?” She snaps at the large figure. They set their spoon aside and turn around on the stool. They lift their goggles, revealing soft, kind eyes. Wrinkles creep in at the edges. 

“The Unnatural Disaster, but you may call me Jet.” 

Buddy snorts, “And I’m the fucking sun goddess, Aurora.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Aurora.”

Her frown deepens as she flops back on the cot. “Frostbite… how bad is it?” 

“Terrible. Your right hand was pinned under your body so maybe two of your fingers were affected the worst. And your left arm was stretched out so far, I would be surprised if after a few days you get to keep even one finger. I’m less sure about the damage to your face though. Only time will tell.” 

Buddy hums. The Unnatural Disaster– Jet– had no pulled a knife on her yet. He also had not chopped her into bits, yet. 

“Frostbite…” She tilts her head and can barely make out Jet’s figure past her mess of red curls. “Why did you save me?”

“Because you would have died. I cannot allow that.”

“I didn’t ask to be saved.” 

Jet hums pushing his goggles up into his hair. He crosses his arms while leaning back slightly. “Well, if you can get up and crawl out the front door, I will not stop you. I will not stop you nor will I save you a second time.” 

“You’re joking.” 

“I’m afraid, Aurora, I do not joke.” 

Buddy smirks. Jet seems honest enough. And its hard to tell from this angle but that might just be the hint of a smirk on his face too. 

“Where did you get the fire from? I thought there was no more fire on the Earth.”

“And you would be correct,” Jet nods down at the fire. “This is the last one. My partner stole it from Hades.”

“Partner?” And Hades? Jet knows a way down to Hades. Or at least his partner does. 

“Work partner. Associate. They–”

“They got fire, from Hades? How? No one who goes down there comes back. They haven’t shared any resources with Above in centuries. Not since Persephone died.”Jet frowns and gets up from his stool. He crosses the room to Buddy’s side in two strides. Slowly he brushes her hair back from her face. “Our work allows us to travel to Hades. And my Associate stole this fire from Hades. We are on the lam.” He bends closer and his voice drops to a whisper, “Now why do you care so much about making it to Hades? What happened to make you want to die?”

[sociallyrepressed]

western nights

“DR, singing Before He Cheats.”

Lando’s mouth drops open when he sees Daniel enter the stage area. He said he was going to grab another drink, and Lando had just waved him off, apparently naïve enough to believe him. A stupid mistake.

“Thank you Texas, for the warm welcome!” He was shouting into the mic and thanking the meager crowd like he was a superstar on a world tour rather than a loser in a small Texan bar. Lando was so hopelessly enamored with him. Until they made eye contact and he felt something unnerving in his gut when Dan gave him a mischievous grin. “I’d like to dedicate this performance to my beautiful boyfriend of three years. This one’s for you, buddy bear.” His words were accompanied by a point, turning the audience’s attention to him.

Lando groaned and dropped his head into his hands, ignoring some bewildered and dirty looks from his peers. Luckily, they’re distracted when the song kicks on through the ancient speakers, music loud and crunchy. That doesn’t stop Dan from taking a deep breath to then belt out the opening lyrics. His pitch’s horrible and Lando can’t stop the floaty fluttery feeling bubbling in his gut.

To his credit, Dan’s crowd work made up for his- in Lando’s opinion- subpar singing. He made sure to involve the people closest to him, all singing their hearts out. He slowly carved a path to Lando and their tabletop. There’s a stupid dopey-smiley tilt to his lips when he puts his heart and soul into the bridge. He firmly grips Lando’s shoulder and shakes him until his vision goes slightly blurry. When he blinks and clears his sight, Dan is already back into the stage. The song ends not long after and he’s met with thunderous applause. Apparently the tiny population of drunk Texans present in the dingy bar greatly enjoyed Lando’s boyfriend’s rendition of Carrie Underwood. If he butchered a beloved country song and still received this much praise, maybe he deserves to be a popstar- but he’d still be the most loser popstar ever. Dan bows multiple times to a plethora of wolf whistles before he makes his way back to Lando.

“You’re not as funny as you think you are.” Lando shoves his shoulder straight on into Dan’s solar plexus when he throws himself on top of Lando, loose from the booze and flushed from his performance. Dan lets out an overdramatic wheeze from deep in chest, but a laugh still splits his face, so he can’t be that winded.

