#writing extract

[musingsbycaitlin]

Heads Up, Seven Up

Tagged by @dallonwrites thx bb

I haven’t written anything in ages so this is literally from an assignment i forced myself to start today, it doesn’t even have a name. It’s a little more than seven lines but oh well, the stopping point was weird otherwise.

Anyway:

I think my father’s upset with me.

I saw him in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth, the minty foam dripping down my chin. He scowled, though he almost always does, but there was a sort of pity behind his eyes. I splashed some water on my face, and he was gone, just as Jonas rounded the doorway. I buried my face into his chest for a split second until he held my head and said he needed to shower. That was my cue to leave. We slept until sunrise when I rolled over to face him, scared to open my eyes. Part of me hoped I was back home, that I hadn’t called Jonas crying, that I wouldn’t have to tell Noreen about it at lunch.

As I laid there in the dark stillness, eyes firmly clamped shut, listening to the harmonised breathing, flashes of my father swept my vision. Memories of him teaching me to ride a bike; images of him shaking his head when I came home late. When I opened my eyes, Jonas was still there, but behind him I saw my father, reading a book in the armchair, whistling to himself. I think he is upset with me.

Okay cool. Now for the tags. Of course no pressure to do this but I’d love to see anyone who does. @silassghost @annlillyjose @aesa and ofc anyone else who wants to xx

[airheadedbisexual]

the only thing I was able to write this past month was a 2000 word unfinished doc but it’s grown on me so here’s a lil extract::

‘‘You ready Cat?’ I whispered.

She nodded, her glow slowing to a stop near the trees roots. Her teeth glinting vividly in the sea of pink, backlit against the silver-pink of the Spirits phantom limbs. I smiled.

The air shuddered, seeming to take a breath. Quiet; no movement, no sound. Everything froze. The vines ballooned. Then--

Exhale.’

[the-writing-mechanic-official]

An extract from my writing today that I really liked. It came out of nowhere.

Context: POV character is about to go on a mission. The Searchers are essentially just the FBI.

Leo passed me over a shirt pin, half red, half yellow with “C.S.” written in clear capitals. The colors and letters of the Centre’s Searchers. This could- in theory- get me anywhere without much trouble.  I have a warrant.

[fromdarzaitoleeza]

Richard Siken, Crush/Lora Mathis, If There's A Way Out I'll Take It

[hirschkuh-traumvoll]

♡♡♡

alastor loves your tiny fists against his chest when you frown at him but can hardly hide a playful smile behind your pout. “you think i cannot defend myself?” you say, and he darkly chuckles as you hit him. alastor loves when you behave as if you're stronger than him, he finds it cute and… tempting. his large body towering over you doesn't scare you, your tiny fists keep on falling on him, not painfully yet, but you definitely grow heated. “oh, you're a naughty little thing, aren't you?” he tilts his head as his eyes flash bloody red, and you suddenly look up at him. a short squeal escapes your lips as he wraps his strong arms around your body, turning you around and pressing your back against his chest. he firmly holds you by your wrists as you wriggle in his grasp, rubbing yourself against him in a vain attempt to escape. but then he leans closer and whispers straight into your ear, immobilizing you with just the sound of his voice, "curious to know which of us is stronger, huh?" you know you have to do something but right away alastor throws your body over his shoulder and heads for his room. you try to oppose but the door of his bedroom is already slapped close.

consequences ♡→

[helloarska]

Spoilers for Fall of SGE ahead!

Rhian saw the students beneath him cry as the Stymphs flew away with the bags holding his dear brother’s ashes.

He smiled. Grief. What a funny feeling it was.

Ever since he was a child, he had never grieved. When his favorite toys broke, he threw tantrums. When his pets died, he was angry. He was always causing a scene—but never grieving. Back then, he thought his hysteria was just a show he put on to suppress the intense feelings he had, because he was Good. But now it was all clear—Rhian had never grieved because he’d never truly had a reason to.

All these students were crying because they loved the School Master. It didn’t matter which one—it didn’t matter who it was. Both brothers were good, and both had saved them from Vulcan, Pan, and many, many more dangers. They cried for their protectors lost, for their tragic fate, for the one they had grown used to. It was all because of love.

Even Nevers cried. Funny, Rhian thought. Rafal should’ve taught them the Evil Rules better.

