#'HICCUP WITH A STEEL CHAIR'

[alkalinefrog]

I couldn’t get this conversation with @jjackfrost out of my head

[zombified-queer]

Last night, I ended up in a hysterical crying fit over Cytherea's funeral in Harrow the Ninth (the lipstick! her treating them like cousins she was bored of! valancy was there!) and snapped myself out of it by going "AND HERE COMES HARROW WITH THE HAUNTED SWORD!!!" like a WWE announcer.

[raineandsky]

#97

“[Villain].” The supervillain beckons them closer from around the door. “I think you might like this one.”

He’s in their little captive room; being a criminal organisation has made them improvise their spaces. A hero is tied to the rickety chair in the middle of the room, ignoring them both with their head bent. A rare sight, and a nice one at that. A sight that suggests a hint of winning.

“Wait,��� the supervillain says softly.

They wait. Nothing happens. “[Supervillain], what—”

A sound breaks through their question. A sniffle. The villain ducks slightly to look at the hero’s face, catching the glistening trail of long-since shed tears on their cheeks. Catching heroes is rare enough, but having them cry about it? Gold.

The supervillain flashes them a quick grin. “Wait ‘til you hear their cover story.”

The villain steps forward and flops down in the seat in front of the hero. The hero keeps their head ducked, holding back shuddering breaths, and the villain simply waits for acknowledgement.

Waiting is in vain, it seems. The hero refuses to look up, even when they clear their throat expectantly.

“I thought heroes were meant to be made of steel,” they comment eventually.

The hero finally looks at them, and the villain only feels slightly bad about the miserable quiver of their mouth and the leaking of their eyes. “I’m not a hero,” they say shakily.

The villain raises their eyebrows. Denial’s a new one. “He must have told you that!” the hero continues, their gaze set on the supervillain at the door, and on the last word they break down into tears.

The villain glances back at the supervillain and he throws them another elated smirk. The slightly bad feeling they felt suddenly splits into painful worry.

They turn back to the hero and open their mouth to say something, but it occurs to them they don’t know who the hero is. They’ve never seen them before.

The worry becomes gnawing.

“You’re not a hero,” the villain reiterates slowly, and the hero’s head snaps up faster than the villain thought they could move.

“Yes!” they cry. Hours of tears scratch at their throat. “Thank god, yes. I’m– I’m not a hero. The agency they– they took me off the street, I’m not a hero or anything or– I’m not anything to do with them I swear please the agency is just–”

“Stop,” the villain snaps, and the hero's words cut off abruptly. “The agency took you off the street?”

The hero nods as they gulp down another sob. “I don’t know why. They threw me out in a hero costume and told me to distract the villains, I don’t– I don’t know anything—”

“Hey,” the villain says smoothly. They scoot their chair closer to the hero’s. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re all here because we hate the agency, right?” They glance back to the supervillain, who’s looking rather unimpressed by this turn of events. “You’re on our side now.”

The sob escapes the hero’s throat this time. Or whoever they are. “I just want to go home,” they manage through the tears.

The villain fishes a tissue from their pocket, tipping the hero’s head back to carefully wipe some of the tears from their face. “I know,” they say softly, “but the agency might be out searching for you right now. We’ll look after you until you can go home, okay?”

The hero hiccups their next breath. “T–Thank you.”

“I’ll get you back on your feet,” the villain says with a sigh. They glance back at the supervillain scowling from the door. “And [Supervillain] will go find whatever the hell the agency’s trying to distract us from.”

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "Candlelit Chat"

Ken found the new queen beneath the table in the great hall.

It took him a good while before he spotted her. Naturally, it was the tabletop that struck him first, littered with so much brik-a-brak it looked like a museum display case. Which wouldn’t have been terrible – Ken had once considered museum work before he took up the old armour and polish – but in this case it looked more like a display case after a hurricane and earthquake combination.

He sniffed disapprovingly. A dozen mismatched candles assaulted his nose with scents more confused than the Hobblepots’ shop. With so many, you wouldn’t have believed there was any need for twisting candelabras as well, but they had their place too, so many they felt more like watchfires than ambient lighting. Was this the reason while all the wall sconces had been doused dark? The tallest and twistiest dripped wax onto a stack of well-thumbed books. Inkwells of different colours were scattered here and there. One seemed to have upset, judging by the pile of napkins, still wet with green.  And as for papers – well, they were reason enough for Valanice to have chosen the grand table rather than her own desk. Loose, stacked, overlapping. Blank, blank except for a line or two, one full page scratched out. Doodles galore, and one paper with circles and spirals whirled all over it. Several with bullet lists. And many, many crumpled and spilling onto the plush red carpet.