“Don’t be so embarrassed, sweetcheeks,” he pinches Lando’s ass, which makes Lando flush, so now they’re both flushed, standing around the small tabletop looking like a set of proper dumbasses. “Where’s the great American spirit?”

“I’m British, that’s like. The complete opposite of American.” Dan just raises his eyebrows and shrugs in response, tossing back another hefty swig of disgusting American beer. Honestly, Lando will break up with him if he tries to kiss him before washing his mouth. Dan laughs when he says as much. Then immediately grabs his face and tries kissing him aggressively. Lando lets out the ugliest snort-laugh in the entire world and tries to wriggle out of his grip, but his boyfriend is so very determined. It’s not until they nearly take someone out with their minor wrestling does Dan let go.

“Ready to go, baby?” Lando doesn’t blush at the nickname. It’s been said a billion and one times, he’s used to it. “I saw a twenty-four hour Walmart nearby and I want one of those hotdogs they’ve always got roasting.”

Lando scrunches his nose, “that’s disgusting, mate.”

“It’s part of the American experience.”

“‘M pretty sure throwing your guts up is not part of the American experience.”

“It’s more likely than you think.” He winks at Lando and tips the brim of his comically large cowboy hat at him. They leave the bar to enter the hot Texan landscape. Lando groans, feeling his curls frizzing up instantly. He sideyes Dan when the man tips his hat at a couple of girls, who immediately hide high-pitched giggles behind their hands. The only thing stopping him from going over there and ripping their hair out is the fact he can tell they’re inebriated. Can’t be held responsible for their actions and whatnot. Fortunately, Lando is in the same boat, so he can’t be judged when he squeezes Dan’s hand and thinks about sucking possessive marks into his collarbone later. Something those girls can’t do.

“Aw, don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You so are. Don’t worry, you’re the only cowgirl ‘round these parts that can tame this pony.”

Lando retches, “I am not roleplaying Western cowboys with you, you freak.”

“Your freak,” Dan makes ridiculous kissy noises and plants a wet one smack dab on Lando’s cheek. He’s embarrassed to acknowledge the big cheesy smile he can feel spreading. The next kiss is on his lips, and he can taste the sour-bitter-stale of fermented grains from Dan’s beers. He pulls back from the kiss, opening his mouth to say “I’m breaking up with you”. Before he gets the chance, his boyfriend swoops back in with the sweetest, most tender kiss that Lando can’t refrain from melting into. Dan’s plan works because Lando forgets what he was about to say. The slick bastard.

[inkykeiji]

Have you thought about a Tomura-nii? 🥺

ooooh my god anon

tw: pseudocest (adopted siblings), coercion, taking advantage of a younger sibling’s naive and innocent nature, implied size difference (reader is smaller than tomura), female reader, virgin!tomura, masturbation, blood, noncon, overstimulation, blowjobs, use of the word daddy to describe adoptive father, honestly just really fucking nasty and genuinely disgusting, please be careful with this lil piece words: 792

i have!!! i just feel like he’d be really fucking gross, you know??? disgusting in the most heinous way, like flawless tomura but a hundred times worse. i feel like he’d totally be a shut-in, completely inexperienced because your adoptive father (afo) never lets either of you—his fully grown adult children—out of his or kurogiri’s watchful protection. but that doesn’t mean there aren’t times when they aren’t looking.

tomura-nii has never been touched, romantically or sexually, by anyone else, but he is an avid consumer of porn + hentai, so much so that it borders on addiction. and eventually, it just isn’t enough. it isn’t enough to spend hours locked away in his room, jerking his cock until it’s red and wrecked, skin chafed so bad its flaking and peeling and bleeding, thin little wounds that weep crimson staining the lines of his sweaty palm a watery pink. it isn’t enough to throw hundreds and hundreds of his father’s money at those online cam girls, making them do unspeakable acts and recording it all for him. it isn’t enough, he needs more, he needs real; something he can feel, something he can touch, something he can own and mark and sink his teeth into—flesh and blood and bone filling his hands and yielding beneath his fingers and quivering around his cock. 

he needs you. 