Evil doesn’t love. At least, Pure Evil doesn’t.

Rhian smiled, turned around, and headed back inside the tower. He was getting used to this new evil status the Storian had given him.

[angrylittleghostinacup]

A venomous Whumpee tightly restrained by Whumper, squeezing out their venom to use or sell by putting pressure on their teeth/fangs.

By angrylittleghostinacup

[somerabbitholes]

Index Cards — Moyra Davey

[musingsbycaitlin]

writing extract under the cut, please enjoy ;)

taglist (comment to be added): @aesa, @annlillyjose

The dust scratches my skin and I drag my nails along my arms until the itching relieves. I breathe heavily as I walk, trying to break more of my corset’s boning. I didn’t feel the heat as much inside the saloon, but now I’m trekking over the rocks I can feel my eyes getting dry and my throat sore. The sun’s rays ripple and flicker in the cloudless sky, like a flame licking the vast blue.

I can still smell the tobacco and grease from the bandits, my clothes reeking of spilt whiskey and gunpowder. I hope Jonah doesn’t smell it straight away, though I hope he gets close enough that he might. Bells ring in the town square – a metallic twang that shakes the houses and shifts up dust. The people bustling around look like cockroaches from this high up, but I can still make out my mother and Sylvie, only now just leaving the saloon, still huddled together, and moving minutes slower than the rest. I stretch my fingers out until it looks like I am poking them, and I try and squeeze them lovingly. They simply move past where my fingers hang and make their way into our home. I’ve almost reached the edge of the rocks; I’ve almost reached Jonah.

He's climbing off his horse when I crest the last rock. Clay under foot, I almost slip when he looks at me. A slight smirk crosses his face, buried under a bushy beard, only really visible in the lines cracking from his eyes. He has two others with him: Jeb and Otis, my father’s apprentices. The three of them wipe their hands on their trousers and pass round a tin of mints, no doubt a gift from Great Mama.

“How did it go?” I cough up the words; some silent, some too loud.

“Sweet and simple,” Jonah answers. He studies my attire. “Somethin’ I should know about?”

My cheeks flush a raspberry pink, my chest heaves, and the boning audibly cracks. I shift my eyes back to the village, squinting to see if the bandits are still visible riding off in a cloud of sand. They are not. But I suppose the rocks are back and so, then, is our bubble.

[ignitesthestxrs]

there's something about the way people talk about john gaius (incl the way the author writes him) that is like. so absent of any connection to te ao māori that it's really discomforting. like even in posts that acknowledge him as not being white, they still talk about him like a white, american leftist guy in a way that makes it clear people just AREN'T perceiving him as a māori man from aotearoa.

and it's just really serves to hammer home how powerful and pervasive whiteness and american hegemony is. because TLT is probably the single most Kiwi series in years to explode on the global stage, and all the things i find fraught about it as a pākehā woman reading a series by a pākehā author are illegible to a greater fandom of americans discoursing about whether or not memes are a valid way of portraying queer love.

idk the part of my brain that lights up every time i see a capital Z printed somewhere because of the New Zealand Mentioned??? instinct will always be proud of these books and muir. but i find myself caught in this midpoint of excitement and validation over my culture finding a place on the global stage, frustration at how kiwi humour and means of conveying emotion is misinterpreted or declared facile by an international audience, frustrated also by how that international audience runs the characters in this book through a filter of american whiteness before it bothers to interpret them, and ESPECIALLY frustrated by how muir has done a pretty middling job of portraying te ao māori and the māoriness of her characters, but tht conversation doesn't circulate in the same way* because a big part of the audience doesn't even realise the conversation is there to be had.

which is not to say that muir has done a huge glaring racism that non-kiwis haven't noticed or anything, but rather that there are very definitely things that she has done well, things that she has done poorly, things that she didn't think about in the first book that she has tacked on or expanded upon in the later books, that are all worthy of discussion and critique that can't happen when the popular posts that float past my dash are about how this indigenous man is 'guy who won't shut up about having gone to oxford'

*to be clear here, i'm not saying these conversations have never happened, just that in terms of like, ambient posts that float round my very dykey dash, the discussions and meta that circulate on this the lesbian social media, are overwhelmingly stripped of any connection to aotearoa in general, let alone te ao māori in specific. and because of the nature of american internet hegemony this just,,,isn't noticed, because how does a fish know it's in the ocean u know? i have seen discussions along these lines come up, and it's there if i specifically go looking for it, but it's not present in the bulk of tlt content that has its own circulatory life and i jut find that grim and a part of why the fandom is difficult to engage with.