Looking down at them was what made the guard notice the purple slippers sticking out from under the table.

Ken cleared his throat. “Madam?” Fully aware that she could probably see little more than his toes, he gave a sharp salute stamp with an ankle turn. Plausibly, it was the most visible way to show respect. More accurately, it was a chance to stamp at the queen for turning the throne room into the aftermath of a toddlers’ craft day.

“Oh!” came an embarrassed voice, followed by an overwrought giggle. The slippers slid out of view beneath the tablecloth. “Um, don’t mind me, guard. Just doing a project. Chasing inspiration, as you do. Sometimes it takes you strange places.”

“Everything shipshape down there?” Ken asked stiffly.

“Oh, more or less,” said the queen, a mite too cheerily.

“Can I be of assistance?”

“Oh, no, no! I’m fine! Peachy!”

He waited, but she said nothing more. “Very good, madam,” he said, and clamped his lip firmly shut to avoid adding a comment about the mess. He turned on his heel. Then he heard a hiccup and a loud, messy sniff.

Was Valanice crying? Ken crouched (always a tricky business in steel greaves) and lifted the edge of the tablecloth to peer beneath.

The queen sat wrapped in a yellow dressing gown, with her red hair tumbling over her hugged knees. She met his gaze with a grin and rolled her eyes. “Welcome to my cave.”

“Are well? Your eyes are rather red.”

She shrugged. “It’s only that I’ve been up late every night.”

“You are quite certain you’ve not been crying?”

Valanice hid her hands in her sleeves and began drumming her fingers nervously against each other through the fabric. “Actually I stopped crying at least half an hour ago. It’s just… not my coziest night since I arrived in Daventry.”

“Should I fetch the king?”

“No. No,” she said hurriedly. “He’s up to his ears in work tonight. And I’ve already been whining to him and he’s been lovely about it. And I don’t want to let him in for another round of it.”

Privately Ken doubted Graham prefer his bride hiding under furniture and weeping to simply talking it out again, but Valanice didn’t stop to let him interject.

“It’s not even anything big. It’s just. I’m sorry – do you want a seat? Plenty of chairs to choose from.” She wiped her misty eyes with her sleeve.

Ken shook his head. “I’d prefer to stand, if it’s all the same.”

“I might have known. Suit yourself.”

He wound the end of the cloth round a chair spindle, so he could see her without holding it up, and stood a little farther back so they were better in each other’s line of sight. Inside his helmet, Ken chewed his moustache. Though he didn’t think of himself as heartless, he sincerely hoped the tears would not return. What was the protocol on something like this? Probably he’d just get Graham whether she wanted him or not.

He had never quite been able to make heads or tails of how he ought to interact with this new addition to the royal household. It wasn’t because she was a woman, he felt certain. He got along like a house on fire with Roberta and the other female guards, as well as the townswomen. Nor were her manners alien. If anything, she sometimes seemed like a redheaded clone of Pockets, with her wild longing for adventure, her starry-eyed bouts of enthusiasm, and her awkward genuineness.

Perhaps it had more to do with how Queen Maylie’s reign alongside King Edward still felt so vividly recent to Ken. Never mind the twenty years since her death, give or take. He’d always had an amber memory. It had taken him years to default to thinking of Graham as king. He suspected it might take even longer to convince his reflexes that this dewy girl was really queen, however he might know it intellectually. And until those reflexes learned their way, he suspected chats with her were going to be a little cumbersome.

“The worst of it is that I know I’m being silly,” she murmured, “and know exactly how I ought to be handling it – but doesn’t quite translate. I’m not even sad, properly speaking. I just had a million things to get done on a short time frame and… Well, it’s just one of those days when I’ve missed a lot of sleep, and my mind mistakes it for sadness. Then it tries to figure out why I might be sad.”

Ken nodded. “And let me guess. It tries everything even remotely sad in your life on for size, even things that aren’t a problem right now, and suddenly – “

“Just so. Suddenly it’s all about all of them.” Valnice interrupted with a wan smile. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “I have had similar conversations with the king on occasion.”