and sure, he’s sheltered, but you’re even more sheltered, not even allowed access to the internet without daddy’s heavy supervision—so when he sees you, his innocent, naive, totally fucking clueless little sister, he knows he can manipulate you into doing whatever the fuck he wants you to, because nii-san said so, and nii-san knows best, right? nii-san is older, wiser, the boss, and what he says goes, always. he’s basically second in command beneath your adoptive father; even kurogiri seems to bend and break to his every will and whim and wish. 

so who are you to say anything, to know any better, against your bigger, smarter, better brother? who are you to deny him, to say ew and no and gross and it’s wrong! when he slinks into your bedroom in the middle of the night, waking you with his ragged pants and the vigorous slap of his fist against his pelvis, and streaks that lacy little nightgown with thick strokes of glistening cream, quickly cooling as they seep into the dainty fabric, heavy and gelatinous against your skin?

who are you to refuse him, when he asks if he can see how pretty your pussy is, when he asks if he can play with it, unexperienced fingers grinding and pinching until your rubbed-raw clit is swollen and your trembling thighs are stained with copious amounts of your own slick and your eyes are lidded and glassy, vision downy at the edges and bleary with tears, because it (finally) feels so good, too good, that you’re fucking sobbing? 

who are you to reject him, when he says he wants to show you his cock, when he tells you to hold it in your soft little palms and pet it until it’s oozing something sticky and shimmering all over your skin, when he demands that your lick your hands clean, that you put the head in your mouth and suckle on it, that you glide the tip of your tongue, rounded and hard, over the slit as fast as you can—back and forth, back and forth, until he’s shoving the entire thing into your mouth and he’s stuffing your throat full of something thick and acrid? 

nii-san says that it’s okay, that this is normal and what good little sisters are supposed to do, that brothers and sisters who love each other so much do this all the time, and don’t you love him, too? don’t you want to show him just how much you love him? just how perfect and obedient you are? 

and nii-san would never lie to you, would never lead you astray, would never ever want to hurt you, so you should believe everything he says without question, right? right. 

and, christ, you’re so fucking good, so sweet and precious and daddy’s flawless, faultless little rule-abiding princess, adhering to every order and regulation given to you. but daddy doesn’t deserve you, or your good nature and kind heart and eager-to-please tendencies; not when tomura sees you more often, takes care of you better than daddy ever has or ever will, so shouldn’t you be his flawless, faultless little rule-abiding little princess, too? nii-san deserves your attention so much more than daddy does, don’t you think? you owe him this much, yeah? 

of course. of course you do.

[idkwhatimdoingbutslay]

CHAPTER 22 WORK IN PROGRESS

Imagine I actually just faded to black for the kiss scene LMAO would yall kill me

[i-was-bored-so-this-happened]

[liiacfleur]

An excerpt from the Loch Nora arc as a treat since people seemed excited! Just a reminder that this scene is just over a year in the future from where we are after chapter seven, so the dynamic is much different than currently.

Massive spoilers under the cut. I used a portion of the scene that doesn’t spoil insanely important plot points, but it still contains huge spoilers in regards to Steve and Kas’ relationship and dynamic. Readers be warned.

Content warning: blood, smut, and — I suppose technically unwilling — voyeurism. Oh and some good ol cross dressing too. Steve looks pretty in a dress what can I say.

Preface: they’re out on a balcony after stepping away during one of many parties they will attend at the dukes manor during the arc. This takes place after a confrontation that I don’t want to spoil that happens between Kas and Tommy.

***

With deft fingers, Kas’ touch wandered up the prince’s spine and below his veil, teasing along his neck, then to the side of his throat. Right over the mark of their blood oath, hidden below the fabric covering the delicate skin. Often Kas warred with whether he preferred it as their secret or if he wanted the world to see it. To see his claim, made from teeth and blood. Many times, Kas wished he could show others his own, scarred lovingly over his own jugular.

Entranced not for the first time, Kas brushed his fingers over Steve’s hidden scar once more. Then higher, where the fabric gave way to the sliver of skin between its hem and Steve’s jaw.

“Kas,” Steve gasped. The prince shivering as his fingers grazed the scars left behind from a battle in his youth. “What if someone sees us?”

Maybe they should, Kas thought with a note of bitterness. He’d never experienced jealousy whenever Steve visited brothels, but — when it came to that arrogant duke — he was green with envy. To think he’d dare to encroach on the man holding Kas very soul. He ought to be reminded of who Steve chose.