[comfortless]

Deep Water

nix! König x fem! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. no.. intentional harm done to reader but there are sporadic mentions of murder (drowning), König is kind of a creep here do you guys forgive me (say yes), implied sex; dubcon everything. König is wearing a fishing net rather than the usual hood because. it made sense to me sorry.

notes: yet again, i have found that i can not manage to write anything except for silly fantasy nonsense… bear with me this will pass (it will not). if you’re uncertain of what a nix is, i recommend skimming over this (or tl;dr— a shapeshifting water spirit).

You’ve always been told to beware of the river, especially on nights like this. When the singing starts up you were to run, as far and as fast as your feet could carry you. It would be the most beautiful sound you had ever heard, as well as the last. Whatever beast lies in wait along the silt of the riverbed luring people in with its haunting song isn’t kind. The drowned bodies resurfacing bloated and paled are enough for the townsfolk to assume that assuredly, a monster lies in wait someplace within the glassy water.

For all of the fear, town myths were just that— myths.

As always, there’s no singing when you seat yourself on smooth, mossy stones by the river’s bank. The moon hangs low, casting its brilliant reflection on calm, dark water. The air is alive with the buzzing of cicadas clinging to the trees at your back and night birds calling out to the wind. Nothing is amiss; it’s only peaceful, and that’s why despite the warnings, you often find yourself here when the temperature is favorable.

There are nights when the river isn’t calm, and currents are the most reliable reasoning for the deaths from past summers. The water is full of large rocks with sharp corners, teeming with plants that could so easily snare an ankle, and when the water is frothing and cruel it’s no surprise that one could be thrashed to unconsciousness if they weren’t careful.

You didn’t come here to take your chances on swimming, anyhow.

If anything, it’s a mere reprieve from the bustle of the town. No one wanders here any more since the myths gained traction, passed from mouth to listening ears time and time again, leaving this place entirely untouched. Occasionally the obnoxious teenager would cross your path on the walk here, declaring loudly to their friends about how they supposedly saw some slimy beast, eyes like moonbeams and scales like razors lying on the bank.

During your little adventures here, you often carry a snack with you, but not for yourself. Tonight, it’s just a small package of vanilla flavored cookies. In truth, they were awful— dry and near flavorless, but you suspect your friend here wouldn’t mind too terribly much, and if it got them out of your pantry without wasting it was a win for the both of you.

When the large dorsal fin crests over the water mere meters from the bank, you gratuitously crush the treats in a closed fist and toss the crumbs into the water. Time and time again, you’ve fed the large animal, watching as it thrashes about just below the surface before disappearing back into its depths. You’ve never gotten a good look at it, either, but you imagine it must stretch out past your height or further; some sort of gar or sturgeon.

Just as many times before, it glides further in, fin entirely out of sight now. The only evidence of it ever appearing at all were the small waves rippling in its wake. All is quieted once more as you embrace the placid bliss, readying your small flashlight and losing yourself into the book perched in your lap.

The next night, you’re greeted by a large snake basking over the rock you typically sat upon. It lies still, coiled into itself as it regards you, forked tongue flicking out for several moments before it simply slithers off, hiding itself away beneath the moss and stone.

“Best to leave you alone, huh?,” you ask to it’s retreating tail, feeling a bit silly for speaking to the reptile at all. It doesn’t respond, of course, nor does it bother to come out of hiding either.

You opt to seat yourself on the hill overlooking the water instead.

You find that after a day occupied by tedious tasks, there truly was no greater place to abandon your woes than here. Everything was peaceful; wild yet simplistic. Even with all of the death that seemed to haunt this place, you never feared the thought of ghosts. You’ve even entertained your imagination a time or two, that if you ever did meet one, you would only ask it not to disturb the wildlife you have grown so fond.

There’s a freedom and a mystery to places like this, places without the foot traffic of other people. It brings with it a sense of whimsy, especially when you glance towards the water and see the surface reflecting every twinkling star above.

