#⧽ sharp as a sliver of the moon ∖ inspiration .

[codfanficedits]

Talk to me.

Pairing: John Price x fem!Reader

Summary: A short fic of how I would imagine John Price cope when his partner miscarried.

Wordcount: 2143| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Grieving, angst with comfort, miscommunication, MISCARRIAGE

A/N: Loosely inspired on my own miscarriage. (although I wasn't that far along and it was a surprise pregnancy, I still mourn what could've been and writing helps me cope even though it has been a few years :)) So if you have feedback, please be kind.

I didn't proofread and English isn't my native tongue, so please let me know if there are mistakes.

The floorboard creaks under his weight. His footsteps echoing through the hallway, and no matter how quiet John tries to be, you hear him. How could you not? You’ve been counting the passing minutes on your alarm clock the moment you went to lie in your bed. Not a minute of sleep as you watched the stars through the slightly open window, enjoying the soft breeze rolling in.

You can feel his eyes taking in your stiff form, and all the warmth that your bedroom once held is escaping from that same open window. The floorboard creaks softly again as he makes his way to the bed, the sound bounces off the walls, slowly escaping in to the night.

John doesn’t say a word when he lays down next to you, his back facing you, and he lays as far away as he can be. You want to talk to him, tell him you love him, tell him you miss him, beg him to please talk to you. With a soft sigh you turn around, facing his back and you want to reach out, caress the warm skin with your fingertips, but you don’t dare to. Instead your eyes take in every little detail of the skin that is illuminated in the soft light of the moon.

A lump forms in your throat, and you swallow it. “John?” Your soft whisper fills up the night.

John remains silent, a low growl rumbling from within as he tries to resist the urge to lash out at you for talking. The gentle rustling of the sheets and his light, consistent breathing signals to you that John is awake, but he won’t budge and acknowledge you.

The tense atmosphere in the room is suffocating, forcing a sharp breath out of you, as you contemplate reaching out, despite knowing that John had grown to hate your touch.

He had been like this ever since he came home from a mission, finding out that you had miscarried. You had wanted him to be there for you, and you wanted to be there for him, but instead he shut you out.

Refusing to talk to you, to even look at you. You bring the covers up to your chest, you back exposed under that same soft moonlight. “I love you.” It is a soft whisper again, almost as if you don’t dare to say such words to him.

His body tenses up, a deep inhale hissing through his clenched teeth as he fights with his own conflicted thoughts. His silence weighs heavily on the air, like an ominous cloud looming over you, his face and body hidden from you as he tries to resist giving you even a little sliver of comfort. Your soft whisper into the silence of the room stirs John’s heart in the depths of his soul, his body wanting to relax but his mind telling him not to.

You had expected this reaction from him, you got it every time you tried, but that didn’t mean it would hurt any less. You press your eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears, you had learned to cry silently, not a sob, not a single sound would come out of you, just your hot tears. So you rolled over again, your back facing his so you could let your tears roll freely.

Hours drags by as you both lie in the darkness, your tears cascading down your face while John remains turned away from you. His mind is locked in a struggle, the memory of your sweet smile and sparkling eyes haunting him. His body yearns to reach out to you, wrap his arms around you, and finally pull you close, but his mind won’t let him.

If you listen close enough you can almost hear John’s tortured heart, fighting his own self-created demons within, the pain in his soul tearing him apart.                                                                                                                                                                   

You watch until the clock reaches 5AM, and you can’t stand to be in bed any longer. As you get out of bed the silken covers slide off your body as you put your robe on, you hair sways with your movement as you walk out of the bedroom, the floorboard creaking under your weight. Your breath hitches in your throat when you have to walk past the unfinished nursery, a reminder of what you have lost.

John watches you as your bare feet slip against the wooden floors as you make your way outside of the room. John’s body is tight, his muscles trembling as he hears your footsteps leave the room, his body urging him to rush after you and force you to come back to bed with him.

But his mind keeps him rooted to the bed, his brain frozen in the memories of your miscarriage as the guilt tears him apart. His eyes are glazed over and wide open, the sight of you in the unfinished nursery burning a painful memory into his mind.

Your fingers caress the unfinished crib, your fingertips gliding across the wood. As you look through the room the little clothes break your heart, your hand automatically goes to your stomach, as you miss the little kicks you once felt.

You lean forward to press a kiss on the little teddy bear John had won for you on the fair, right after the two of you found out about the pregnancy. The memories, the pain, it all becomes too much and you know you have to leave the nursery before you can’t hold back the sobs any longer. Your footsteps are the only sound in the house as you walks down the stairs, leaving an air of sadness behind.

John forces himself to his feet, his body tense with grief and rage as he hears you make your way back downstairs, the moonlight slipping through the blinds, casting an eerie glow over the bed.

He steps towards the nursery too, and a millions thoughts flow across his mind as he hears your footsteps disappear back downstairs, his heart wanting to follow your and beg for forgiveness but his mind is telling him to stay put.

His fingers tighten into fists as he fights against every fibre of his body to stay hidden in the darkness. His eyes are wide and wild as he looks into the nursery, the memories of your miscarriage play on a loop in his head.

You’re seated at the dining table, a mug of warm tea in front of you, another mug across from you. You had always made John a mug of tea too, you had done if before the pregnancy, during it, and you hadn’t stopped after. John hadn’t drank your tea in a while now, just like he hadn’t spoken to you. You can hear his get on his feet upstairs, and in response you just blow on the hot tea, before you bring the mug to your lips and take a sip. Your eyes wander to the window, and you take in the beauty of the world, even when that same world is being cruel to you.

John walks by and he sees you sitting at the dining table, the moonlight spilling into the window, revealing the pain in your eyes. His heart tightens with guilt as he sees you, his body shaking with every emotion that runs through his.

He takes a seat across from you, his muscles tense and tight as he stares at the mug of tea in front of him, breathing out with frustration and grief in every sigh. His face is twisted in frustration, anger, guilt and pain but he remains silent. He can’t bring himself to look at you, unable to look into those sad eyes he once adored.

You know he has taken a seat across from her, but you can’t bear to look at him too. No matter how desperate you want to reach out again, you can’t anymore, your heart being broken enough already. The grip on your mug of tea tightened as you took another small sip, your eyes staying on the backyard, the flowers you planted earlier this your are blooming.

One of your hands lets go off the mug, and while you still can’t look at him, you place your open hand on the table, the palm facing upwards, an invite to take it.

John stares at your outstretched hand on the table, his own hand trembling violently as a part of him desperately wants to take it. The memories of you together wash over him, his mind drifting back to the joy and love you felt together, the future that was denied to you by a twist of fate. The feelings of guilt, anger and regret rush through his veins as every fibre of his body yearns to take you hand an make everything better. But his mind is holding him back, the pain of the miscarriage overwhelming every other thought within his tortured soul.

You take the hint, and you pull back your hand again, gripping your mug tightly. You don’t know how much longer you can take this, how much longer you can stay in a marriage like this, but the thought of divorce scares you, besides, who in their right mind leaves while you are both grieving?

But you’re only human, and you crave someone to hold you and console you.

John takes a deep breath, willing himself not to give in. He wants to hold your hand, hug you and console you like he once used to.

The cold war between the two of you has been going on for far too long and John’s mind can’t take the emotional damage anymore. He can’t bear to see the emptiness in your eyes,, or the sadness in your voice, and he can’t stand not touching you ever again. He takes a moment to prepare himself before leaning forward to take your hand.

Your breath hitched in your throat as he takes your hand and it caused you to freeze. You don’t know what to do, if you should caress the back of his hand with her thumb, or if you should kiss him, talk to him. You’re scared, scared that you’ll ruin this little moment, so all you can allow yourself to do is to look at your hands and have the tiniest smile on your face.

John’s hand trembles as he firmly grasps yours, your skin feels warm and gentle. Despite his efforts, the floodgates of his emotions break loose, tears streaming down his face. He can’t help but lean forward, to pull you off you chair and into his body, holding you in a tight embrace as he finally snaps. He cries into your shoulder, his whole body shaking in grief and regret. The weeks of trauma and pain all come out at once in a deep sob – a cry for help and for you, a cry for love and for comfort.

Your heart feels heavy as he finally snaps, and all you can do is hold him. Hold him in a way he hadn’t allowed you to hold him for weeks. He is crying into your robe, but that is the least of your concerns, you’re just grateful to have your husband in your arms again, to see him release the emotions he has been building up for so long. So you just continue to hold him, your hand on the back of his neck, gently cradling him.

John buries his face into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you as he sobs into your chest, his whole body is tense, the weeks of  trauma and agony slowly seeping from his soul.

He’s finally able to find comfort, the touch of your skin soothing his pain and the warmth of your embrace calming the storm inside his soul.

He could stay like this forever, the feeling of your body against his a reminder of the love and tenderness he once felt for you. You break through the wall around his heart and shatter the barricade that had kept you away for so long.

You’re hesitant, not wanting to push him way, but you need him just as much as he needs you. You press your lips against his hair, taking in his scent once more. Your arms tightening around him, as you hold him close to your heart.

John sighs heavily, the warmth of your touch and the sound of your heartbeat filling him with joy as he clings to you. His grips tightens around you, his heart filled with love and gratitude as the feelings of pain and anguish slowly fade away, replaced by the joy and tenderness he once felt with you.

He breathes in deep, the smell of you filling his nose and flooding his mind with wonderful memories of your time together, the love that once defined the two of you.

“Talk to me.”

[violettduchess]

Welcome back, Violett!! 💖 For the ikepri halloween costume challenge, may I request Chevalier + devil + spooky? 🤗 Hope you have a lovely week! 🥰

A/N: Here you are @skiagrafia! I really enjoyed this! I was inspired by a short story by Tumblr legend Neil Gaiman called "Other People." You can read it here

Chevalier x Reader

WC: 900

The wooden bench in the church is rough to the touch. The end of it is splintered and there are scratches in the wood of the pew in front of you. A shudder runs through your body as you wonder how they got there. They’re too small to be from any wild animal. Certainly too shallow to be a bear or anything like that.

In the distance, you hear a lone cry, a faint howl that momentarily chases away the silence of the church like a broom violently scattering cobwebs. But outside the windows there is only gray, a gloom that seems to have wrapped itself around the small building in the middle of the woods. It's latched onto the peeling paint and loose nails and clings, territorial.

You nervously pull at a hangnail on your index finger, pull until it comes right off, taking a sliver of skin with it. You frown as you stare at the angry red stripe on your finger. That should hurt. It doesn’t.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance back at the church's double doors. They are as scratched as the pews and look somehow heavier than they should. The iron hinges are shaped like tridents, their points wickedly sharp for something decorative. Uncomfortable, you turn away again, smoothing down the folds of your white skirt.

You know you’re meant to wait. But for what….?

You can’t quite remember. It’s that elusive scratching at your mind when you know that you know something but can’t for the life of you call it forth.

The howling sound breaks the silence again.

This time it is louder. Closer.

You pull on the ends of your sleeves, curling your fingers inwards to clutch the white material.

In front of you, the altar is cracked, a jagged line like black lighting running through the stone. The cross on the wall above it hangs crooked, as if it is considering letting go, allowing the fall to the tiled floor to do what it will.

A loud whooshing sound pulls your attention back to the church entrance. The wooden doors have opened and in steps the most beautiful man you have ever seen. Dressed from head to toe in pristine white, broad of shoulder, long of leg with a face that could make a person weep at its classical perfection. His hair is pale as bone and rising from his head are twin horns of curling onyx. Striking as all this is, it's his eyes which catch you attention the most, a piercing blue the color of cruel frost, of endless frozen skies. When he fixes his gaze directly upon you, it feels as if winter itself is blowing through your bones, sending a corkscrew of cold fear straight through your body.

He stops walking and looks down at you, where you are sitting on the pew bench, his expression smooth as polished glass.

“We must go.”

His voice sends another rush of cold through you and you feel yourself starting to shiver. You glance at the church doors, now wide open. All you can see is gray gloom. Impenetrable. Suffocating.

“Where?” How your voice shakes, how small it sounds.

Again a howl pierces the church. It is louder now than before.

The window panes of the church tremble.

His gaze remains steady, although there is now a glint of something in his eyes. Something sharp and bright.

“You know.”