“No one will see us if you’re quiet,” Kas teased, his voice already thick with arousal. It blended oddly with the rage still simmering in his chest from their unpleasant encounter with that sniveling duke, but it also fueled him further. It made him want to hear the wanton moans he could draw forth from the prince's lips, knowing no other man could. “You can keep quiet, can’t you, my loving wife?”

At that, Steve looked over his shoulder to glare at Kas. He was sure that, behind the veil, Steve’s cheeks were flushed and his ears red. It would no doubt stand in contrast to the embarrassed frustration with which he spoke. “Quit it with the marriage jokes—”

“I think not.”

“—besides, you know the answer to that question, you bastard.”

Kas hummed, pleased as a barn cat that got the cream. He already knew well enough that Steve would make noise, none of which would be heard over the band playing inside the grand hall. But to eavesdroppers who dared to sully the prince with their stare…

Steve inhaled sharply when Kas’ fingers trailed to the buttons of the high collared dress. His touch brushed along the nape of the prince’s neck, teasing the skin between his hairline and the fabric. It was quickly replaced by his cold breath as he joined Steve under the veil, leaving a cool kiss behind the prince's ear which was hot to the touch. Then he undid the first button, then the second, all the way down to where the buttons gave way to the string of the corset, exposing the sun kissed skin of his neck and spine. With a smirk, Kas ducked down to nip and suck a mark on the back of his neck.

Immediately a gloved hand came up to Steve’s mouth as the prince tried to muffle the small noise that escaped him. “This isn’t what you asked — Kas.”

With a smirk, Kas pressed a quick kiss to the bruise. “You’re hard to resist. Should I leave a new scar?”

“I have enough scars on my neck. Looks like you’ve run out of room,” Steve replied, his own tone tilting towards teasing.

With a small huff of laughter, Kas spun Steve around, and, sure enough, the prince was smirking at him when their noses brushed. “Your thighs are quite unmarred.”

Steve chuckled as his cheeks flushed further. “You’re quite territorial when you’re jealous.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“What a redundant question.”

Kas rolled his eyes, even if Steve couldn’t see it. However, the prince clearly understood him well enough. Steve rolled his own eyes in reply before kissing the corner of Kas mouth, a hair's breadth closer to a proper kiss than the last time.

“You better bite me quick,” Steve said as he pulled away. “Someone will come looking for us soon.”

Another way to say that, if Kas let Robin find them in that position again, he would probably kill him.

Without the need for more prompting, Kas ducked down and sunk his teeth into Steve’s throat. Immediately he felt the prince grow lax against him as a moan spilled past his lips, already clinging to Kas and morphing against his body. It was more than a pleasant surprise to feel that the prince had already grown hard as well, and Kas hummed contently when he pressed them flush together.

“Kas,” Steve panted, grasping at his shoulders in desperation. “Kas — ah — slow down.”

With a heady groan, Kas pulled away to press a bloody kiss against the prince's jaw. Steve gasped when his tongue darted out to clean away the crimson a second later. “You were the one who told me to be quick—”

Suddenly, Steve was gripping his hair and pulling Kas away from his throat to stare at him — his eyes burning with lust. “Did I tell you to stop?”

“My apologies,” Kas whispered. When Steve’s gaze glinted with approval, Kas grinned before, with the speed of an arrow, his teeth sunk into the prince’s throat once more, flooding his mouth with the most exquisite of wines. He was immediately drunk from the sweet blood coating his tongue.

Steve swore under his breath, the words stretching into a low groan when Kas pressed his hand against the prince’s spine and dragged him closer, so close he could feel their erections brushing against one another between the layers of fabric and tulle. And, when he slid his leg between Steve’s thighs, he was rewarded with the feeling of the prince grinding against him, seeking release and babbling nonsense. Steve’s grip tightened in his hair, bordering the fine line between pleasure and pain, and Kas moaned softly against his throat.

Gently pulling his teeth from Steve’s flesh, Kas licked the blood spilling from the wound left behind. Steve whimpered, melting in his arms as Kas trailed his tongue along his jugular before he nipped at his jaw.

“More, Kas, I need more,” Steve begged breathlessly.

“I don’t want you to be lightheaded when we go back,” Kas protested.