The fish doesn’t appear, even as you listen to the water in wait, your head tilted as you lie back on soft grass to watch for ripples, for the swell of a large fin moving beneath. Nothing. You read your book as the night progresses, nearly completing it entirely before you make your way back home.

Weeks pass by like this— work, river, home and repeat. Occasionally it’s the same large snake that greets you when you wander there, more often it’s the large fish circling about waiting for crumbs of whatever treat you choose to bring. The bank and the small hill overlooking it have become a separate home to you, one where you can be away with the fairies, talking to your animal friends that never seem to stick around for long.

When the weather grows warmer, you even dare to take a swim.

You’re stood on the slick stones of the bank, wearing nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of underwear. It’s not proper swimming attire, but you reason that you’re not at the beach, not a soul is around, and it doesn’t really matter at all that you might look a bit silly. The prospect of swimming along that behemoth below is a tad terrifying, but you wouldn’t dare to wander too far in. Maybe the fish would even be intelligent enough to not attempt to eat you after you’ve been so kind to it.

It’s hot, and with a sticky layer of sweat glossing your skin, your worries seem minuscule in light of an easy way of cooling off. You toe at the calm water for a moment, testing its temperature before willing yourself to take a step forward, then another before you seat yourself in the vibrant expanse of darkened blue. Here, you realize, is the best place to stargaze, too; they shimmer all around you, within reach as you tap at the surface of water, watching it undulate beneath the pressure of your fingertips.

You could reach the moon, too, if you swam further out. A few meters from the bank and you would be directly beneath its reflection, bathed in that ethereal glow.

You watch for your friend for a time, trying to prioritize your wariness over your whimsy. When the fish doesn’t tread by you, the water remaining calm, you rise to your feet and take slow, metered steps as the water parts and flows against your shins.

Though the river is disturbed no matter how gently you stride forward, nothing slides out from its depths in pursuit of you. Nothing happens at all when you reach out to splay your hand out against the reflection, the water now gently lapping against your stomach rather than your legs.

You hadn’t expected any sort of shift in your reality, that would be ridiculous, but perhaps some sort of clarity; a further calm for a weary mind. It doesn’t come, and with a disheartened splash you wade your way back towards the shore.

This has been your sanctuary for some time. Excusing the snake, there’s not been any sort of threat to you, not here. A safe water world all your own. Though, that peace is shattered the moment that you make it to the bank and hear the water shift some small distance behind you. Turning your head, you’re met with the sight of a man, the bulky muscular silhouette towering in the patch of moonlight you had just stood in. Bright blue eyes catch the light, reflecting like an animal’s as you scramble back to where you’ve left your shorts.

He stands there, silent and unmoving like an obelisk even as you hastily dress yourself with a thundering heart and breaths that sound more or less like gasps, senses heightened by your panic as you turn tail to run.

No one had been there. You were sure of it when you sunk into the water. There was no sound when this person had swam over to take your place. He was just there, as if he had been the entire time and you somehow failed to notice.

You make your way into the woods framing this place, hurried steps and untied shoelaces. You don’t even bother with your flashlight.

Finding your way back home with aches in every muscle, the desperate rampage you had taken to get away finally coming to a close when the door slams shut behind you, you quickly shower and mull over what’s just happened. A ghost, perhaps. It had to of been. Any other person would have made noise in their approach, especially being that big. The mind could play its tricks; what you had seen was likely not even there at all— a terrifying figment of your imagination. That sets you at ease, somewhat, but not enough.

You don’t sleep well that night, tucked beneath your blanket and staring at the filtered moonlight through your curtains. Work isn’t on your mind at all come morning until your phone chimes with a notification from your manager, questioning your tardiness. A languid crawl out of bed follows, another shower, an unsatisfying breakfast, all before you opt to send a text back to let him know you won’t be in today.

It could be excused, you’re reliable and decent enough at the job; not one to boast, but far more eager to please than the rest of your coworkers. You would be entirely useless if you went in on no sleep, you reason.

You don’t want to go back there, not under the veil of night, but you find yourself horribly curious the longer that you bide your time indoors. You had to know if the thing that you saw was really there, had to calm your nerves. What if he had always been watching each time, and you simply hadn’t noticed? The forest bordering the river is terribly dark at night, anyone could crouch behind the shield of a tree and remain undetected until they willed the courage to drag you in, cup a palm over your mouth to silence your cries.