You rise to your feet on legs that feel numb. The man starts back down the aisle, then turns when he sees the way you grip each wooden pew you pass, your body tilting like a willow in a violent storm. The grip of your fingers is so strong, your nails dig little half-moon crescents into the wood.

He pauses, waiting for you to catch up and then takes hold of your arm. Despite the black gloves, his touch feels as hard and cold as frozen iron. The cold rushes through you and you can barely walk for all of your quivering.

You are almost at the open doors, at the mouth of all that opaque gray.

“W-w-what’s out there?” Your voice is barely a whisper, a wisp of smoke on the precipice of fading.

You’ve reached the doorway; his hand is still on your arm. He turns his head, looking down at you with those eyes of the most unearthly, startling blue.

“Nothing,” he answers. “Absolutely nothing.”

And then he slings you forward, forcing you into the gray. A flap of your white skirt. The white of your wide eyes. And then you are gone, utterly and completely, swallowed by the nothing. No trace of you left except the frightened marks of your fingernails in the scarred wood of the pew.

He reaches down, tugging once on the edge of his black glove, making it fit perfectly again. He turns his artic gaze towards the gloom. A second later there is a rush of wind, a burst of turbulent energy that continues its howling as it enters the church. It shakes the windows, jostles the crooked cross on the wall, skims the broken altar before growing still.

Slowly a figure fades into view, another lost soul slumped forward in the wooden pew. It will need time before it awakens, notices its surroundings.

Just like you did.

Just like they all do.

And when it does, he’ll be there.

Silently as fog he steps outside the church, closing the heavy wooden doors behind him.

Tagging: @xbalayage @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @ikemen-writer @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @aria-chikage @redheadkittys @tele86 @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @rhodoliteschaos @kpop-and-otome @writingwhimsey @mxrmaid-poet @silver-dahlia @wendolrea @otomefoxystar @nightfoxqueen @myonlyjknight @portrait-ninja @queen-dahlia @scorchieart @nightghoul381 @bubblexly @ozalysss @ikesimpleton

[shentheauthor]

I was inspired by @trashiiplant ‘s scugerators au and decided to do my own take on the slugcats as iterators!

To keep our designs separate I’ll tag this as “local scugs au”

Some extra info:

- Survive the Night really looks up to Indulges in Simple Pleasures! That’s why they dress and act kinda similarly

- I modeled my scug iterator designs after their iterator counterparts (if they have them). So my arti design has a similar outfit to my pebbles design, spears matches suns, hunter matches nsh, and rivulet matches moon.

- Nobody knows what the hell Liminal Spaces is, but that is NOT an ancients-created being

- Thousand Sharp Spears was built without speakers, in the ancients’ “shut the fuck up and iterate” era

- Four Universal Vows (Saint) is actually the youngest of the group, and they take sliver of straw’s place.

- The other iterators finding out the youngest managed to solve the Great Problem and fucked right off without sharing the information: WHAT THE FUCK DUDE

- Stalking Prey requested a big stick to hit things with when the ancients were still around. The ancients regretted granting that request until the day the last one died.

[2af-afterdark]

Once a Decade Hobby

Fandom: What in Hell is Bad? Content: Foras & GN!MC (they/them), fluff turns into mild violence, MC is a little unhinged and selfish,  Summary: MC asks Foras to teach them his hobby. They throw a tantrum when they don't get their way. A/N: You know what? I love terrible MCs. I love when they are absolute garbage. Long live these bitches! Word Count: 709

“I don't think I'm doing this right,” they say as they turn the thick horn over in their hand. The rough, bark-like exterior has chips and gnashes in it from where the knife had dug too deeply or had slipped out of their control. 

They had imagined this would Be more fun than it actually was due to Foras unusually bright smile while widdling.

“The outer layer of horns like those needs to be scrapped off before they can be shaped properly,” Foras reminds them. “It also allows you to see if there are unseen cracks that run through the core or up the sides which could jeopardize the integrity of your sculpture.”

“I know that's what you said, but that doesn't make it any easier.” They look over at the horn that he's carving – a smooth, curved one that's marbled with turquoise and seafoam – and pout. “You didn’t scrape yours off? Can we switch? That one looks more simple.”

Foras looks at them with expressionless eyes. “This one is more difficult due to its shape and the fact that it is thinner and more delicate than usual. I didn't scrape its outer layer because so much of it is damaged. If I tried, I would have very little left to work with. The one you have may seem like more work, but that's because it's healthy and thicker horns are more forgiving if you make mistakes.”

“I can be careful. I promise.” 

They're bored though. The horn Foras gave to them to experiment on and fiddle with is black and the shape doesn't inspire any creativity in them. They want something prettier. Something that shimmers. Something that inspires them.

“No. Beginners should work with sturdier materials that are more forgiving to mistakes.”

Foras is the type of devil that seems hard to approach because of his unintentional directness and tactless behavior. They couldn’t even recall how many times he had scared them after suddenly turning visible after following them in secret for an unknown amount of time. But, in this moment, he seems like a completely different devil. His passion makes him act like someone else.

They stare at him while he carefully works the sharp edge of his knife across the supposedly delicate horn. Each stroke releases a small sliver of the outermost, seafoam-speckled layer. Each shaving gathers as little curls in a messy pile in hip lap. They are beautiful flakes, like glitter under the light.

They place the rough horn with small notches down on the ground beside where they sit, having lost all interest in it. They stand with their knife in hand. Slowly, they take a step closer to where Foras sits, working on his once-in-a-blue-moon hobby. They sneak around behind him to watch him from the back. His eyes, that would normally be carefully watching every moving object in the room, flicking back and forth so quickly that they would almost appear to be staring straight forward. For once, he is so engrossed in a singular task that he isn’t watching the rest of the world as if it’s a play being put on around him.

Foras is cute when he’s passionate.

So cute that they can’t help but wrap their fist around his beautiful, shimmering horn and yank his head back. 

“If you won’t share that one, I'll take this one instead.” 

A coy smile creeps across their face as they lean in close, forcing Foras to look at them the way he usually did. They run the flat of their tongue from the base of his horn all the way to the tip, smirking at the sound of his surprise and arousal.

If the horn in his hand sparkled like glitter, then his own horn 

“Yours looks healthy, so I can have it… right? Like you said, an amateur like me needs something sturdy so I can make lots and lots of mistakes. We can even start from the top.” They pull away, replacing their tongue with the edge of the knife they are still carrying. “Teach me how to saw this off. I'm feeling inspired to make something.”

Foras will look lovely with a collar made from his own horn snapped tighter around his throat than even Leviathan’s noose.

[coldresolve]

Moneymakers, pt.xx // The Thing About Hope

Previous / AO3 / Wattpad / Masterlist / Next

They discussed it a while ago. That thing about hope. And Renee didn’t fully understand the intricacies of it, not until he watched Conrad’s huddled form lying sopping wet on the floor, with a screw stuck in his hand and a look of pure emptiness creeping over his face.

Renee steps out of the cold shower, quickly drying himself off before he throws on underwear, a pair of slacks, and a hoodie.

What was it Davin said? The last thing you want is to deprive him of his willingness to live.

It seemed so counterintuitive at the time. Oddly removed and abstract. It didn’t feel like something that had an actual, practical purpose.

“Once we’re not begging for scraps anymore, and we have the audience we want, what does it matter? What would it change?”

“It would change him,” Davin had said.

Renee had laughed. “So? What the fuck do people expect?”

“They expect the worst,” Davin had said, “but they’ll still be hoping for a happy ending. And I want that… acknowledged, I suppose.”

“Why? No, seriously, why?”

He finds his stash, decides to pop a pill before he heads outside for a smoke. He swallows it with no water, shrugging his jacket over his shoulders.

It must be below freezing. There’s no visible signs that the dew on the grass has frozen solid, but the sharp scent of frost bites in his nostrils. The moon is obscured by a thick layer of clouds.

“Because,” Davin had said, stopping himself several times as he searched for the right words. “Because people… average people, I mean, if we’re talking about having an audience beyond just… you know… they’re not going to want a one-sided conflict. They don’t want to watch a man be beaten down only to die lonely and desolate and… disillusioned. They want there to be… something in Conrad’s story that can inspire them. His survival.”

Renee’s usual lighter is running out of fluid. He tries it several times, rubbing his thumb raw on the wheel, but the wick never catches the spark. Digging around in his pocket, he finds a spare, which lights up on the first try, and Renee lights his joint.

The feeling of serenity, of a quieter kind of euphoria, is already spreading throughout his bloodstream. Hands and feet tingling with it, Renee sits down on the patio steps and leans his head against the wall, leg bouncing slightly against the cold. He tries to think about the way the light had left Conrad’s eyes at the end, but can’t fully wrap his head around it before the thoughts dissipate in a cloud of calm complacency. He takes a long drag of the cigarette, watches as the white smoke disappears into the night.

“We might reach the mainstream,” Davin had said, lightly tapping the table for emphasis. “But I don’t think we’re going to stay there if we break his spirit. I think people will tune it out as too depressing. They don’t want to… to face that part of existence. It’s not pleasant to look at, not for anyone who has a sliver of moral decency.”

“Nobody does,” Renee had said with a laugh.

“Not in your world, no,” Davin had retorted without missing a beat. “In his world, everybody does.”

It gets cold, sitting idle in weather like this. Renee tucks his jacket closer around himself, absentmindedly ashing the cigarette as his eyes pan the backyard. Maybe winter is coming early, this year. Maybe a storm is on its way.

“So… what do you want, exactly?”

“I want there to be… a sliver of something beneath it all. Something that’s deep, something that means something to people. And for that to happen, I think Conrad has to be – to remain – willing to live.”

Davin had looked him square in the eyes, an earnest sort of expression on his face, and said:

“A victim isn’t nearly as palatable as a martyr.”

Previous / Masterlist / Next

[dawn-of-worlds]

Building and Rebuilding

On the post-flood central Occident, new cultures in Incarien, and underwater developments.

Corobel started turn 18 with 17 points: 9 (roll) + 3 (nonhoarding) + 5 (left over)

Corobel starts turn 19 with 21 points: 4 (roll) + 17 (left over)

Command Avatar (-1): In the wake of the Great Flood, chaos stalks the land. Cults thrive. Some menace the lunar passage, or the Secret below, or the temples of great Azimuth. The Two Stars grant the fearsome Sun-Diver warrior Qaheb, who survived the expedition and the flood, an immortal mission to guard the holy places. He bears the terrible sword Decision, which is a sliver of the razor-sharp present. His countenance is the white-freckled blue of twilight; pink-gold butterfly’s wings grace his back. His company is the Evenguard, who patrol the blood-red swamps and ruined towns rooting out bandits, rogue calyptra, and the myriad indecently proportioned shapes that menace travel.

The blood does not rot, for it is not permitted to die; nor will the earth admit it, so foul it is. Only inconstant water will dilute it, and so it perdures in attenuated pools of unnatural red, still bright as if fresh-taken from a living artery, but thin as iron-fouled water. In these, the sun will not show his face, nor will any happy visage be perceived—all reflections frown in horror, whatever the expression of the face itself.

Other than that, it’s a pretty chill place, sort of picturesquely post-apocalyptic. The flowery and vivacious life of the Occident springs eternal, if somewhat strangely. The survivors want to reclaim and improve the ruined land, but this will be the work of generations. Azimuth still stands, somewhat reduced, and the blow in the rest of the continent is more spiritual than material.

Command Avatar (-1): The House of Faces, with the inspiration of the ever-changing moon, builds an insurance policy against Kilkanaqa—hidden chambers in which souls can be regrown from pruned-off thoughts and memories implanted in an unconscious host. These slowly warp the host’s mind into an (imperfect) facsimile of that of the original donor. If the worst happens, the House’s highest echelons will be restored from backup.

Command Avatar (-1): The Oracles instigate the construction of the Temple of the Charism on the hill above the Nak valley where the Prophetic Twins are supposed to have received their vocation.

Command Civilization (-3): The socially marginal, the pioneers, the runaway slaves of the coastal Lunar civilizations disperse into the continental interior, forming hardy civilizations of nomadic herders and stubbornly independent farmers. These are the Pale Hosts. They ride moon-adapted mvao and silvery reptilian creatures, braving terrible storms of regolith and the punitive expeditions of the coastwise kingdoms. Often seen in more civilized regions as merchants and mercenaries, they are recognizable by their distinctive customs and pallid dress.