That got a laugh from her. “Of course you have. Well, watch out, I may be about to spill everything.”

Remembering those discussions with Graham put Ken in mind (thank the shining stars!) of something he might say to suit the situation. “Since exploring all of them is only making it worse right now, what’s bothering you most right now?”

For the first time, she seemed hesitant. For all her assertions that she was being silly, she had seemed eager to talk until now. She took a deep breath. “Um. I’m frustrated because I don’t seem to be able to… um… be very creative right now.”

Again, a good thing he was wearing his helmet. None of this was coming naturally to Ken, and now this. He had expected something like the silly things that fretted her husband: overanalyzing an interaction, self doubt over ability to rule, nightmares. If lack of creativity was the worst of her  problems, he could only say she’d had it very easy indeed. But he couldn’t say that, of course.

“I know what you must be thinking.” She nearly blushed to match the carpet. “She could get through being kidnapped and imprisoned by a witch, and she’s crying about this? And I know that intellectually. But right now my mind has decided that the reason I’m off-kilter is because I haven’t written to my mother in months. It’s not so much that I feel guilty as that I keep trying, and I can’t seem to put my mind to it. I sat at that table for literal hours. Everyone always tells me I write incredible letters. I don’t just tell my news. I age the paper, and make sketches in invisible ink, and have all these different characters who are responsible for telling different parts of the letter. And I just can’t do it right now. I’m so exhausted. And I’ve been so tired for months, it sometimes feels like. I mean it’s been wonderful! I haven’t been unhappy! In fact I don’t think I’ve been unhappy till just now. I’m so, so happy with Graham, and I love Daventry, and being married, and all the newness, and I’m being so, so stupid.”

Valanice’s words poured out faster and faster. She wasn’t looking at him, but alternately looking at her own lacing and interlacing fingers and some space far off in the distance.  “And, and it’s not just the letters. I used to be a pretty good painter. I know you saw the avocado one. Don’t judge me on that one. I’ve actually done some that people really loved. And sometimes I compose for the lute, and all this has always been a huge part of who I am.” Her volume rose, and now the tears were certainly back. “And when I’m feeling down, what they always tell me is, ‘But you’re so creative!’ And I haven’t been in ages, and I feel like a fake. And I thought, ‘Don’t be down on yourself – you’ve just been busy with the wedding and settling in and everything! Everything that’s filling your life right now is so good, and you should be grateful, and soon you’ll have time again, and the creativity will come back!’ And probably it will, but every time I make time for it, it won’t come, and I just end up wasting time on things I don’t even really enjoy! I just love making beautiful things. I enjoy it. And I feel like I’ve lost that part of myself by not prioritizing it, and – I’ve been talking a long time and getting very loud, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Ken nodded, and nodded again. What was he to say after all that? Strangely, there was something that felt relatable in all of it, though he felt sure that had not got a creative bone in his body. Where was the relatability? He wasn’t sure, and heaven knew, he wouldn’t be able to place it before the silence grew too long. And that might be disastrous in her current state. So he went with the next best option. “And you told Graham about all this?”

She nodded. “He understood. And I felt better after we talked.” She was clearly trying hard to get her calm, even tone back. “Which is why this feels so ridiculous. I’ve already talked it out. But I’m still stringing it out. Maybe I just want to be miserable deep down, and I pull everyone else into it.”

Suddenly, he knew what to do. Ken found himself leaving his self-appointed post, and pulling a chair from the side of the table, close to the mouth of the “cave.” He leant over and placed a hand on her shoulder, as gently as he could in gauntlets. “I don’t pretend to know what to say, but Your Majesty, but I want you to know it doesn’t bother me that you’re telling me about it.”

Valanice met his gaze surprisingly well, considering she presumably couldn’t see his eyes. “You don’t seem very comfortable, and I don’t blame you.”

“I’m not comfortable. Because I want to say the right thing, and I don’t know what it is. But I am your sworn guard, madam. I find purpose in being there for Daventry’s royalty whenever they need me. In all honesty, Guard Number Two likely would know better how to be here for you in this particular situation, but I am here, and he is not. And -” (Did he really just say that? He gritted his teeth. Good stars above, but he was bungling this.)

She smirked. “It’s all right. I don’t quite know how to dig myself out of everything I just told you, and you don’t have to dig yourself out of that. We’re really not very good at this, either of us.”