Maybe it was the monster the people in town rumored about.

The thought of some strange, silent thing living beneath the water waiting for an opportune moment to take you by the neck and drag you down to the silty floor to watch you drown horrified you. Yet, that’s the one conclusion that sticks. Those eyes… so lurid and haunting, no human being had eyes like that.

You inhale sharply, steeling your nerves as reach for a pocket knife for defense, toss it into the bag slung over your shoulder, and storm out the door.

The trek there is nothing short of dull.

No matter where you look, what shadows rise up beneath the dim glow of a falling sun, there’s nothing out in the woods. The river is equally tame. The water babbles over rock, cicadas buzz off in the distance, and not a thing seems amiss. Your search for footprints that don’t belong to the soles of your shoes turns up empty. The only thing that suggests just maybe it wasn’t all in your head is the book you had neglected to retrieve in your fear the night before.

The cover, every page within, now warped as though it had been pulled into the water and spit out to dry. You pick it up, peeling through damp pages, running your fingertips over the smeared ink. It’s possible that a particularly aggressive splash could have sullied it, but something tells you that that isn’t the case. Either way, it’s unreadable now. You sulk a bit as you slip the ruined thing into your bag and step towards the smooth stones to watch the water instead.

Night creeps in slowly with you there, and you’re on high alert for a time before you begin to relax as usual. Even giggle to yourself at how silly it was you believed you saw a ghost at all as you entertain yourself by skipping small stones across the water.

No large snake, no massive fish, no titan of a man appears before you, only a calming crescent moon and a few wandering wood ducks, gliding down from the bank to splash about. A thought comes to mind as the calm emboldens you: what would happen if you got in just one more time?

There’s nothing to suggest that you’re playing with fire as you leave your shoes neatly in the dry sand. If the ducks could swim unbothered by fish or men, then surely you could, too. You watch the little creatures a distance away as they dip their heads beneath the surface and chitter away amongst themselves while you take your first step in.

You don’t dare to go as far this time, stopping when the water brushes over your knees. You wait there while time seems to slow to a crawl, expecting the absolute worst, glancing further down the river, dipping your hand below the glassy surface until your fingertips brush the sand beneath.

It’s horribly hot and you’re still exhausted from the sleepless night before. The water feels nice, and you feel as though you have some sort of claim to it as you’ve been here more often than anyone else would dare to. Ghosts and monsters be damned, you seat yourself and let the water lap over your shoulders, tilting your head back to watch the stars.

When the singing begins it takes a moment to register just what it is that you’re hearing. It’s not beautiful, not like the myths have said. It’s hissed, a low whisper, a mockery of what a human song would sound like. The voice is rasped, lilted yet cold. The realization that it sings words from your book of poetry is what terrifies you the most, the warped pages all making sense now.

Your eyes dart to either side of you, forward, before realizing the voice is coming from behind you. Cold spreads through your veins as you try to force yourself to stand, but in your fear you find yourself petrified, rooted in water that would surely become your grave.

You can’t bring yourself to turn around, to inevitably find your eyes locked onto the shadowy frame of a man far too large, his eyes glistening and pale like the moon hanging above.

The voice pauses when it finds you unmoving, and you can hear the rustle of the creature shifting its weight where it’s stood on the rocks lining the bank. You’ve no clue how deep the river gets, where the opposite side leads, but your only chance of escape seems to be swimming through in the hopes that this thing doesn’t choose to chase after you. A part of you knows that he would, that that is exactly what he expects you to do, goading you to flee deeper with his eerie song so that he can drown you just as he did the others.

You do the opposite as you squeeze your eyes shut and crawl back towards the bank, making sure to keep some distance despite your willful blindness. You wouldn’t look at it, wouldn’t talk to it, you would just go home and never come back.

“Best to leave you alone, hm?”

You still as your fingers brush against wet moss, the voice no longer a whisper but loud, loud as it echoes your words from days past just above you. Beating back your own curiosity proves futile, because you look up at the damned thing then, expecting to see an impossible terror before you, sharp fangs wet with blood and appendages too spindly reaching out for you. Instead, you see only a man.