Command Civilization (-3): Around the Isthmus of Incarien, human/Sun-Diver kingdoms grow in power and wealth. Their culture is vibrant, fusing ideas and aesthetics from both sides of the continent, and half a dozen major states war intermittently. The richest is proud Vayak, of the thousand bolts of cloth, so called because that, at one point, was its price. In its palace, there is a great menagerie, where the trapped souls of executed criminals (small, furry, scurrying creatures) are denied the polar solace of Laneth. Its legendary founder, Ulam, supposedly came from the Nak ten generations before the pilgrimage of the Prophetic Twins.

Command Civilization (-3): Near the Gulf of Azmit, trading emporia traffic the goods of the northern regions, the Glass Steppe, and the more developed regions of Incarien, even as they fend off (or buy off) periodic incursions from western nomads. The markets offer fur, ivory, amber, ice keener and stronger than steel, the golden frost-rime of frozen souls, sky-flowers, slaves. The land is dotted with chiefdoms, only some of whom control emporia; the marginal, especially, are eager to pledge themselves to a slow parade of steppe hegemons as convenience demands. The greatest emporium is Olavern, of the Amber Citadel. Its doughty oarsmen brave the breadth of the Sea of Isles, and the priests of the great church are given to obscure contemplative rituals involving amber, glass, ice, candles, whale-fat, burning pine. Popular fancy imputes to it the sin of cannibalism, brought home in the empty holds of ill-fated northern expeditions.

Command Avatar to Found City (-1): The False-Fire Trance of Evening, bolder than his fellows in seeking the solace of icy depths, founds a new city on the edge of the Abyss, planning to dive further after various arcane preparations. His polymorphic retinue, Aphotic drones and overseers and servant-broods, settles into the muck and builds. The silt itself, and the luminous microbiota within, seem drawn to the great deep, streaming among the rooftops like gently glowing waterfalls. The fauna of the deepest places—endless forms, most terrible—flits the lightless streets. This is Barathron, the Poised. Its streets flirt with the great depths, subaquatic shanties looming, aurora-shadowed, in piles above the yawning fathoms. Its inhabitants are drawn to flights of fancy, to self-destructive longing, and to that final and most vertiginous fall. Some say they see lights in the deep. All feel the awful gravity of night; and, when they sicken or grow old, many simply float away, avoiding a mundane and natural death in favor of one infinitely more sublime.

Command Civilization (-3): Aphotics gradually begin to disperse beyond the control of the Fires, forming independent bands and villages nestled in the coral and kelp of the shallows.

5 points remain.

[orcaofmyheart99]

Pay With Your Heart/I'm Alive

Content warning: Alcohol, drinking, wanting to die, blood, semi-self harm

This is a darker short story. Inspired by I'm Alive from Next To Normal and Travereste by Maneskin.

Crowley lay wide awake. Sleep eluded him once more. Visions of Aziraphale were the cause of this. Over and over he relived the fleeting moments they had. When Aziraphale would brush against him, giving him a cheeky smile.

The touch of an angel

Crowley got up, stumbling slightly. Before he knew it, his legs were carrying him to the liquor cabinet. Before he knew it, he was taking a swig of whiskey. 

The taste of a drug

Beelzebub had visited Crowley. He had waved them away, insisting he was fine. The look on Beelizbub’s face was clear that they were not buying that. 

The look of a stranger who has seen too much

Crowley looked at himself in the mirror. His body was shivering and dark circles were under his usually bright yellow eyes. The brightness had faded however. He drained the whiskey bottle and closed his eyes. He brushed a hand against his lips. He was so close. They were so close. Aziraphale denied him. Denied everything they had. Everything they experienced. Crowley had time and again endangered himself to save Aziraphale. 

Nothing comes for free, but you can pay with your heart if you got one 

Crowley had unconsciously gripped the whiskey bottle so hard it had broken in his hand. Sharp slivers of glass pierced his palm, mortal blood slowly dripped down. Crowley stared at the blood almost in a trance, feeling nothing.

I swear to God that from tomorrow there will be no more pain

He looked back into the mirror a white glowing figure catching his eye. He dared not turn around, keeping his eyes on the angelic figure in the mirror 

"Aziraphale?" He whispered roughly. The figure flickered and disappeared. Crowley felt stupid for hoping, believing, wishing just for a second it was Aziraphale. That it was once more his Angel. Bitterly Crowley grabbed another whiskey bottle and threw himself into bed, not minding his still bleeding hand.

I will cancel your name from each one of my songs

Tortured sleep soon washed over Crowley. Aziraphale appeared in his dream, his usual soft expression hardened. The angel’s eyes had a darkness even ever so evil glint to them. Aziraphale whispered in a taunting voice

 I'm your wish, your dream come true

Crowley thrashed about trying to wake himself from this. 

The figure of Aziraphale mocked him 

“And I am your darkest nightmare too”

Crowley’s breathing ragged. He felt each breath catching in his chest. 

I've shown you

I own you

Aziraphale staring into Crowley’s eyes. He felt as though hands were wrapping around his neck. Thrashing, Crowley woke himself up, sweating profusely. He pushed himself out of bed and began to run down the stairs. He felt a presence behind him. Somehow it was still talking, in the same sinister mocking tone. 

I'm right behind you

Crowley reached the end of the stairs, running towards the front door.

You say forget, but I'll remind you

He collapsed as he threw himself outside, trying to slow his breath and take in the fresh air. A coldness enveloped him suddenly. 

You can try to hide but you know that I will find you

Crowley yelled out in anguish. He knew that this was just his mind torturing him. If he could let go, this pain would end. Yet he was unable to let go even as horrible this experience was.

I’m alive 

So alive

I’m alive 

I’m alive 

The figure that was Aziraphale chanted. Crowley felt the salty sting of tears washing down his face as he laid curled up on the dewey grass under a starlit sky. The moon slid out from behind a cloud, casting an angelic glow all around. Crowley closed his eyes tightly hearing the words repeating over and over. 

I’m alive

I’m alive

I’m alive

Only Crowley wished he wasn’t

[brooklynislandgirl]

[ Devil Driver / Broken SHIELD ]

Days and weeks have passed since Phil found Beth at the AIM facility and took her from it. He's fought tooth and nail to stay hidden while nurturing her back to health. To avoid eyes until the moment he gets a lead on where the team might be… member by member. And there are those few times where the lead is solid enough that Beth's eyes brighten with a spark. But that spark is less of the Life over which she claims domain, and more of the Vengeance that he now embodies.

In a very different time, they had been agents of SHIELD. Now? They are avengers. Not the kind that earns a Stark paycheck or a magic hammer; they are the kind that could not save the world, and now must bring those responsible for its ruin to account.

The desert bunker is dark and relatively small, barely suited to host more than a dozen people seeking temporary shelter. But to Phil and Beth, it may as well be their underground palace. MREs are their sustenance. Beth has cautiously suggested using her talents to inspire edible growth, but Phil isn't certain he wants to tarry here for long. Staying mobile, he's convinced, is how they stay alive. They've only lingered here for three days because the daytime has been so blazing hot, he fears she'll succumb to dehydration before Lola makes it across the wasteland… and his means of fueling Lola to conserve her gasoline at night may as well make them visible from space.

She suggests they stay one more night, at least. And Phil grants that request because she is exhausted, and she deflects that not-quite-accusatory remark by pointing out he is too, and that he should be the one more concerned with slumber, since she can survive -- and has done so -- on less than an hour's sleep nightly for weeks on end. But he insists she at least lie down… and he assures her he will be right next to her, just as he was those first two weeks after freeing her.

When she reluctantly nestles onto her cot, he kneels down beside her and takes her hand gently in his own.

"You should know something… that even though my goal has always been to find everyone, you were the one I wanted to find first. Not just because of the things you can do, but because… you're the one who gives me hope, when all of mine has run out. And I really need that right now."

He looks into her doe eyes in the silence of the ensuing moment. And then he leans down and forward, and presses his lips to the center of her forehead.

Silver Moon Sparkling || Accepting

When Beth languished within her cell, her mind fraying under the strain of torment ~ceaseless experiments on what she could recover from, what she could live without, all while her natural regeneration and her magick stolen from her by the odd always cold metal wrapped around her throat~ she’d tried to hold onto a sliver of faith. That he would not abandon her. That he would pull the team back out of whatever bolt hole they’d found themselves scurrying with the time she’d bought them. She had held hope that even if she’s the least of them, that he would still care. Each day and each new agony, that hope dwindled. But then he came. Though at first she thought him a demon wearing a flayed Phil-skin as fear gripped her through the fog of sedation.She had no ability to shrink away, nor to stop him from carrying her away. If pressed she wouldn’t be able to answer how he got the collar off. She can’t say if she slept or ate or did anything but ache with a bone deep agony for days after he did. The only thing that gives her respite as her body reknits itself and her teeth grow back into place, slicing her gums to ribbons with new sharpness are the tales he has to tell. Each one is a tragedy. They are full of horror and dismay. And they are empty of the family he’s built for himself. Somehow they soldier on; because what else can they do? Beth has always joked about being an endurance predator to those who know her best ~the family she once had~ but the miles they put behind them are gruelling. She’s grateful for the bunker. The heat during the day perks her up some but the lack of any kind of moisture limits its effectiveness. She eats at his direction even if everything tastes like ash. Bit by bit it all does its work and eventually restores her to a modicum of her former self. Sleep is the hardest commodity to put her finger on. There is now never any time to settle in before they move on again starting the entire process anew. She understands why and doesn’t utter a peep of disagreement. She has no right to. Neither can she bring herself to question what sacrifice he’s made, what pact might somewhere be writ in his own blood to have enshrined this… Well, she isn’t sure what to call it. It isn’t exactly a spirit like the kind she knows. She fears using her mana in such a way to draw it out because she doesn’t know how it will react to such direct confrontation and she can’t bear the idea of losing or harming Phil to satisfy what some would call a focused curiosity. But the question lingers as does its symptoms; she occasionally flinches when he comes up on her far too quietly, when he brushes her arm when she isn’t expecting it. When she looks into his eyes and sees Pele’s burning heart before he blinks and is once more the witty and urbane man knows.Tonight though…the exhaustion is too real. Weighs her bones down as if they are encased in steel. But so is he. Even if she isn’t at her best, she can still sense the weariness that sucks at his every step, and the way his hands rub at his stubble-shaded jaw. Her counter-arguments at any other time would never hold water. He’d scoff and pull rank and remind her that her insomnia alone could make her unfit for duty. She doesn’t see the losing end of it all until she’s seated on the edge of her cot and he’s making promises.

His hands are warm when he enfolds one of her own. His voice is soft when he shares a lovely fairytale secret with her and while she gazes up into his face ~even as he kneels, and her head is on the pillow, there is a discrepancy of height between them~ trying to hold back a flood of emotions neither of them can spare at the moment, she nods.

What surprises her the most then is the tenderness of his lips on her brow. The simplest thing but filled with an incomprehensible amount of comfort. Cloaked in nostalgia of what Beth used to dream having a father was like, or remembering the way Andy would make everything all right. Except Phil isn’t her father. He isn’t her brother. He isn’t even the uncle she calls him out of respect and affection, and the feelings buried deep inside of her attest to that.

So does the way she refuses to let go of his hand.

“You have alla dat, an’ more,” she whispers, afraid to disturb a single molecule inside the bunker. “We’ll find dem, an’ we’ll bring ‘em back t’ where dey should be. Wi’d us. I can see it inna stars, you know.” It’s not true. She does not have a single iota of mana tied with stars, with time. She does have the ability to grant a boon from fate. And she gathers it all up now, every ounce of power that flows in her blood, pooling it into the coincidental stroke of luck he needs.

Beth shifts upwards, resting her weight on her elbow and returns the kiss. Petal soft lips and a skittish sort of nerve, but her mouth brushes his, willing into him that luck. A sense of peace. Savouring, however improper, the feel of his mouth, too.

[jeyned]

across the pewter waters of the lake the towers of Black Harren's folly appeared at last, five twisted fingers of black, misshapen stone grasping for the sky.  

[bloodorangesoup]

Work Song | B.B.