“I should say not.” (Zards, zards, he was bungling this!)

They sat for some time in silence. A few of the tea lights doused themselves in hot wax. At last Valanice crawled out. She regarded the tabletop gravely. “Can we – can I take care of this in the morning?”

Ordinarily he would say no, but how could he under the circumstances? “Of course, madam.” He bowed.

“Thank you.” Before he could stand up straight from the bow, she closed the distance between them, and planted a kiss on the crown of his helmet. “Thank you, guard. I can’t believe how much that helped.”

What? Helped? That?

“I’m going to find Graham now. I am feeling a lot better now. Good night.” Valanice hurried from the room, pulling her dressing gown close about her.

He wasn’t sure Valanice even knew for certain which guard she had been talking to. And he really didn’t believe he had said the right things at all. But somehow, it had helped anyhow?

Ken began blowing out the candles.

[jadipose]

Detailed bad end: Somewhere, in the far corners of your mind, you know you need to tell someone about what's happening. You need to spread the word. You need to warn people. More than anything, though, you need to *stop eating.* You don't know how they got here, have only the vaguest idea of where they come from, and not a clue how they chose you. Sometimes you think you were just unlucky. Other times--when your mouth's contents make your fat cheeks bulge and you gulp down another painfully pleasurable meal--you think they chose you. There was a woman--blonde curls and motherly curves--and there was a cupcake on a silver platter, and you think she said it was a free sample. You ate it and she watched with shining golden eyes and you know now she wasn't human, that wasn't a normal cupcake, something's gone wrong-- The hunger took over within a matter of minutes. You came back to her booth and she was gone but the platter was there, and though you've lived your whole life aware of what people must think of your appetite and your weight and your figure, you couldn't help yourself. Trembling, knees knocking, hungrier than you've ever been in your life, you took the platter and you found a spot where hopefully no one could see and you crammed the cupcakes down your throat one by one by one, face burning with shame and arousal. The door opens, and one of her servants arrives, pushing a cart of sweet desserts and bubbling soda and cold beer. The servant presses a button and a machine whirs and the apparatus that keeps your enormous, gurgling body suspended from the ceiling lowers you a few feet, toward your waiting feast and the impassive creature with alien eyes. You left the place hungry, again, and made three trips through the nearest drive-thru, eating like an animal, stuffing your face until you were satisfied. You don't remember much after that...it's all become a blur: the job you lost for skipping shifts to pack in meals, the friends who watched, mortified, as you spent every waking hour eating and every saved cent on food. The clothes that split and tore as your hippo hips and blimp tits blew up, as your gravid gut grew heavier and rounder. Broken chairs and snapped belts and elevators that refused to move when you squeezed your enormous, lumbering frame inside. The people who tried to get you to listen, to look at yourself, to just *stop eating*...only for you to ignore them all, focused on nothing but your pleasure. Months went by, or maybe just days. You've been drunk or high or both for the whole thing, and it was only when you couldn't squeeze your fat ass through the doors to the only restaurant left in town that would serve you that she came back. Her servant is gone, and she's there, a slice of cake in hand, staring up at you with shining golden eyes. Sharp teeth, black tresses, motherly curves. She's their leader, their queen. What she's done to you, she intends to do to Earth. She's packaged up the chemical that caused this and set up shop all across the planet and you need to warn people, you need to do something, you need to *stop eating--* She pats your head affectionately and coos as she pushes the cake past your lips, and you moan, and you're eating like your life depends on it again. You've seen her other pets; some human, some aliens like her, seen how enormously obese they've gotten and heard their desperate mewling whines as they stuff their fat faces. You've heard dull, wet bangs behind steel doors. You are the fattest human being that has ever existed. You dwarf all her other projects, suspended in this dark room, a fat, jiggling food balloon who can't control herself any longer. You know, logically, that your body can only stretch so far... The grinning devil beneath you, with her golden eyes and burning horns, pushes another treat between your lips. You feel your entire body surge and pulse...just a hiccup. For now.

i simply have no+ wo+rds fo+r ho+w into+ this i am, so+ I’m just go+nna po+st as-is. yo+u sure kno+w ho+w to+ fluster a big girl…..