He’s crouched, only a meter or so away, and you immediately recognize his broad figure. The same as the night before. From this distance you can make out the finer details, the length of net covering his face and neck, the webbing between each finger. Still a scary sight, but only in the way it’s unfamiliar and imposing rather than instilling any sort of primordial fear.

“Excuse me?” You pull yourself fully out of the water, rising to your feet and taking a tentative step back. You’re prepared to run, a coil pulled too tight on the verge of snapping.

The man, creature, whatever he may be just tilts his head, lets the silence hang in the air for a moment before he has the audacity to laugh whether to himself or at the strange, bewildered expression on your face.

His stare is assessing as he sucks in a breath, follows suit in rising to his full height. From the size of him alone, you know you’re not getting away. A mere stride for him would be two or more for you, a deliberate tug of your wrist from him could snap it in an instant.

Yet, he doesn’t reach for you, only gestures toward your bag lying on the ground with a subtle flick of a finger. You give him a quizzical glance in turn, not bothering to retrieve it. You could come back during the day with a friend, gather it and never return. Only, your knife sits somewhere inside, the only protection that you’ve got. The realization spurs you to bend over and toss the strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll… I’ll be going now.”

The stare remains fixed upon you as you take another step back, blinking slowly every now and then as you both remain in some strange stasis.

It takes you a moment to put the pieces together. The reciting of words from the book, the mimicking of the words spoken to the snake, the hint at your bag… he’s expecting something and it’s not to steal away your life, only to be fed and have your company. It’s not charming, it’s awfully strange and eerie, but you find yourself giggling at the prospect of taming some murderous, shapeshifting monster with subpar treats and poetry.

You pull open the bag, searching for anything you may have brought along that he could eat, eventually prying out a small package and offering it out to him.

“Is this what you want?,” you ask, voice hushed and trembling.

He shakes his head, rustling the net cloaking him in the process. So, he understands, he’s just been willfully ignoring every other thing you’ve said prior. You store the package away with a perturbed expression crossing over your face.

“Then what?”

Any relief you had felt seems to dwindle when the giant takes a half-step closer. His skin is cool and wet as the river as he brushes his hand over your forearm, curling a set of fingers around it. The touch is gentle, but there’s a promise of violence lurking somewhere in the depths of his eyes.

“Come with me,” he urges in that harsh whisper from before, delicately squeezing as he pulls you towards him, leading you back to the river with a tight grip and a step back over the stones. Though his touch is passive, there’s a frightening strength lurking someplace beneath his flesh, tacked to bone, and as your gaze trails lower to rest to rest at your feet, the space between you two, the evidence of a life prone to violence and strength is laid bare before you.

You don’t fight the hold as he leads you to water so deep it caresses the base of your neck, right below the milky glow of a waning moon. Deeper still, as you’re pulled below, pressed down to the very bottom with his body lain over you. You can only hold your breath so long before an involuntary gasp leaves you, and a wave is funneled straight into your lungs.

Panic is fleeting, but the adrenaline stays ever-present. You claw, push, kick, to no avail. Pinned down by a hand weighing like an anchor you feel your vision flooding and hazy as his head knocks against your jaw, mouth sealing tightly over yours. It’s not a gentle kiss, the net fashioned into a hood digs into your skin, teeth scrape over your lip until you feel the sting of blood drawn.

All at once, your vision darkens and it’s over.

You find yourself lying back on the shore as the morning sun warms your face, causes your dampened shirt to cling to your skin. Disoriented, but alive, brushing your thumb over your lower lip as you sit up to stare at the subtle waves lapping over moss and rock.

Just a dream, you tell yourself, knowing full well you hadn’t fallen asleep.

Just a dream, even though you avoid the river entirely now. Your route home from work changes too, avoiding even a glimpse of the path that leads down to that place. You don’t even replace the book, you toss what remains of it after fishing through your bag, murmuring something about it surely being cursed and entertain yourself with film at night instead.

Sleep remains tentative, you wake with every sound, and your dreaming is filled with visions of a figure pushing you down into deep water, his weight bearing down upon you so heavily that you can not move until you wake with a start, eyes searching your bedroom.

Several weeks, and the fear does eventually fade.

The morning that the rain begins to fall, you realize you haven’t even thought about the river in days. There’s no monster prowling your nightmares anymore. You lived through what may or may not have occurred, and that was the end of it, simple as it may have been.