With a low growl, Steve’s grip tightened again, pulling at Kas’ hair and making him gasp with a mixture of pain and heady lust. “More,” Steve ordered.

Before Kas could voice that Robin would likely drown him in the sea if Steve passed out from blood loss, he heard something. It was minuscule, barely a scuff, but enough for him to notice. So, with a wicked smirk, Kas bit Steve hard.

“Gods!” Steve cried out.

Another shuffle, this one with more urgency, but still hesitant. Then a single step forward. However, any further steps were halted a moment later.

The prince gasped as Kas’ hands migrated downward from the dip of his spine to hoist one of Steve’s legs around his waist, effectively hiking up the skirt of the dark dress. It pressed the prince’s cock against his thigh, only separated by thin breechers damp with his prerelease, and Steve let out a moan as sweet and rich as honey.

“Kas — Kas — I’m close,” Steve gasped.

Kas hummed, grinding Steve against him until the prince was spewing curses and moans like a blasphemous prayer. And, for a brief moment, Kas allowed the cold, dark mist concealing his face to dissipate. It blew away in the warm sea breeze, mingling past the veil concealing them from prying eyes. Then Kas glanced at the dark shadows of the balcony, where the outline of a man stood, watching them in disbelief.

The moment the Hagan’s eyes locked with Kas’, glowing like twin rubies past the veil, the duke paled, his skin ashen and grey.

Mine.

There was no need for words for the statement to be understood. The duke quickly turned and ran from the balcony just as Steve shouted Kas name as he came, leaving the devil stained with the prince’s blood and seed. A mark of his own that the duke would surely not soon forget.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

What did Susan choose for the grave stones?!?! (I'm totally calm and normal about this)

Lord Digory of the Apple - When he remembered the face of Aslan, he did hope.

Lady Polly, Ringbearer - No one is told any story but their own.

Eustace, Rescuer of a Prince - I'm the King's man; and if this parliament of owls is any sort of plot against the King, I'm having nothing to do with it.

Jill, Bold Companion - Our guide is Aslan.

High King Peter the Magnificent - For Narnia and for Aslan!

King Edmund the Just - Even a traitor may mend. I have known one who did.

Queen Lucy the Valiant - Courage, dear heart.

And her own-

Susan Pevensie, once Queen Susan the Gentle - You have been listening to fear, child.

[fangs-trait]

two girls were born to the same mother, on the same day and yet they’re not twins | mary...bell? miss hell!

miss hell was very proud of her teeth…. oh no, that's another story.

miss hell had an interesting "neighbor" - mary shared her consciousness with another person who assured her that they were two sisters, mary and belle. with the gain of powers her second personality celebrated that beautiful birth. the deliberate murder of the main personality gave her great vampire abilities and a lot of free time, which she spent correcting "sister's" mistakes. what else to do if the "newborn" hungry offspring needs shelter? what if more and more vampires are celebrating their ugly nature by eating people alive? she always had her own special methods which caleb once experienced on his own skin, becoming her magnum opus. "le mal c'est toi" her gentle emotionless voice haunts him in his sleep. he may be evil but the procreator of the evil is she herself.

ps: took some inspo from vtmb and malkavians.. just a little bit

credits: ai's miss hell was a big inspo <3

[oatmealdaydreams]

To Fluster a Prince

And on to the second day.

Pairing: Logince

Trigger/Content Warning: sexual implications, sexual flirting, fake lighters (squirt toy (squirts water))

Description: in the midst of a prank war, Logan surprises Roman with his antics. Roman can’t help but stare in awe of his partner.

Extra: written for Day 2: Revenge of @loginceweek2024! I took a stab at writing some qpp Logince. Aro Roman finding his partner hot, and aspec Logan getting smug because he knows how to fluster his prince. Unedited, will try to edit all of these after the event is over.

[Masterlist] | ao3 link

[read under the cut]

To be fair, he should've seen this coming when he included his partner in a prank war. 

The reason for the prank war is in fact, one hundred percent, Remus. No, it’s not because of Roman or anything, where’d you get that idea? It’s not like he smacked the wrong Side with a feather-and-glue-filled pillow that made feathers stick to their clothing and face. He didn’t accidentally hit Virgil of all people, aiming for his brother who’s been messing with him all week and he was so tired of it and wanted some good-natured revenge. 