Request: Have you ever heard work song by hozier? It gives me such bucky vibes 🥺 like imagine him waking up from a nightmare & singing it to calm him down

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count: 2.05k (this was supposed to be a drabble but I got carried away lol)

Warnings: Slight angst, fluff, bad singing (unless you can actually sing), Bucky being a big softy

My Masterlist

Notes: Anon you need to name yourself cause you obviously have good taste in music and I kinda want some moots on here. This song is so perfect for Bucky. I truly appreciate the suggestion, it gives me inspiration of what to write while procrastinating on works in progress <3

You were awoken when the sheets and comforter were yanked off of you, shocking you awake with the chill of the night air. You squinted your eyes open only to be faced with Bucky’s back as he was sat up in bed. You could see by the rhythmic curling of his spine that he was breathing fast and heavy, prompting you to sit up with him.

“Baby,” you groaned as you stretched your back and faced him, “you alright?”

His eyes stared forward, expressionless, until he snapped out of it and looked at you with a worried face. It was almost as if Bucky hadn’t even noticed you had sat up until he heard your voice. You wanted to kiss in between his eyebrows to smooth the lines that the furrow of them had formed. You leaned towards him and laid your hand on his back, feeling the expansion and deflation of his breathing, it had calmed a bit but you could feel the still rapid beating of his heart. He opened his mouth for a second, hesitating before releasing a breath and answering.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. Sorry I woke you up. There's still a couple hours left before you have to get up, lay back down.” He said, motioning with his head towards your pillow. You simply shook your head and dragged your hand from his back up to his neck and around to his cheek. He leaned his head into your cupped palm, closing his eyes at the comfort your touch gave him.

“Can we cuddle then?” You asked, more for him than you. It was an unspoken declaration in the air of “you’re a terrible liar,” but by now in your relationship, Bucky knew that if he wanted to talk about his nightmares, you were always there and ready to listen. If he didn’t want to talk then you could at least try to get him back to sleep or calm his nerves.

He answered you with a nod. You grabbed his pillow and stacked it on top of your own, giving you a cushion to comfortably lay down with your back slightly elevated. He understood what to do and without hesitation crawled over to you and wrapped his arms around your torso, laying halfway on top of you and resting his cheek on the top of your breast, right over your heart. Both your bodies shifted a few times until they found the perfect interlock with each other, sinking down into the bed.

“Do you remember that song I showed you the other day, the one you said you really liked?” You didn’t know where you were trying to go with this conversation, but you figured that getting him sleepy again would be hard, so talking about whatever came to your head might help put him down. Bucky could feel the vibrations of your voice all throughout your chest. He wished in that moment that the two of you could stay like this forever, that he could feel your sweet voice like this for the rest of his life.

“The “take me to church” one?”

“Yeah, that one. The dude who sings that has another song I really love, it makes me think of you whenever I hear it.”

“What’s it called?” He mumbled weakly. You gave him a squeeze and continued.

“Work Song.”

“Hmm,” Bucky hummed against your chest, waiting a moment before speaking, “could you sing it for me, doll?”

“If you want, but I can’t promise it’ll sound pretty,” you answered with a breathy chuckle. You wanted to comfort Bucky, but you definitely weren’t a singer. It was difficult enough to be in tune with songs, you weren’t sure you could even manage with half his body resting on you.

“It doesn’t have to sound pretty, if you sing it it’ll be perfect. Please?”

It took Bucky a long time to be okay with asking for things and accepting that receiving favors didn’t equate to weakness. You knew that him asking you to do this for him was hard and you weren’t going to let him down.

“Alright.” You cleared your throat and breathed in before exhaling quickly, cutting the words out of your mouth as your brain tried to think of how the song goes.

“Well, it starts with a low piano note and this soft clap, and there's a harmony that goes ‘hmmm, hmm mmm’ and then another clap and ‘hmm mmm’,” you explained, emphasizing every clap with a light tap if your hand on his back. You looked down at him and lifted your other hand, weaving yo fingers through his hair to gently move back and forth over his scalp. You looked back up to the ceiling with your eyes open, imagining how the stars would look if the roof was gone.

“And that part goes on for a bit…” you said into the silence of the room. As you explained, Bucky had shifted his head to rest the underside of his chin flush against your chest and looked up at you. Due to the way your face looked up he couldn’t see it completely, but he could see how the light of the moon pouring into the room cast a glow across your cheekbones and jaw. He watched as you fumbled through the intro, trying to explain to him how the different sounds come together, and he swore you had never looked more beautiful.

He drank in the way the hums of the song rattled under his chin, how you would pause for a few moments trying to think of what came next in the song. He felt your heartbeat against his throat and the rise and fall of your chest with every breath you would take before letting out another hum. He was right, you could be singing any song and it would be perfect.

“And then he starts singing, he goes,” you took in a breath before singing.

“‘Boys, workin' on empty

Is that the kinda way to face the burning heat?

I just think about my baby

I'm so full of love I could barely eat’

“‘There's nothin' sweeter than my baby

I'd never want once from the cherry tree

'Cause my baby's sweet as can be

She give me toothaches just from kissin' me’.”

He noted how the corners of your mouth tilted upward at that last line. You weren’t singing it exactly as the song went, the melody was a bit off and the pitch was much lower than it was supposed to be, but Bucky felt like every word you sang floated out into the world, carrying its refreshing life and coolness into his soul.

“And then there's this really deep bass note that hits and then the chorus goes,

“‘When, my, time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I'll crawl home to her’.”

Bucky thought of how he always seemed to crawl back to you. For once, he didn’t feel guilty for his presence in your life. He relished in the feeling of having you under him, in the knowledge that of all the people in the world, you would let him crawl home to you. If he had to crawl to someone, he would thank any and all higher powers that it was you.

“And then the song gets lighters and the hums come back,” you mumbled.

“‘Boys, when my baby found me

I was three days on a drunken sin

I woke with her walls around me

Nothin' in her room but an empty crib’

“‘And I was burning up a fever

I didn't care much how long I lived

But I swear, I thought I dreamed her

She never asked me once about the wrong I did’.”

Memories swirled around in Bucky’s head of all the times he felt like ending it all. He knew he was perfectly capable of doing it, but there was always a stubborn sliver of hope splintered in his head that prevented him from going through with anything. He didn’t like to think back to those times, but hearing the words leave your lips made it clear to him that you were the sliver of hope, some force of the universe had kept him around long enough to reach you and hold on. He closed his eyes and listened as you gently worked through the chorus twice more.

“‘My babe would never fret none

About what my hands and my body done

If the Lord don't forgive me

I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me’.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed as he thought of how unconditionally you cared for him. You weren’t blind to the troubles that came with loving someone like him, with accepting what he did and offering him sanctuary from himself. He didn’t know if he would ever be sure of the idea that he deserved love, but he was okay with being selfish if it meant having you by his side.

“‘When I was kissin' on my baby

And she'd put her love down, soft and sweet

In the low lamp light, I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me’.”

Tears had started to well in Bucky’s eyes. He looked up once again at your face, delicately bathed in moonlight, and thought of how he looked in the light, how you both looked together in the light. If you looked so beautiful and lovely, maybe he could too. He didn't feel exposed or ugly, he felt safe, he felt free. He was overwhelmed with emotion. His heart was pounding and he was choked up, he had never felt as completely and dramatically in love with you as he did in that moment.

You wrapped up the song, carrying it out with the same hums and claps that brought it in. Looking down, you saw Bucky’s face buried in the space between your breasts and could hear a sharp intake of breath, indicating that he was crying. You ran your hand that had been tapping his back up and down his spine. You took your hand from his hair and used it to push his disheveled hair out of his eyes and off his forehead, causing him to look up at you.

To Bucky, you looked like an angel. You both laid in silence, looking into each other's eyes, while Bucky simply hugged you closer and let his tears fall freely. You leaned down and placed a few gentle kisses on his forehead. He finally settled his breathing and sniffled a few times before speaking, he was ready to talk.

“I’ve killed enough people,” he sniffled before continuing, his voice croaky, “I’ve killed enough people to give me nightmares for the rest of my life.” He sighed and closed his eyes, feeling too shameful to keep looking at you.

You sank down lower in the sheets and tightened your hold on him, bringing his face and body up and closer to you.

“I’m so sorry, Buck. I wish there was more I could do.” You finally let go of the few tears building in your eyes, letting them roll down your cheeks to the corner of your lips.

“You’re here. You love me. That’s all I need,” he let out with a sob. You nodded your head and tugged on his body, signaling to him to come up.

He shifted himself higher in the bed, his face coming parallel to yours. You snaked your hand around his neck and craned him to look into your eyes. You observed the glassiness of them and how it accentuated the bright blueness within them. You thought of how, even when he was sobbing, he looked more beautiful than ever.

“I love you so much, y/n” he whispered with shaky breaths.

“I love you too, Buck, more than anything.”

You pulled him completely into you, your swollen lips gliding against one another, mixing your salty tears. You brought your hands to the sides of his face, rubbing your thumbs over his cheekbones, feeling how beautiful he was even with your eyes closed. You both pulled back slowly, only far enough to rest your foreheads together.

“I love you.”

[embrassemoi]

Surrounded by the Moon and Stars ✷ 18

Pairings: Sirius B, Remus L, [F]Reader   CW: mentions of abuse, throwing up, depression, horrible coping mechanisms, implied sexual references   A/N: Read CW for this chap.

【 Masterlist: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter 】

Chapter 18: Love Isn’t a Magic Potion

━━━━━━━━━༻✩༺━━━━━━━━━

February 14th, 1976

There wasn’t quite another person like James Potter who knew what unrequited love felt like.

After years of harbouring feelings for Lily, making a fool of himself, his failed attempts of trying to impress her; she never seemed to take interest. Lily always sent him disgusted looks, never passing up the opportunity to call him a dirty arrogant toe-rag.

And sure, it phased him sometimes; her words cutting deep, but despite it all, James still believed in the fairytales, the sparks, the magic of true love, finding your soulmate — your better half. His parents were his main inspiration for love. Years — decades they’d been together and still, the love they held for one another, so fierce and unstoppable, it even shocked James at times.

A long time ago, when he truly understood the concept of love, he made a promise that he wouldn’t settle for anything but for the fairytales, the sparks, the magic of true love, finding his soulmate — his better half.

He wanted all of it. The good days, the bad days, the glitter and sparkles, the cheesy one-liners; long walks on the beach, nursing them back to health after they caught the flu, watching the sunsets, dancing in the rain — even the stupid petty arguments. He wanted all of it.

No matter how long it took to find them, he would; after all, everyone had their person.

Maybe that’s why he chased after Lily for so long — hoping for that romantic love — the love that’s made for movie screens — the type of love that conquered all. But he wouldn’t continue to beat on a dead horse, especially if Lily didn’t want that.

He wouldn’t force her and certainly, he wouldn’t harass her.

But, James would consider himself lucky, he found his friends — they were already his platonic soulmates and he’d go to the ends of the earth for each of them. His parents, the Marauders, Marlene, now Whiskers; he was always surrounded by only the purest amount of love.

He was never a person to cover up his emotions — hardly, that is. He wore his heart proudly on his sleeve, never once letting others dictate his life and the way that he loved. He laid himself bare, open, and there was a beauty to it that words couldn’t describe.

Love truly conquered all, whether it be romantic or platonic.

But to the women that fell in love with Sirius Black, well — there wasn’t quite another group of people like them who knew what unrequited love felt like — not even James ‘Oi, Evans!’ Potter could compare. 

Love is shit.

Love is cruel.

Love is unfair.

Sirius would go on date after date. One fleeting look and soon enough, he had women at his feet, falling for his devilish charm that captivated them in seconds.

They swooned over his chiselled jaw and thick glossy hair; eyes so mysterious with profound, moonlit mirth. The epicanthic folds highlighted his sharp and pointed look that they swore cut through them, searching through the deepest part of their souls.

He was a part or used to be a part of the oldest and most noble Pureblood families in the country. He was rich, of high status, French, could speak five languages and a mischievous bad boy straight out of your classic Muggle film.

Falling in love with Sirius Black was an easy task, so simple and it could happen in a blink of an eye. The realization would come either fast or slow depending on the poor lovesick git who let themselves fall.

But getting Sirius Black to return that affection was an impossible task.

He was raised as a gentleman and would play the part before becoming bored. They were all fillers, the people he dated.

He would admit it, he’s a bit of a dick.