A late shift at work has you wandering out into the rain, umbrella in hand. You’re grateful that you live close, that you’re not entirely soaked to the bone when you step inside of the mundane building. Your coworkers notice your change in demeanor immediately, chirping about how glad they are that you’re finally feeling better, looking more yourself as the hours pass you by. It brings a smile to your face, a real one that you haven’t had in place since that last night.

Even in the summer, there’s a chill to the air in the late afternoon as you hurry home from work and make your way inside, stripping out of your wet clothes and setting your umbrella aside. It’s darker outside than it should be, even more so indoors. Reaching for the switch to turn on the lights proves useless— the power’s out.

You light your way with your phone, ignoring the way your pulse quickens and your heart flutters with the fear that something just doesn’t feel right. Your skin prickles with the thought of some unseen pair of eyes watching you, blue and cold. You only relax when you slam your bedroom door shut, locking it and pressing your forehead to the wood as you sigh. The puff of breath that escapes your lips is not the only in the room, you find out when the light of your phone illuminated your bed. Crouched beside it, a towering figure with a face veiled by fishing net. Words don’t come when you open your mouth to speak, and your heart stutters in your chest as you stand shaking but otherwise petrified.

“You didn’t come back.”

Of course you hadn’t.

Most people wouldn’t have.

“No. I’ve been… busy,” you choke out the excuse, hoping to pacify whatever emotion you imagine lurked beneath his tone, undetectable through the hiss of his voice. “I’ll visit soon, promise,” you lie, back pressed against the door as your fingers curl over the knob.

Your fear seems almost unwarranted. He doesn’t move toward you, only stands to wander back to the window where he must have broken in.

“Tonight?,” he asks in a voice so soft, the voice he must use as a lure because tugs at your heartstrings immediately, makes you want to follow despite the threat this thing poses merely by existing, despite everything.

“It’s cold— I’ll get sick,” you murmur. “How did you even find me..?”

“I will keep you warm.” The question goes unanswered.

You find yourself stifled again as he lumbers towards you, brushing cold fingers across the side of your face. It’s not a mockery of a kiss you receive next but a firm bite where your neck meets shoulder, not yet hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make you shiver, to grip at the wall of muscle that makes up his chest.

There’s a desperation to his movements as he herds you towards the window, pushes you toward the path leading back to the river. You’re soaked to the bone in seconds, hardly able to keep your eyes open past the weight of dampened eyelashes. The rain is so heavy it feels as though every step is like the first you took into cursed water, your feet sinking into the mud along the path with each tentative stride. The realization that you’re there doesn’t even hit you until you’re chest-deep in the chill, violent waves pushing against you, each carrying the threat of toppling you over entirely.

The palm splayed out against your bare back keeps you upright, leading you to a smooth rock jutting out in the midst of what seems a sea of frothing white and blue. The sea above is just as dark, angry clouds roaring as you’re pressed down onto your back, shivering terribly.

He keeps his promise though, a tight grip on each thigh as he pries your legs apart, sinks in between them and blankets you from the rain. Even with the cold pressed to your back, you feel the warmth of a summer sun above you, scorching from inside, just as blazing as the look in his wild eyes. The last of any resolve slips when you’re pulled beneath the violent waves, a tangle of limbs and desperate kisses coaxing oxygen into your lungs. Each roll and pull no less tumultuous than the waves overhead. A placid end when the rain comes to an impromptu halt, just as he stills over you. Hands rush to cup your face with one final, desperate and biting kiss.

When the morning sun pulls you from sleep, cool moss against your back and the weight of his head resting over your middle, the shallow water lapping lazily at your figure, you find that you no longer fear drowning.

[easyaesthetics]

If you like Canon-divergence, angst & eventual recovery, read the epilogue here!

(Thank you @purrpurrazzi00 for the fic art)

[gingermintpepper]

“Pallas Athena,” he greets softly. There is no affection in his voice, barely any intonation save for stiff, long-practiced neutrality. He continues wringing the water from his hair like she’s not intruding upon the sanctity of his purification ritual, “Have you already had your fill of victory?” 