No, that didn’t happen at all. It’s Remus’ fault he waited one second more and made the Prince thwack Virgil with feathers and glue. He even cackled as he saw it unfold, so of course it’s his fault. 

Yep, no one else’s, though that fiend may say otherwise if asked. 

Anyway. 

Now, Roman’s being teamed up on by both Virgil and Remus. Remus, because he loves messing with his brother all in the name of fun and comedy; Virgil, because of the glue and feathers all over his favourite hoodie, and now he’s forced to wear his old one that he hasn’t worn in a while. It’s not the black and grey one from before he was accepted. No, that one went ‘missing’ a long time again, and most likely remains buried forever in the deepest part of Virgil’s closet. The one he wears now is a spider-web-themed, stitched-lilac-patches, lighter hoodie. Patton made that one, with some help from Virgil himself, and gifted it as a way of saying he’s family. 

The point is that Virgil teamed with Remus to take revenge in a teams-style prank war. Patton and Janus are nowhere to be seen, trying to avoid getting caught in the mess. Knowing Janus, he’s watching in amusement from the shadows. Which means Roman is a single again a duo. Not fair, by the way. So, what does he do? He recruits the first Side he sees. 

Which is equally a good and horrible idea. 

In retrospect, perhaps having his very attractive partner on his team wasn’t his greatest idea. But also, it’s the best idea because Logan is so strategic and smart that it just works. But Roman’s also prone to Gay Fluster when it comes to his wonderful nerd, which brings him to his current issue as the two teams battle it out. 

Roman sneaks cautiously down the hall, creeping towards the stairs with a small squirt toy in hand. It’s a mini lighter-looking toy that squirts water when you press the button, disguised as the activation bit for the gas in real lighters. He glances around, seeing no Sides around. He hears a creak, but he dismisses it as himself walking and the floorboards under the carpet. He hears another creak-

-only to be hit in the face with slime, a cackling Remus popping out from the corner. 

“Ha! Get slimed, bro-bro,” he snickers as Roman stands there, stunned. 

He cringes for a moment, not pleased with slime all over his pretty face. He shakes himself out of his shock, smirking mischievously as he points his squirt at his brother. Remus sees it, and immediately runs down the stairs as he cackles. Roman chases after him, determined to get revenge on his fellow Creativity. 

“Come back here, gremlin! You’ll pay for all this slime,” he calls after Remus. 

After jetting it down the stairs, he stops in the living room. He can’t see Remus anywhere. He pauses, catching his breath for a moment. His eyes dart around, scanning for any movement. Trained for combat- he’s the Prince, the knight, after all- he holds his stance steady. Waiting for Remus to pop out again. For him to strike, to skitter past him, to take advantage of any pause. There’s a soft tap-tap-tapping of little feet. Roman turns around, but no gremlin rat. He hears the tapping again; this way, that way, making him turn in circles. It’s tense, silent. 

Where, oh where, is that slimy kraken?

Before Roman can react, the tapping gets louder, along with a skitter, and he finally looks up. His eyes widen as he yelps- he doesn’t shriek, he insists- seeing a spider Virgil on the ceiling. Virgil has his arachnid features out: his extra spider legs, his fangs, his extra eyes with the same heterochromatic green and purple like his normal pair of eyes have. With his arms, he holds his sh*t-eating grinning brother, who tries so hard to hold in his snickers that he trembles from the effort. Then, Remus bursts out cackling loudly as he throws another slime balloon towards the Prince. Roman doesn’t have time to dodge it.

Luckily, someone pulls him out of the way and into their arms before it hits. 

Remus makes an audio groan, followed by a muttered ‘party pooper’, as Virgil mutters a ‘dammit, L’. Roman looks to see who saved him, and sure enough, it’s Logan who smiles at him with the Prince in his arms. Roman blushes lightly because his nerd is warm and so close, and good god, when did Logan become so strong? Logan’s smile turns devious, a teasing glint bright in his eyes. 

Roman knows he’s in for it when Logan gets close enough to whisper directly in his ear.

“Are you alright, dear?” he speaks softly, his breath blowing lightly against Roman.

“Uh- yes, yes, I’m alright,” Roman becomes notably redder and stumbles on his words. 

Logan hums, giving them distance as they both stand up straight (ha). Roman almost mourns the loss of warmth and contact, but decides to look away from his partner to will his blush away. 