He never fell in love with anyone he’s dated so far — never got past the fancying stage and even then, it was never strong. It never made him feel those butterflies that James described them as. His heart never jumped, never sped up fast, he never felt his skin heat nor did their laugh ever put him into a trance — nothing like what he described them to be like. If anything, he’d always break it off with the girls he found himself getting too comfortable with; always severing it before it became too much.

Although, it technically never was his fault that they fell in love. Most of his admirers like to daydream from afar, or they’d make a promise at the beginning — no strings attached.

Well for them, it did. It almost always ended with strings attached with Sirius holding a pair of shiny scissors at the end of fried thread.

He did not believe in the fairytales, the sparks, the magic of true love, finding your soulmate — your better half.

But that doesn't mean he didn’t want it.

But, above all, Sirius Black considered himself to be a realist. Unlike James, he couldn't — he wouldn’t let himself believe in that shit anymore. Love is disappointing and it does nothing but hurt you, nothing but a filler he used to distract himself with, no matter who it was. Love did not fix his fuck ups nor himself.

All of the adoring admirers, the ones that lined up for him, they would all leave if they caught a glimpse of the worst parts of him. The ugly, nasty parts. He used rage as a means of defence, he pushed the people he loves away, he was moody, dramatic and above all, reckless.

All they wanted was to take, use him for his body — they wouldn’t love him if they knew him. The real him: the ugly side along with the beautiful one he wore. The side that wasn’t always adventurous, daring, bold, brave… happy, go-getting.

Nobody would stay for the ugly part of him.

In that regard, Sirius was unloveable. Completely, utterly unloveable.

Currently, the uglier, caged part of Sirius re-emerged as he writhed around in his bed. Eyes moved rapidly behind eyelids, squinted in pain as he squirmed around, clutching the bed sheets tightly. His head flopped from side to side as he was unable to wake; stuck in a nightmare.

“You mudblood lover —” “Don’t call them that!” “Babies, Regulus, babies!” “It’s killing me to stay.” “CRUCI —”

Sirius woke with a jolt, choking on a strangled scream that clawed at his throat. His mind seemed to be encased in a wordless static, muting him to the noise around him as he felt the rapid, hard thumps against his chest. Distantly, he could feel his body raking in waves as the sticky, cold feeling of his sweat dripped from his temple and down the side of his face. It made his hair stick to his forehead uncomfortably yet somehow, despite the sweating and the overwhelming feeling of heat, he felt ice cold.

He swallowed thickly, sniffingly away the stinging growing behind his eyelids but failed as a few stray tears had already settled on his cheeks. Sirius looked around frantically, meeting the familiar red and gold bed sheets that were now pushed off of him as he sat upright in his bed. Red velvet drapes hung around the sides, pulled together as slivers of bright light sliced through them. It made him squint and focus on the surroundings.

Soon enough, it felt like a weight lifted off his chest, marked in unspoken forgiveness once realizing where he was.

You’re safe, his inner voice spoke firmly, It was just a dream. A dream.

“Wakey, wakey Padfoot!”

He had just enough time to wipe the freshly fallen tears away before James ripped back his curtains, jumping into his bed. He drew a deep sigh, avoiding James’ eyes and trained them to look outside.

Upon the grass and mountains, snow sprinkled on much like sugar over a cake. The distant chirping of birds could be heard singing their usual song, or more like an alarm clock, as they soared high in the sky without a worry in the world.

If only Sirius could be a bird, what a simple life he would lead.

“Fuck you,” groaned Remus, “He might be awake, but I’m not.” His eyes clenched in annoyance, throwing his blanket over his head.

“Well aren’t you lovely? Isn’t he, Sirius?”

“The loveliest,” he managed to grit out, throat groggy and dry.

“Shut up!”

“Okay, calm down big bad wolf.”

“Well,” he mocks James, his voice going an octave higher, “This big bad wolf can maul you.”

James beamed brightly, the ever morning person he was, unaffected by Moony’s response. Instead, he padded his way over to him, shaking him before Remus flipped the covers off his body, tackling him into his bed.

“Do you guys think I should cut my hair?” James managed to get out as he gasped. Remus sprawled out on top of him, pinning him in place as he was being crushed from his weight. “I want to make sure I look good for today.”

“You’re always in need of a trim,” Peter called out.

“You look fine,” Remus added, “Besides, you and scissors are not a good move right now.”

Meanwhile, Sirius’ stomach felt hollow, worry ate at his very being before he felt something rise within his throat. Quickly, swinging his legs over the edge, Sirius made his way to the loo in a rush while James and Remus were both distracted.

Peter was there, rifling through the cabinets with his toothbrush dangling from his lips. “Morning,” he said, not quite looking over to him, “Do we have any more toothpaste? I keep telling Prongs not to use so much…”

“Get out,” he managed to say before shoving Peter out of the door, closing it shut. He barely managed to cast a silencing charm before opening the lid of the toilet seat, throwing up. For the most part, Sirius gagged on air before finally attempting to collect himself, preventing hyperventilation.

Foolishly, even up until that dreaded night, Sirius had an ounce of hope. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was hope that Regulus might have turned out different, or maybe it was hope that he’d finally be accepted, even though he knew that would never be the case — never with parents like Walburga or Orion.

But every time he dared to dream, to hope, he was always quickly reminded why it hurt. Hope was dangerous, a false sense of reality — a taste of what people dreamt and chase for but could never quite grasp.

It was more addicting than any kind of alcohol he drank — or the girls — or pranks.

Eventually, he got up from the floor, jumped in the shower and followed his morning routine before wrapping a towel around himself and stepped out.

Sirius was drying his hair before catching a glimpse of himself in the large mirror in front of the sink.

Sirius had never been insecure about the way he looked. A part of him, the arrogant and narcissistic part of him knew that he looked good and he’d flaunt it. But there were times like today, where he’d look at himself, but feel as if he’s looking at a familiar face that wasn’t his — a monster reflected back.

He wondered if this is what Moony felt like.

For a moment, Sirius let his face rest, allowing the helpless, loitering fear and guilt he felt engrave its way onto the smooth surface of his skin.

The eyes looking back at him today were his father’s, his hair reminded him too much of Regulus, his high cheekbones reminded him of Walburga and the tired, slightly crazed look reminded him of Bellatrix.

A member of the Black family, that's what people saw when they first looked at Sirius, the heir of the most noble and ancient house of Black.

Sirius Orion Black.

Orion Black… Even his name made him want to cry out in rage. Another reminder.

Pushing back his wet hair, he studied the faded scar that disappeared into his hairline.

It was more apparent than ever that Sirius had scars.

But unlike James, whose scars were from happy memories of the Quidditch pitch, or Peter, whose only scars were from chopping chocolate for a fancy baking recipe — and lastly, Remus, whose scars were visible, laid out for everyone to see, Sirius’ scars were invisible.

He wore them day in and day out without anyone ever knowing.

With a blink, he drowned out his thoughts immediately; his dreams, his past, his thoughts were for another time.

He sucked in a breath, clicking the door open.

Remus was the only other person still in the dorm. He stood in front of the mirror, buttoning up his white school shirt before ducking down and grabbed his bag, shoving in books, his wand and any other loose pages of parchment that he assumed was for his little study group.

“Where’s Wormy and James?” He asked, not liking the way his voice sounded wobbly and hoarse. His eyes no longer peered up at his chap, instead looking around the room. Anywhere but his face.

Thankfully, Moony didn’t seem to notice, preoccupied with the now overflowing pile of Valentine gifts and cards on his bedside. He grew frustrated with them with every passing second as they littered his space.

“Accio bin!”

The black bin from across the room flew into Remus’ hand, quickly shoving the letters in but soon a guilty look flashed across his face.

Remus had always been too considerate about their feelings, perhaps Sirius should take a page from his book.

Sirius had a pile accumulating on the carpet beside his trunk; it seemed like more and more people every year were confessing their feelings, but this time, Remus seemed to be getting a lot more along with the rest of the Marauders. But he smiled, happy to know that Remus had been getting some action. He fucking needed it.

“Er — sorry, Pete’s off to Wood’s room to borrow their toothpaste and James —” Remus cut himself off, bringing a hand to the sides of his temples as he moved them in circular motions. “I’m pretty sure Prongs went to find Y/N. Something about finishing a sign or a song for today —”

Sirius bit back a laugh, “A song?”

“I guess he’s fucking Paul McCartney now.”

Remus passed him, disappeared into the loo, giving enough time for Sirius to get dressed.

It was his third dream that week about that night and it was wearing down on him emotionally. He was losing sleep, he wasn’t eating, he was reclining from the Marauders, he was so prone to anger; lashing out, yelling… he didn’t like how he was acting — it reminded him too much of Orion.

And the thought made him sick to his stomach. He didn’t want to be a monster.

Lost in his depressing thoughts, Remus re-entered the room. But instead of walking up to his bed, Remus halted, looking directly at him before he crossed the room, putting a protective, encouraging hand onto his shoulder. A serious and calculated look crossed his face.

“Do you need anything?” He spoke in a hushed voice, as if he were to speak any louder, the walls might hear.

Sirius felt unexpected annoyance brewing in his chest. Bloody fucking Lupin, of course he knew — using his heightened senses to sniff out his distress.

Unlike Sirius, who hid his emotions, who covered and buried even a sign of weakness, who searched for answers high and low, Remus was so blunt — clear cut with his emotions. He knew just what to say, knew what was happening before others did even if they hadn’t even spoken yet.

He wished his thought process was as clear-cut as Moony’s.

“What do you mean? I’m fine,” he said, faking nonchalance. Jokingly, he prodded Remus’ cheek with his finger, “Turning into Moomy, again?”

His friend did not smile, concern still latched on.

“You know I’m always here for —” Before he could say anything more, Sirius hastily grabbed his bag, slinging over his shoulder, bolting out of the room.

Hiding — running away from his problems — that’s what Sirius was an expert on. And like that, he switched off that part — the ugly, unloveable part of his brain for the day.

When Sirius reached the Great Hall, he wasn’t surprised when a dozen owls bombarded him with letters and chocolates. It brought a sly smile to his lips

What? He did say he was arrogant.

“Looking grand, Black,” Marlene teased as she observed the overflowing amount of cards already in his arms. She ruffled his hair as he was forced to take the seat next to L/N. Marlene turned to chat with Dorcas, who finally was back on her feet and kicking it.

“It’s not even eight and your bag is filled?!” Peter exclaimed, baffled.

A part of Sirius didn’t feel annoyed as he sat beside her. Maybe it was because his main stressor, the Black family, was out of the picture and he’d been desperately trying to control his lash outs, but Sirius was stumped. Since the break, especially after the ‘Muggle’ incident, he found himself tolerating her presence.

Just a bit.

He understood why James, Remus, Lily, Marlene; why everyone took a liking to her.

But he had an inkling as to why.

Although, his mixed feelings towards her were not helping in the slightest as he dealt with the string of recent events in his life.

She was the one that spoke first, which surprised him.

“Ugh —” Y/N fiddled with the hem of her robes, “Kettleburn wants us to switch the Puffeskin between us. I was thinking since we’re in the same house, we could keep it in one of our dorms. I was thinking about keeping it in yours.”

“Why not yours?”

“They liked to hatch in warm places. Your dorm has a fireplace, right? I remember James telling me you had one… And it would make it easier since women can go into the boy’s dorms.”

For some reason, he couldn’t stop himself — he just couldn’t. “I bet you’re trying to get off quick.”                

The accusations did not sit right with her.

For someone like Sirius, someone who dealt with the worst shit imaginable; someone who'd been beaten down, both metaphorically and literally — someone who by the textbook was supposed to curl in on himself — keep to himself, be small, avoid drama, don’t cause arguments — Sirius did anything but that. Everything he did, he made sure to cause a reaction.

“No —”

“Are we about to argue because you want to win, or is it because you want to learn?.”

“You’re so arrogant. I don’t need you for grades. Your brain probably grew twice in size when I turned you into a dog.”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Then why are you replying?”

Sirius rolled his eyes, “Very creative.”

“Do you ever just shut up?” She snaps. Her face inched closer to his.

Unbeknownst to her, for a second, a second that he’d never admit, Sirius' brain falters. They hadn’t been this close to each other since that day after Kettleburn had assigned their group project. He catches the smell of faint floral — tulips, he thinks. Or maybe vanilla? Books? Tea? He couldn’t place it.