His calmness is… off-putting. Unnatural. Like the stillness of the sky before a horrible storm. She’s grown accustomed to his icy silences, the dark looks thrown when their father isn’t watching, the barely restrained disgust when he’s forced to hear her speak of her tactics and methods for obtaining unquestioned victory. She knows Apollo isn’t weak-stomached - of all their kin, he is perhaps the most practiced in death - but he is not a warrior. He finds no glory in death-bringing, no meaning in the intricacy of war-work. For him, it is a job, a task that must be completed for the continued equilibrium of the mortal world. It means he can still be hurt by war’s savagery. And he had been hurt. Repeatedly. She had personally seen to it. No matter how good he was at his work, Phoebus Apollo was still an emotional creature. Not weak-stomached perhaps, but still soft. Tender. 

“I’ve something important to discuss.” 

He’s languid when he unpins the remaining length of his hair. It falls in heavy, swirling waves, rich gold which threatens to drag upon the ground if he hadn’t deftly grabbed the ends and tied them round his thigh. “I know you have little concept of ceremony but this is a bit ridiculous don’t you think?”

His dark hand reaches for one of the vases of oil stacked neatly on a little jut of rock that acts as a ledge. Athena intercepts him, standing a little taller to convey her graveness. “It’s very important. I only need a moment of your time.” 

She expects him to sigh, to cross his arms petulantly over his thin chest and complain that the war is over and so is her access to him every hour of every day. She expects to have to remind him that the battle isn’t finished ‘til the Acheans have vacated Trojan soil, to coax him from the little solitary cave of mourning he’s obviously built himself so he can see his job to its total completion. 

Instead, she gets another look. Calm. Dark. Horrible.

Apollo does not sigh, but it is a very near thing. “A moment and nothing more.” 

“The Acheans will begin their preparations to return soon,” she takes hold of the vase and carefully passes it to him. It smells saccharine, like rosewater or something similar. Like perfume to hide the stench of death. “I need your word that you will not hinder them on their journeys.” 

Their fingers brush as Apollo accepts her offering. It’s always odd the way his warmth radiates past all logical barriers. Athena can feel the chill of the water alongside the heat of his fingertips. Somehow, it is the cold that lingers despite all his warmth. “I do not make impossible promises, Athena. I want Neoptolemus,” he says. She stops as though struck. “The rest will have my blessing if they but ask.” 

“Phoebus— “

His eyes are like congealed blood when he looks at her, dark and tar-like upon an altar’s surface. “I want Neoptolemus. And I will have him.” 

How similar his tone has become to Father’s in these long years acting as his mouthpiece! Though his words are soft, the finality in his voice brooks no argument. How easy it is for her heart to soar at the prospect of a fight. Her warrior’s mien shutters all her feelings away like she’d never taken her helmet off. Her clawed finger pokes harshly into his chest, he’s marble hard under her touch. “You already had Achilles. You’ve no right to his son.” 

She regrets the words the moment they leave her lips. A stupid mistake; a feint when she should have dodged altogether. 

Apollo’s face goes slack and still. Serene, one would say, if they were a fool who had never before seen the shape of his wrath. He stands to his full height, broad shouldered, the flickering ends of his hair the only signifier of his displeasure, “Who said a thing about Achilles?” She huffs but does not answer, unsure of where his anger lies if not at the foot of Pelides. “Polites. Eurypylus. Priam. Helenus’ jailor. Andromache’s conqueror. If it weren’t Odysseus’ lot, Neoptolemus would have thrown Scamandrius from the tops of the balcony himself. What other reasons do I need?”

[clonerightsagenda]

I am not going to say TLT is about fossil fuels because it's about a lot of things and it's reductive to boil it down to anything, but a society fueled by necromancy/death magic/corpses is reminiscent of our society fueled by and built with petrochemicals (oil, natural gas, plastic), and given that within the necromancy framework the role of the cavalier is to be metaphorically, literally, and/or spiritually consumed, it's interesting that the first cavalier was the planet Earth. This new world is still based on devouring the planet.

Does this make Paul a metaphor for nuclear fusion I'm joking but I suppose the question Alecto must resolve is whether we can escape needing to consume to survive.* And maybe we can't - stop trying to make your carnivorous pets vegan - but can we find a method of consumption that's less destructive?

(Some people may see Paul as that answer but I am a Hater who isn't into ego death.)

[gayness-and-mayhem]

Father Mulcahy being a spin the bottle champion is something that's so important to me actually.