It doesn’t work. 

He keeps them at a hand’s distance. Not too far, close enough, but not close at all. Logan scans him with his eyes, up and down. The knight just flushes more as his partner looks at him with this certain look. It’s- listen, okay, Logan is hot and attractive and when he examines you with that look, it’d make you weak, too. 

“You seem a little distracted, dear. Are you sure you’re doing okay?” Logan’s voice dips lower. 

Roman cannot speak, Jesus f*cking Christ, that isn’t fair. He knows what he’s doing. That Microsoft Nerd isn’t as oblivious to feelings as he claims he is, and he knows what he’s doing when he talks like- like that. 

Damn nerd, and his damn voice and damn pretty voice. 

“Why so speechless, Roman?” Logan gets closer, but not enough to touch.

He’s so close, and Roman may implode in this very spot. Jesus. He’s being mean, doing all that. 

“Roman.” 

The sudden tone shift makes him look up directly into Logan’s eyes, and his blush travels down his neck to his chest. Oh, he knows that tone of voice. The commanding look in his partner’s eyes. Logan lightly presses his forefinger under the Prince’s chin. 

“You should know to answer questions, dear. I don’t need to make you behave, do I?”

Roman lets out a strangled noise, weak in his knees. They seem to forget about the other two in the room, considering Virgil and Remus are still there. 

Remus is red himself, very much not expecting such a flirtatious tone to come from Logan of all Sides. He feels conflicted- because oh Satan was that, just, hhhh- but that’s also his brother over there and ew. Virgil is very much blushing specks of purple and red, almost losing his grip on Remus because Logan is very distracting, thank you very much. His eyeshadow is a darker purple, shimmering under his many spider eyes. 

“Do- they realize we’re still here, right?” Remus mutters to the spiderling. 

“Uh, no, I don’t think so. No,” Virgil whispers back. 

Virgil accidentally loses his grip on the gremlin, and Remus falls to the ground with a shout and a thud. 

Logan and Roman immediately look over. Roman blushes harder, in embarrassment this time, as he realizes the Others have been here the entire time that took place. 

“Ah, right. Prank war,” Logan comments, blushing a light pink with his own embarrassment. 

“You know what, we can just pause the prank war for now,” Virgil says as he shifts back into his more human form. 

“I thought-”

“Nah, it’s fine. I can always get Roman back later.”

“If you insist, Virgil. Let us know when to continue at a later time.”

“Yeah, yup, will do.”

Virgil helps Remus up from the floor, though difficult because Remus flops as if to annoy the anxious Side. 

“I thought we’d stay because of-”

“Nope! 

Virgil takes Remus’ hand and sinks out quickly, taking him with him. 

“Huh. Well, I believe I asked you a question earlier, dear,” Logan’s voice shifts back into that f*cking tone, and Roman can’t look away when he does that. 

“Um, uh-”

And thus, a vengeful prank war ends as Roman flusters to no end. 

Maybe recruiting his flirtatious partner wasn’t the greatest idea, but oh is this a wonderful distraction.

[shoshiwrites]

September prompts — everything matters

She can't stop crying. It's ugly, she knows it, or at least she knows she's supposed to think so. Her cheeks are hot and her eyes are a hurting red, curls sticking to the back of her neck. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not any of it. The last three beers in her hand. The way she'd looked at him. Touched him. Forgotten. This nightmare, the way it hurts.

He holds her. He holds the cup of water from the bedside to her forehead, her jaw. She gets it down, or a few sips at least, the sweet metallic iodine on her tongue. 

She feels cut open, like something's been wrenched from her chest. If she had any voice she'd tell him to go. 

He doesn't stare. He doesn't tell her to quiet. He doesn't smooth her hair like a child or wipe her tears, or rub his hand across her back. He pulls her so tightly to him that she can't think outside of it, can't do anything but tuck her head beneath his chin. He smells like sweat, and smoke.

Her limbs turn solid again, in his arms.

What happens, she thinks. What happens if I love him?

She doesn't know who she's asking. God, herself, her parents, the dark. He pulls them back against the pillows, kisses her hairline.

The dark forest retreats. The daylight filters through the trees, turns them papery and gray.

The silence hums, in the new absence of her cries.

What happens when I love him?