But his heart did a funny thing. It never does a funny thing like that and it concerns him. He wasn’t sick, was he?

Silence lingers.

L/N scoffed, “Well finally, it looks like you have.”

Although, she seems completely unphased by their closeness.

“Huh, you really do shut up.”

He snorts, his brain finally working again. “You nag an awful lot.”

“Well, you —”

“Whiskers. You’re a woman, how do I look?” James asked. He came bouncing up to them across the hall from the entrance. He twirls a little, showing off his outfit. In one hand, he held a sign and a bunch of roses. “Would you fancy me?”

“Dropping hints, are we, Potter?” She smirks playfully, “Anyway, I know you nicked that from Sirius.”

Sirius looked over to him, his head nodding up and down but was surprised that she noticed the difference, “She’s right, that is mine. Maybe that’s why you look so good.” He meant for the remark to come off as a joke, but cringed as the words spewed from his mouth. He sounded like a complete arse. 

James ignores him, “I have everything planned.” Then, he holds up a sign, all in baby pink with hearts dancing across the page as a huge message declaring his affection for Emmeline was written in bold fonts. I looked fairly cheesy, but that was James for you. A romantic at heart.

“Well,” he starts, clearly happy, “Do you like it?! I’ve also got a song written!”

“Remember the last time you wrote someone a —”

Y/N kicked him, hard, under the table, which caused Sirius to look at her sharply before his face turned annoyed again. She hadn’t even glanced his way yet. She continued to calm James down, giving him a pep talk while Sirius would jump in with encouraging words.

“Of course we love it — is it for Lily or —”

James shakes his head and they both knew who he was referring to.

“— Then Emmeline will love it even more! Get the girl, Bambi!”

James smiled triumphantly, sticking his fist out for a fist bump before running off happily towards the Ravenclaw table.

“Y’know,” Y/N starts, talking to Sirius as they both watch as James gets up on the table, preparing to serenade Emmeline in front of the entire Great Hall with a guitar that vaguely looks like Remus’. “You can choose not to be a dick.”

Surprisingly, he laughed, small, but there. And then, he finds himself responding to her comments, “I beg to differ.”

“Then beg.”

Sirius’ eyes widened, feeling his mouth go dry. He bit the inside of his cheek, eyes fluttering shut a couple times. It didn’t help that she smirked at his reaction and it made Sirius feel funny. An odd swoop piddled at the base of his stomach.

“I’ll take that into consideration for later,” he settled on.

Remus and Lily waltzed into the room, both holding small cards of their own. L/N and Sirius shuffled over as much as they could to fit in with both Remus and Lily. 

A part of Sirius’ routine had started incorporating Lily doing his hair. Most often, she did pretty braids or buns — but of course, not without James pouting to him later. He only hoped that with Emmeline’s new presence, James would stop.

“Ooo la-la!” Y/N mocked, swiping one of the cards from Lily and Remus. “You two are popular.” She turned to face Lily.

“It’s n-nothing, really, “Lily stuttered, her head ducking down. But her eyes seemed to look up at her, seemingly in hope of some recognition.

“Don’t be so modest!”

“A-hem!” James’ bostal voice. His foot wobbled on the edge of the table that made them all nervous if he were to fall. He finally concluded his song. Lily looked over and smiled, glad to know that James had finally chosen a different target to annoy.

“Fuckin’ barmy,” Remus muttered out, a hand going to cover his mouth in suspense. His hand travelled down to his chin-stroking his jaw.

“Emmeline, thou beauty —”

“Oh my god,” groaned Remus again, sinking in his seat from the second embarrassment but smiling nevertheless.  

However, Marlene whopped loudly, a large grin on her face.

Lily looked over to the scene, her eyes finding their way back to L/N, Peter paled slightly at the scene, Marlene was howling in laughter along with Sirius.

But much like himself, L/N found herself laughing with them too.

Her laughter rang out, and Sirius found himself drawn to the noise. But what was worse, was that he wanted to hear it again.

And even though he knew that other women and even men were staring at him right now, ready to give him all their affection and attention, Sirius found himself unable to look away from her.

He felt his palms getting sweaty, his heart beat harder, he wanted to sit closer to her and a smile tugged at his lips but he forced it down.

Fuck.

It was almost as the realization hit him there like a thousand tidal waves.

His heart jumped, it sped up fast, he felt his skin heat and her laugh put him into a trance — everything like what James described it to feel like.

If it was what he thought it was, Sirius wasn’t quite pleased with his newfound knowledge. He already had too much shit to deal with and certainly, someone like her was not worth it.

As the thought arose, there was something else that pulled him from these thoughts; it was the very shit that Sirius was dealing with, coming to haunt him again.

Regulus entered the Great Hall and Sirius had the urge to run to the nearest bin again. He hadn’t seen him since that night.

Within seconds, Regulus sensed his gaze and their eyes locked.

He wasn’t proud of Regulus, if anything, Sirius resented him — hated him and his entire body spiked in anger as he stared at him. He chose his path. But he couldn’t help but feel immense, dreadful guilt.

He could’ve done more, been there for him more, talked to him more. There were so many possibilities, so many outcomes and Sirius managed to end up with one of the worst paths imaginable.

He both wanted to scoop him up in his arms, cry — hold onto him tight like how they used to years ago, but the other part also wanted to take a Beater’s bat and swing a Bludger at his head.

His head shook slightly, just enough for Regulus to get the hint.

There was a hard, hopeless expression on Regulus’ face as he seemed to take a sharp inhale, his shoulders slumping within every passing second.

They were from two separate worlds, more evident than ever now. They weren’t brothers, not really.

Two of the brightest stars were torn apart forevermore.

Once the bell rang, Sirius sprang out of his seat and walked down the halls. He dodged owls, letters, chocolates and even a few love potions. There was a familiar void that punched its way through Sirius’ chest.

It was too early for firewhiskey, he couldn’t get knackered, he couldn’t talk to James, not when he was this happy and getting a pack of smokes from Remus — he’d bloody know within seconds what was wrong and call a Marauder's meeting or sort out some intervention for his sanity. Besides, he needed to apologize to Peter for how he acted that morning.

So the next best thing; snogging — a quick shag.

The next girl that tossed a flirtatious wink his way, he immediately approached. She was pale, had brown hair, soft skin and he vaguely recognized her but couldn’t quite place it. They flirted, Sirius would suggest it, she smiled, nodding her head and giving out a breathless sigh as Sirius dove for her lips, walking into the nearest broom closet.

Things were fast, almost a blur. She reached down, fumbling with his buckle before it clanked to the floor; he unbuttoned her top, hoisting her up and pushing them against a wall. She let out soft whimpers and he groaned into her neck.

The sensation, the building pleasure had left as soon as it came, leaving him feeling empty once more. He peeled off the girl, checking if she was alright like every other time. He didn’t know her name, forgetting it, and smiled awkwardly as she dressed.

He watched her leave the broom closet, the door clicking softly behind her. He could hear the faint scuffle of her shoes as she skipped down the hall excitedly. She had gotten what she wanted, a piece of Sirius; the Sirius that he put out — the pretty, nicely packaged Sirius.

Bent down, sinking to the floor, rocking on the balls of his feet, arms wrapped tightly around his legs and his head resting on his knees; emotions pooled through Sirius, attacking his frail heart.

Sirius laughs; it was dry, sad, pathetic, defeated. It was hard enough to hide with smiles, pranks, the random girls, sex, but those happy hormones that he craved, it was never, ever enough.

He couldn't go on like this, he had to fix something because something else was bound to break.

His laughing became strained as the walls of his throat began to close, eyes filling with tears. But now, finally alone, he let them cascade freely as his quiet sobs echoed in the dusty closest.

Love isn’t a magic potion.

━━━━━━━━━༻✩༺━━━━━━━━━

【I hope it was clear in this chapter that in no way am I trying to romanticize Sirius's trauma】

[therealjambery]

Wrote some Winterhawk drabbles today and thought I'd share. While I completely failed at writing one that was 100 words, I got inspired and am expanding one of them as we speak. Thanks to the @winterhawk-olympic-bang crew for running a fun event!

-----

Prompt: Clint's latest novelty arrow

Clint woke with a snort to find Natasha looming over him.

"Explain," Natasha said through clenched teeth, dropping an arrow onto his chest. Glitter puffed out of the cap at the end, coating his t-shirt and drifting in between the couch cushions.

"April Fools?" He sat up, ignoring the fact that he was spreading glitter all over his pants, the couch, the floor.

"Clint." Natasha closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "It's July."

He shrugged. "It's edible."

Bucky appeared behind Natasha and raised an eyebrow. "You two look very festive."

Lightning quick, Clint and Natasha's eyes met. He nodded. She grinned. As one, they tackled Bucky to the floor. The arrow rolled under the couch, forgotten.

-----

Prompt: dancing OR can I have a hug [both of which I failed to fill]

"You all right there, pal?"

Clint looked up, swaying against the dumpster and wincing as gravel ground into his knee. "Yup." He held his hand up, index finger and thumb creating a circle, other three fingers stiff. "A-okay."

Bucky frowned and knelt down beside him to look under the dumpster. "Ah," he said. "I see." He reached under the receptacle, stretching his arm out fully. "Come on out, little guy."

There was a tiny hiss and a surprised squeak, then he withdrew triumphantly, holding a tiny white kitten gingerly in his metal hand. He held it out to Clint.

"No," Clint said. "He's definitely for you."

-----

Prompt: hospital visiting hours

Clint hated hospitals, had since he was a kid. He hated the sharp antiseptic and latex smell that lingered in his nose, hated the squeaky floors, hated the constant low level background noise, hated the beeping machines, scratchy sheets, and the cold breeze on his ass that meant he was wearing a hospital gown.

He climbed over the edge of the roof, carefully banishing his memories of other hospitals, other injuries, and slowly rappelled down to the window he had targeted. Despite the bright lights inside (another thing he hated), it was dark outside, the moon just a sliver in the sky. He let himself hang in his harness, struggling to get the latch to pop open until the creak of the window to his left opening stopped him.

Bucky leaned on the window frame, arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line like he was trying not to smile. "Ya couldn't wait for visiting hours?"

-----

Prompt: drinking alone

The bar was Bucky's favorite kind of bar - worn in around the edges, the long wooden bar top rubbed smooth by decades of hard drinking. He slid onto a stool at the end, leaned his back against a wall so he could keep an eye on the room and the door at the same time.

The guy tending bar was his kind of guy, too. Tall with broad shoulders and eyes that said he laughed a lot. He was laughing now, at something the redhead at the other end of the bar had said, and was still chuckling as he made his way over to Bucky.

He leaned a hip on the bar, smiling. "What can I get you?"

Bucky let a smile steal over his face to match; it settled into a smirk as he saw the guy's breath catch, just a little. "Your name and a shot of Jack, for starters," he said.

"Clint." The guy winked and held out a hand. "And you are?"

"James." He took Clint's hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, winking back as Clint laughed.

"Well James," Clint said as he reached up to grab a dusty bottle off the top shelf, "a guy as smooth as you deserves better whisky than Jack Daniels." He leaned the other direction and snagged two lowball glasses out of the drying rack next to the sink, setting them in front of Bucky with a clink. When he turned his head, Bucky could see a purple hearing aid tucked around his ear. "And he sure as hell doesn't deserve to drink alone," he finished, pouring two fingers of liquor into each glass with a flourish.

[bornspellcaster]

Late Night Antics

(Philip has always had such a difficult time tiring himself out before bed, and his older brother better do something about that or else he’s never going to get to sleep!

This version of Wittebro, Howell, belongs to my good friend @lawfulwittebaby…and is inspired by many rps of these goofs)

Howell sighed as he carefully hung up his and his brother’s jackets on the coat rack outside of their door. “Kiki is going to kill us,” he grunted angrily as he rubbed a smudge of dirt on his cheek. He was so exhausted he didn’t even feel like properly cleaning his face off, only wanting the comfort of his feathered pillow.

“At least we managed to get some fairy wings for her to make one of those fairy pies she loves so much. Hopefully that will sweeten the woman up?”

“Only until she sees the holes in my jacket that she just mended for me,” Howell said dryly as his head fell heavily against his pillow. “Not to mention the holes those fairies made in my arms…”

“Weren’t they just amazing though?”