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

when will cleo and frankie come back from the war... i miss them...

they're just two dramatic no thoughts idiots. or in frankie's case too many thoughts but same effect. this is not a couple with a sensible one and a wild one- these are two monsters careening through the world at full energetic speed with the best intentions and ZERO concept of what might happen next, like cats with paper bags stuck on their heads, except one hiccups lightning and the other can summon bug swarms and curses

like there's a few times in their main ep where it aaaaalmost looks like Frankie has the brain cell??? but it's really more like- frankie has one brain cell in that episode, and it's got Cleo's name etched all over it

you rattle Frankie in that ep and they'd make noises like there was a loose pinball ricocheting around their head, bouncing from one Cleo related thought to another. they are laser focused on her, so they anticipate and notice stuff- she is their hyperfixation (she's so much fun to look at and listen to i can't blame them At All)

and i just love love love love love that for someone like Cleo, who's spent the whole show up to now somehow juggling a Deep NEEED To Be Loved And Popular And Noticed For Once while also just being the most supportivest ghoul ever? not just to close friends but doing the organizing work behind school events? and we see her SEE she isn't popular like her friends are? and instead of jealousy she just uses supporting clawdeen as an excuse to also maybe up her own popularity via humans???? like she puts so much energy into other people and being noticed by them and and and

here comes frankie with steel chair (homemade jewelry actually) (for cleo) (because they've spent the whole ep dedicating 100% of all their brains' power into figuring out what she likes and when she's sad and how to cheer her up again)

i want them back i want them baaaaaack. i just wanna see them hang out more. let me watch cleo being awkwardly adored by the franken monster and shyly learning to love every minute of it. it's all i ask, please

(well no i also need clawdeen to get her mom back asap and for drac to tell her dad she's a proud practicing witch)

(and for lagoona to eat someone)

(like on screen off screen, the person was here a moment ago, and then lagoona Grinned, and now lagoona is lovingly adding a new set of bones to her frienemies pile) (it would bring me great Joy)

[lightsoutmotel]

REPAYMENT WITH INTEREST. — m!Avery x gender neutral reader.

Description — Your dad takes care of you. All you want to do is show a little gratitude.

Content Warnings — Incest, daddy kink, reader has a cunt, unprotected sex, mild dubcon (reader surprises Avery with being forward but he ends up being into it)

Word Count — 2288

Getting your dad's attention has always been hard. It's a competition between his work and you, you and his work, and you are more of a fixed point in his life than the whimsy of the stock market, so he expects you to always be right where you're supposed to be. Occupied with your diversions except for when it's dinnertime, vacation time, or the odd occasion when he lets you join him for a social function.

It's the last one that you like best.

At first, you thought it was because of how exciting it is to go where all the beautiful, powerful people play, surrounded by glamour and excess. It's almost always nicer than going to school or work.

But in actuality, there's always one moment you return to: your fixed point in your relationship with him.

You were just being cute, hanging onto his arm with your head leaned against him; one of your not-so-subtle tells that you're finished for the night and want to go back to the hotel room. The conversation he was caught in kept dragging on and you knew better than to interrupt.

Someone else did that for you, though, slipping into the conversational circle with lighthearted greetings, and you offered whoever it was a polite smile that showed your tiredness around the eyes.

"Aren't you a sleepy thing," this new person observed with a laugh. "Avery, you should be spiriting your partner away to bed, don't you think?"

The question left your heart feeling so light in your chest it woke you up with a jolt. Your cheeks warmed and you couldn't think of a word to say in response. Your father, on the other hand, you could feel tensing.

"This is my child, actually. Not my partner," he responded in a well-practiced casual tone. He omitted mentioning that his wife, your mother, had died, and he would rather take his child along for a night out as a treat than attend alone.

Silence followed, awkward and uncomfortable for a couple beats before apologies spilled forth. Your dad waved things off, clearly eager to get past that social hiccup, and so it left you alone in thinking about what just happened.

Things played out normally that night, for the most part. You both left for the hotel, said good night, and settled into your respective rooms in the suite to settle in.

You were awake in bed, eyes on the ceiling, thinking about your dad. Obsessing over him. Thinking of how muscular his arm felt under your hands, the scent of his cologne, how confident he was. Heat stirred in your stomach and it was the first time you touched yourself to the thought of your dad's hands on your skin.

Certainly not the last, though.

And that's what brings you to him tonight, wearing something a little bold, a little daring that you bought with his money to show off what, exactly, he's been investing in. Distance made your heart grow desperate so that kicked off your impulse to catch him when he returned from a business trip.