“Yes, I love the part where I was almost eaten…” Howell mumbled and shut his eyes, tilting a brow up when he felt his bed shift.

“They seemed so charming until they tried to murder us. I wonder what it is about them that makes them so bloodthirsty. What’s your theory, Howell?”

“Maybe it’s all the snapping berry pies you eat…” his older brother yawned and Philip let off a slight snicker. “Makes you taste good.”

“From what Kiki tells us, they seem to have some strange affinity for meat. I wonder why. I’m tempted to capture one and study it…”

“Philip, you better let me sleep…” The slight growl was lost on his brother, and even with his face pushed into the feathered pillow, he could feel the heavy weight of the young man practically sitting on his back with a grunt.

“But Howie, just think about all the amazing things we’ve yet to see in this new realm! We’ve only been here a little more than a month and already we’ve witnessed such incredible creatures! So…fantastic and grotesque, and horrifying.”

His older brother just barely lifted his face from his pillow, slivers of moon through the window shining down on his deadpan expression. “Can’t I think about that tomorrow? I’m exhausted.”

He’d already had to rescue his little brother from a horde of angry fairies today and could still feel the sting of teeth marks on his forearms. That was enough to damper anyone’s spirits. He didn’t have the energy to deal with his rambunctious antics tonight.

“But Howie, I still want to talk!” Philip’s hand took a fistful of flannel from his sibling’s night shirt, trying to tug him back into a more lucid state. “I’ve recorded a bunch of new notes that I want you to read! Did you know that fairies-“

Finally, the thoroughly annoyed man sat up in his bed. “Yes I probably do know, considering I’m the one that had to save your hide from being eaten by them today! It’s late, now go to sleep Philip! I’m not telling you again!”

The sharp tone made the younger brother flinch and Howell internally winced at the crestfallen expression on Philip’s face. After a moment, his gaze hardened, mouth shivering in hurt. “Hmm.”

Howell’s shoulders fell slack with guilt as he watched his little brother storm back towards his own bed. He fell heavily on it and glared up at the ceiling. Howell immediately noted how close he looked to tearing up and sighed.

He was about to apologize verbally when Philip turned abruptly towards the wall. A devious idea came to mind and the oldest Wittebane brother smirked. Reaching towards their glass lantern, he extinguished the flame.

As quiet as an echo mouse, Howell slid slowly out of bed and started to creep across the wooden floors towards his brother’s bed. Philip didn’t anticipate a thing, at least not until he felt his older brother tackle him to the floor, and he screamed.

Blindsided, Philip winced as they both took a tumble and the silver sheen of moonbeams illuminated a surprisingly mischievous look on his older brother’s face. Confused, irritated, and still hurt, Philip crossed his arms and glared at the wall.

“What are you doing?” he griped quietly. “I’m doing what you want and I’m leaving you alone and I’m going to sleep.”

Howell shrugged at him. “Ah, I don’t think you’re quite ready for bed yet, baby brother,” he said with a wistful sigh to the suspicious younger man. “You need to work off all that pent up energy. But how to do it…”

As he spoke his fingers casually and maliciously tapped his belly as if in thought. Realizing his older brother’s intentions, Philip’s eyes bulged out and he gasped with a small thrill of excited dread, fighting back a smile.

“I-I don’t need to work anything off, Howie!” Philip squealed as he subtly tried to wriggle away from his older brother, already fighting giggles of anticipation and from the gentle little taps. “I’m tired now, I promise!”

“Ohhh I don’t think you’re quite there yet!” Howell teased and he just barely started skittering his fingers along his brother’s shirt. Instant giggles burst out of the poor guy. He was never able to hold in his laughter. “Fortunately, your big brother has just the cure for extra energy and sadness!”

“N-no, I’m not sad or energehehetic!” Philip whined through a stream of giggles. “I-I’m quite hahappy and t-tired!” Philip’s adorably boyish laughter began to pick up in volume and pitch.

Tickle time, an often done activity between the two brothers, was their favorite thing to do together. They always loved the silliness of it all, the trust they held in the activity itself, and invoking the most adorable giggly sounds out of the other. Kiki did call them Squeakerbanes for a reason after all. With siblings as rambunctious as the two of them…it was quite the normal in the cottage.

“Howie nohohohoho!” Philip squealed and kicked, his bubbly laughter getting more intense and his kicking got more wild as his brother further pinned him. This always meant the worst was to come.

“Sorry little brother, but with the fairies having attacked us earlier, I should probably make sure you don’t have any injuries.”

“YOU ALREADY DIIIID!” Philip squealed, his eyes crinkled shut in glee. He’d turned an adorable pink from his sibling’s playful teasing. As Howell poked around for ‘injuries’ Philip grabbed a bushel of his ponytail to muffle his laughter into it. “HOWIIIEEE I’M NOT INJURED!” he shrieked out through happy cackles, being driven up a wall by his ruthless sibling.

“You sure? I got a few bites on the arms,” Howell pretended to muse as his sinister smirk seemed to darken. “Maybe we should check around your arms to make sure you didn’t get any.” Even in the limited light source, he was sure Philip had gone pale knowing what that meant and Howell laughed.

“NOHOHO HOWIE!” Philip squealed and wiggled as Howell’s fluttering fingers drifted threateningly higher. His desperation started to grow. “Please…!” he squeaked out, but it was to no avail as his brother dug his hands under his arms. He chuckled when Philip instantly screamed and jolted, kicking so hard now he looked like he was trying to peddle up into the sky.

“Where are you trying to go?” Howell smiled impishly as he watched the poor man start going into near hysterics. His face was turning red. Sensing he was near his limit, Howell had one more trick up his sleeve.

Philip’s laughter momentarily died down as his brother’s hands pulled away, but when he saw the glint in his eyes and watched him bend down, he knew why. Panic ensnared him and his kicking just became wild now.

“NONONO!” he shrieked before even feeling the awful sensation. He wriggled and he squirmed and he tried to tug at his brother’s hands pinning him down. “I’ll be good! I’ll go to bed! I’ll be happy! I’ll never bother you again! Howie please ANYTHINGBUT-“

He was cut off by the loud vibrating sound as his brother firmly planted his face over his belly and blew a fierce series of raspberries.

Philip thrashed and his feet drummed against the floors to try and bear the awful sensations sending shockwaves across his entire stomach. He couldn’t speak or barely breathe, unable to do much but to laugh and screech and rapidly toss his head from side to side. “HOWIEEE! I’M SORRY, I’M SORRYYYY!” His brother blew a final good raspberry, and the poor younger’s laughter had gone silent as tears of mirth pricked the corner of his eyes.

Howell laughed and he delicately replaced his sibling’s shirt, Philip finding himself pulled up from the floor and into his brother’s arms as he carried him over to bed. “Well, looks like someone is all tired out.”

“F-for the next…c-centureehee…” Soft giggles came from the young man as he continued to twitch. He squeaked with a snort when his brother poked him in the belly.

“Knowing you, you’ll be up in the next two hours again,” Howell teased his brother and shrugged. “Of course if you are, I'll just tire you out until you fall asleep completely this time.”

He lowered the younger Wittebane onto the bed, but before he could step away from the bed, he found the hem of his shirt seized and squealed as he was yanked down onto the bed.

“What are you in such a hurry for? Why don’t you stay with me for the night?”

Howell’s eyes went wide as he struggled to get away from his brother’s restricting hug and he burst into bubbly laughter himself when he felt his brother’s fingers skitter along his own stomach.

“Hehehey! Oh s-so much for you being exhausted, you lihittle gremlin!” His laughter spiked in surprise when Philip started nuzzling him. “Ahahare we going for round two little brother?”

“And I’m going to be winning this one!”

With the warm sounds of Wittebane laughter filling the room, neither brother even realized a tired house spirit as she opened the door a sliver, filling the room with candle light. Kiki sighed and shook her head with an inkling of fondness on her lips.

It didn’t look like anyone would be sleeping much tonight…

[nekokennedychan-blog]

Medicrinn Chapter One

Self Insert F!Eivor/Female Reader. Intuition is something one should never ignore. The wind will always hint at what is to come.

Masterlist here.

Trigger Warnings: VERY Graphic depictions of violence, blood, and death. Themes of depression and solitude.

A/N: First ever fanfic. I don’t know what I'm doing. I have absolutely no idea how far this will take me, but I've been inspired by so many writers in this community and of course by lovely Eivor. This is the first chapter. Very little Eivor here. Some building up of our lead's personality and a little history. But don’t worry. Eivor is coming. And it’ll get sexy. Eventually. feedback welcome. I am newborn child with no idea what I'm doing. Please help me.

The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange, blue, and purple, stars already twinkling in the darkest areas of the sky. A large crescent sliver sat on the western edge, the sight of the moon reminding you of a grinning wolf. There was something in the air tonight. Something that made your skin crawl, contrasting with the gorgeous end of the day. It unsettled you, though you couldn't pin point what the actual problem could be.

You bent down and continued to gather the calendula that grew on the hill here. You were running low as the monastery you lived on the edge of had recently begun to acquisition you for as much of your healing ointments as you could make. You didn't keep up with what monks of Beodoricsroth involved themselves with, but you were thankful for the patronage. It wasn't often the Holy men would seek outsiders for medical remedies, and they paid very handsomely. You had heard talk amongst your neighbors about some unrest due to some type of savage raiders.

Perhaps that is what has them panicked…

You gathered as much as your satchel could handle, and glanced at the moon. A burst of wind caused the unsecured pieces of hair to obscure your vision, bringing with it an icy chill. Rubbing your arms and pulling your furs closer to yourself, you turned to your dale. His large black eyes watched you closely as he huffed, seemly agreeing with your inner thoughts.

"We should get back, Fallon. The winds tell of misfortune today."

Mounting the tall horse quickly, you dug your boots into his sides and pushed him to a full lope, guiding him down the familiar path home with ease. As you got closer to town, dark clouds rolled across the sky, bringing with it sharp gusts of cold wind and the smell of coming rain. The familiar lighted windows of families already settled for the night greeted you are you slowed your steed on the main road of the outwr abbey.

You moved through the settlement quickly, to a lone house with a small stall to its left. Quaint but well kept, your home was the only thing left to you when your parents passed. Pink flowers peppered the yard, bringing you back four autumns in your mind.

Taken within weeks of each other, the fever and sickness did not take your parents swiftly enough. You could smell the posies your father had made you bring into the home. You remember crying as you gathered them, as your father had given you all his knowledge, as they would be used to hide the stench of their coming deaths. You couldn’t bring yourself to pull the bushes up.

Once grounded, you pulled Fallon into his stall, tossed him some hay, and hurried through your front door, carrying in your collections of the day. The strong smell of multiple herbs greeted you, and you fumbled for the candle you kept just inside. Once lit, the medical storehouse that was your home was brought into pale focus.

The flickering light, coupled with the feeling of dread pitting in your stomach, the made many candles, dried herbs, and vials laid out take on a sinister appearance. You hastened to light the hearth to dispel the illusion.

Notes in your flowing chirography littered almost the whole table you set your satchel on, each one depicting in detail different cures, remedies, and treatments. You liked being thorough and enjoyed carrying on your father’s work. It made for a very singular existence, as no sane man wanted an independent and intelligent woman. Perhaps spending so much time alone was making you nervous. The dark evening and spooky feelings were surely just your loneliness taking a toll on your psyche.

You slid the furs from your shoulders, hanging the coat over the small bench at the table. You sat on top of it, reaching down to pull the expensive leather riding boots from your sore feet. Unlacing the black outer dress at your chest, you shook it from your shoulders and let it fall to the floor, leaving you in the white underdress you would wear to bed. Lifting a pot of water, you hung it up over the fire and began prepping a small portion of meat.

A good supper and a night's rest through the coming storm would bring a better tomorrow. Or so you told yourself.

------------

Acrid smoke. That is the smell that woke you from a dreamless sleep. Fumbling on the stand next to your bed, you managed to light a candle. Thick smoke filled your home, but the smell of it was of nothing within. Confused and sleep dazed, you tumbled out of your fur blankets and slipped on your simple house shoes.

Once standing, and with a gust of wind from the slatted window, it was clear that the smoke was being pushed inside. At the moment of this understanding also came the awareness of sound - that of screaming, metal on metal, and the terrible sound of a maelstrom, all entwined together. No sooner does this register for you, and before any decision or action can be taken, does the door to your home splinter violently open. An armored man tumbles through the ruined door, the red and silver armor marking him clearly as one of Aelfred's men. Frozen, you watched as the man raised himself to his knees, his brown eyes meeting yours through the opening in his helmet.

"Apothecary," he wheezed, reaching out a hand towards you, "we need..." The man never finished his sentence. With a whistling sound, an axe cleanly sliced through the male's throat, embedding itself in the wall next to the fireplace. You watched in horror as the man's mouth hung open and his head fell from his shoulders, rolling across the floor. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating the walls and ground. You dropped your light and rushed forward, sliding across the slick wood, trying to get to the only weapon you kept in your home.

A flash of lightening temporarily drew your attention to the now hole of a front door, and your heart stopped beating. Standing in the opening was a tall figure. Covered head to toe in sliver armor and black furs, stood a Viking. Braided blonde hair hung over the warrior's shoulder, the shaved side of her head decorated with tattoos. Fresh blood spatter danced across her scarred face, drawing your eyes to bright green ones accentuated with charcoal war paint. And in her left hand, from the peripherals of your vision, was an axe - one you were sure matched the one in your wall.

[heli0s-writes]

summer skin

Summary: A road trip with friends towards new beginnings and endings. Based off this ask (thank you for the inspiration, even though it... is different)! Part 2  Music: Death Cab for Cutie- Summer Skin

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

A/N: 2.2k words. Soft Bucky. Pining. Yearning. A little angst.

Dewy with sweat. Briny with exertion. Sweet and tangy and whipping through the car, chased by dry wind. Steve in the driver’s seat, Nat riding shotgun. Shades perched on her nose bridge, red pout gloriously bright against the sunset backdrop.

There’s something poetic about a mid-June drive in a rickety car from 1992. Maroon burgundy with the paint peeling off. Dry snakeskin ridged cellophane on rolled down windows, crinkling a static refrain as it flaps violently against the glass pane.

The air conditioning doesn’t work, so you all make do with dry Arizona wind sweeping through. Blessedly, if it pleases, surging down the neckline of your shirts, cooling your backs for only a second. A small ice chest is under your foot, full of popsicles and Gatorades. The trash bag is shoved next to Bucky, overflowing with crushed plastic and stained wood sticks.

“You alright?”

A bead rolls down your brow, gets lost in the damp hair coiled by your ear. Bucky reaches over, taps on your foot and you pull back, letting him dig around in the icebox. He tears open a packet with his teeth. “Here.”

A small smile as you take it from his slack grip. Electric blue like the way he shocks you with his touch.

The sugared ice slides right down your throat and soothes the fever in your fingertips. A clatter of the visor’s mirror slides open and Natasha looks at your reflection before she pushes her glasses up again.

Bucky is already returned to his side, staring out the gaping window, hair rushing over his beautiful face.

-

She did it on purpose.

Worse than the barrage of personal questions to pass time on a long drive.

Worse than the idea of possible bed-sharing—the suggestion that turned you hotter than the solstice itself until you ducked your head behind Steve’s seat.

Natasha purposefully arranged for a stop at dusk.

A little cabin by the lake, overgrown with wildflower and cattails, buzzing alive with nighttime insects and the siren call of gentle waves. Three single beds. Irritatingly odd-numbered.

Natasha suggests a swim before disembarking and how can they say no?

Steve dives in first, stripped down completely to his boxers. He’s been burning up, he says. Can’t stand it anymore. His blonde head looks ash-brown in nightfall, breaking the water with a joyful gasp and then he’s off, streaking through ink with long strokes.

“Come on!” Natasha’s fireside voice rings with invitation as she wades into the deep.

Dragonflies hover over their sopping heads. Under the rising moon she grins dazzlingly. A gesture from her pale hand before it wraps around Steve’s chest and he glides off with her pressed to his back, sharp profiles catching dim refractions.

On the dock, you warily dip your feet, waiting for a little privacy to stoke your confidence.

The night air is sludge and heat. Humid and thick. Sweet like molasses warming in the oven. You want to tumble in, too. Desperate to flood the oppressive weight of perspiration out of your pores, but the luggage is still in the car. There will be no towel to conceal your modesty afterwards. Who knows where the keys are.

A creak of the wood panels alerts you to his arrival. Bucky is quiet when he sits, one knee pulled up to his chest while the other leg slinks down by your side, ankle brushing yours in the water. A pleased sigh rolls through him at the temperature.

There is discomfort. His foot retreats with the shift of your atmosphere. Always too itchy in your own skin. Afraid of being seen, noticed, thought about. He’s good at hearing your silence. Good at reading your language.

Bucky hums a patient tune, leans back on both palms and you watch the moonlight drape his bare chest like a shroud. Glowing the palest of blue as if it’s transmuted from the hue in his very eyes. He slips in before turning back to where you sit.

“Will you swim?”

He glistens like a god come to drown you in the sweetest of dreams. It makes your heart plummet to its death on the heels of his departure when you shake your head.

-

They float lazily around each other while you lie on the dock, contemplating under Orion and Canis Major if the next swath of clouds might be enough cover. Your tummy quivers at the thought, memory from the car ride mounting together with dread.

Next to Natasha, you feel little more than an eyesore. Hair never settling right, body too little or too much in places, complexion dotted with flaws and scars and how could—

“Hey.”

He’s peering up beneath the slits of wood, single cyclops eye finding you through a perfectly sized hole. You turn on your tummy and blink, looking back down. “Hey.”

A blue marble floating in the lake. A glittering star in outer space. He blinks at you from one end of the telescope. You blink back from the other. And then Bucky pokes his finger through the groove and skims your eyelashes with a gentle brush.

A scrunch of your nose and you sit up with a giggle, quieting to listen to the noise of laughter and conversation in the distance. Steve and Natasha are far off. Bucky wades back up to grab the edge and yanks himself out, muscles flexing as he lifts effortlessly. Cool trails drip off his shoulders and plunks on your exposed knee, frayed edges of your shorts catching wet.

He is dewy with moonbeam. Beautiful in his summer skin.

Soft and aglow, squeezing the water from his tresses, he looks over at you.

Your breath rushes out like a current as Bucky turns, reaching in slow-motion, or what feels like it as your blood thumps in your ears. The first button of your sandy linen shirt squeaks through its eyelet. He’s close. Nose nearly touching your cheek, hair centimeters away from your jaw.

The wind gusts by, lifts wet tendrils of his locks onto your newly exposed collar, pulling forth a shudder. Under the night, your goosebumps prickle awake, stinging your chest with apprehension.

“Did it get to you?”

He’s careful with the next one, tugging on the fabric just so, keeping his head still, eyes focused on the task at hand. You can feel his breath on your shoulder and wring your hands nervously in your lap.

“A little.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

“Yeah.”

The personal thing. The question that clung to you worse than the sticky aftermath of sweat. The settling realization of something unrequited. Have you ever been in love?

And everyone else said, yes.

The slip of your shirt from both shoulders draws your attention back to him, fingers faithfully working on the last clasp. Bucky swallows when he looks up, softness sweeping over his features at your expression. A lopsided smile begins to bloom first on the left side, then the right until it becomes the perfect symmetrical curve you adore.

His fingers brush over your bare collar and down your arm. Not the first time he’s helped you undress. Missions with bullet wounds in your side have seen to that practice more than once. Destroyed all the magic an intimate moment could have had with the ripping sounds of your suit between his panicked hands.

But there is magic, now. Suddenly. Mid-June under a cacophony of sizzling wings. A slow swelling of it like the crest of a wave as it licks your ankle, asking to submerge you entirely.

Bucky places his hand on your chin, a light stroke of his thumb and pointer, and it feels like a firework. Scorching hot, igniting every nerve ending. He doesn’t wait for either protest or approval. Instead, he slides back into the darkness, extending only his hand. The surface glistens like a beacon, slivers bouncing light over his eyes. His left shoulder even brighter.

Have you ever been in love?

You wanted to say yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course I have. He’s right next to me and of course I am.

“Will you swim?”

A gulp. Nerves caught like an enormous dry pill stuck in your throat, but both feet dip slowly. The water reaches your calves soon enough, and then you’re moving to the edge, arms shaking not from holding yourself up, but from the fear.

He splashes forward, laughing a little because you’ve still got shorts on. Treading effortlessly, one hand reaches under your thigh, arm bent ninety degrees to sit you into the lake.

Down, down, until the both of you are submerged to your shoulders, limbs keeping bodies afloat with gentle motions. The heat leaks from every single pore, melting right into the waves oscillating from two suspended bodies. He strokes the wet hair from your forehead.

Shyly, with his hand still by your ear, eyes glowing the deepest of blues underneath the night, he whispers, “I would hang the moon for you, you know that?”

And it’s just his way, isn’t it? To smile and wait, look so peaceful while your heart howls for him. To say I love you without ever having to say it at all.

You alright? Will you swim? Did it get to you? Have you ever been in love?

I would hang the moon for you, you know that?

Summer skin and magic. A mess of freckles on your shoulder and back, and Bucky traces them with his eyes and fingers. Steve and Natasha race each other to the shore and scoop clothes into their arm. “First come, first serve on the beds!”

With a holler, they tear away, feet padding over the grass and dirt.

The too much or too little, soft flesh or not, flaws and scars drop into the depths when Bucky splashes you with a sweep of his hand. Returning the favor, the wave you push forward crashes over his head and then the fight ensues. The lake is disturbed with shrieks and sputters—you, ducking under to grab his legs, him, pulling you up to kiss your mouth.

Briny. Wet. Lake water and spit exchanged, Bucky holding you close so that the current between churns balmy with his heat. Then, a parting.

“I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”

He quiets your worries with his lips once more. A low purr.

“Stay awake with me. Won’t need to fight over it if we don’t sleep.”

A press of his stubble to your neck and then more kisses follow. You don’t quite know what it means, this affection. Transient poetry, at least. Requited love, if only.

The last stop of Arizona is the punctuation mark on your time with the Avengers. Returned to the human world with an ailing father and two younger sisters. Your closest friends fulfilling your parting request: a road trip. A single human artifact to herald the beginning of your civilian life.

Only a few more hours until the car brakes and he’s gone for good. Back into the fray.

Only a few hours until sunrise. You’re counting them along with your heartbeat.

Under the moon, his eyes sparkle like gems.

“Stay awake with me.” Bucky pleads, linking fingers through yours in the darkness. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

His quiet way, his patient way, his careful way. Loving you without loving you. Telling you without telling you. Secret languages finally understood.

-

The axels squeak when Steve pulls into the fast-food drive-thru. Try as you might to stay awake, to watch him a little longer, the rocking lullaby of the car on the road is too much to fight.

Morning broke over the treescape early, shone white and livid into your tired eyes. Steve found the two of you lying on the dock, fingers entwined and in conversation at the end of his morning run. Grinned down his sweat-slick nose and jerked his head in the direction of the car. Bucky tapped on your hand, pulled you up with him, and let you shower first.

The intercom sputters to life—a young boy’s voice greeting mechanically but trying nonetheless to adhere to southern hospitality best he can. Your neck is stiff and aching, but you can’t bring yourself to fully wake. Against his shoulder, Bucky’s shirt rubs your cheek, smelling like the compound’s crisp detergent.

The morning is warming, chasing away the night’s cool salve. The first filmy layer of sweat begins to condense on your brow. Steve orders four breakfast meals but your stomach sours at the thought of grease. A tiny groan as you ponder it, stirring when the car lurches on toward the window.

The arm around your body shifts, fingers stroking your elbow lightly.

“You alright?” Soft. Quiet. A language only for you.

A shake of your head, because you’re not. He smiles into your hair, scrubs his growing beard playfully over your scalp. Bucky leans slowly, keeping you steady against him, reaching beneath his foot where the icebox sits. A crinkle and a tear. He spits the plastic from his teeth.

“Here, sweetheart.”

Another kiss pressed to the top of your head and you don’t know if you should laugh or cry when he places the popsicle against your lips. Like yesterday, it’s blue.

Blue like his summer skin under the moon. Blue like the salt pooling in your eyes. Blue like how you’ll miss him.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes @crist1216 @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs @pinknerdpanda @xoxabs88xox @imsoft-barnes @momc95 @typicalangel @wretchedgoddess @readeity @iwannasail @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​ 

[jeyned]

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