You haven't seen each other in two weeks but you see him now, suit jacket slung over a chair in the home bar, whiskey in hand, the shadow of stubble on his lip and jaw and you can imagine the way it would catch on your fingertips and mouth.

He looks tired. Maybe even in a bad mood. It gives you pause but before you can begin to step back from the doorway, he looks over and catches you. Quietly assesses you. His eyes flit down your form and it makes you feel naked.

"...What are you wearing?" he asks haltingly, and it sounds like the most uncertain you've ever heard him be.

With little opportunity to escape that wouldn't just delay the inevitable, you steel yourself, raise your chin like he taught you. "Lingerie, Daddy."

There's a tick in his brow that makes you feel like you've made a misstep but you hold strong. You try to look as brave as you can, dressed in delicate lace and not much else. The important bits are covered but the cut and design draws attention to what's hidden rather than outright obscuring it all. Flattering. Custom-fit and tailored to you and you alone.

"Lingerie," he repeats after knocking back the rest of his drink and setting it down firmly on the bar top. "Would you like to explain why you're wearing lingerie?"

You invite yourself closer with a sway in your hips, looking almost demure aside from your outfit, with hands tucked behind your back and your eyes — you were always told that you have your late mother's eyes — dropping to the floor instead of meeting his.

"...Because I want you to look at me," you finally say as you come to a stop in front of him.

He's so tall. This close, you can smell his cologne. You want to feel the heat of his skin.

"I'm looking at you, sunshine, what is this abou—"

You drop to your knees on the cold, tiled floor, your hands on his thighs, and once again you feel him tense. Now, you look at him. And he dares to look back, to meet those eyes of yours, to see a sight that's so eerily familiar and yet so wrong all the same.

But he doesn't stop you as you pull the tongue of his belt free, leather sliding over leather. Nor when you unfasten the buckle, the button and zipper on his slacks, and dip your fingers past the waistband of his underwear. He's hard — that much is apparent, even in his reluctance — and you groan when his length bobs to stiffness once you tug his clothes down far enough.

"Let me take care of you this time, Daddy, you do so much for me," you murmur as you lean in to nuzzle against the velvety skin of his cock.

He jolts at your touch but he relaxes somewhat. A hand settles atop your head and you peek up at him, eyes hazy and pleading, heart skipping at how he's letting you continue. It's better than you could have ever hoped.

So you don't want to disappoint him or keep him waiting: you dip down to lick from the base of his cock up to the tip with the flat of your tongue. The taste of him makes your eyes flutter and you take him past your lips with a soft noise of pleasure. His hips twitch forward and you let him sink farther into your mouth with little complaint.

But you one-up him and keep going, slowly and steadily, until you take him down to the base. The effort has tears stinging in your eyes and your throat protesting against the intrusion, but you stay down for a few long beats. Eyes half-lidded. Getting wet between your thighs. Then you draw back in a mess of drool and precum all to go down again, throating him as best as you can.

"Oh, darling," he sighs out, petting at you as you go, hips rocking forward to match your pace. "When did you learn to do that?"

That makes you smile around the cock in your mouth and it encourages you to keep going, to speed up, to work until you feel him tense for a different reason this time.

He fucks your mouth in earnest once he's sure you can take it, drawing out sounds of choking and wet, making a mess of your face and neck and chest and lingerie and your eyes roll back from how good it feels to be used by him. You hold yourself down and let him do as he pleases until he drags you off his cock, making you whine once you're done coughing and clearing your throat.

Spit connects your mouth to him. He strokes your cheek, regardless of how filthy you've become, and you lean into his hand without hesitation though you keep eyeing his twitching cock with the intent to suck it again.

"I know you want more, sweet thing," he says soothingly, voice rumbling lower in his chest in a way that makes you purr in kind. "But let me take care of you too now."

He hauls you up into his arms and you smile and laugh in delight, only for your mouth to be taken by his — your father kisses you with abandon even with your mouth heavy with his taste, your face dripping with your efforts. The kiss continues even as he gets your back to a wall and rearranges your limbs to get your legs around his waist. Your lips meet with warmth and desire, breathlessness, an ache so close to being soothed.

Your clothes are shifted by his steady hand until your hot, slick cunt is bared to him. A whine is drawn from your mouth when he rubs roughly over your core to catch your clit and feel how turned on you are.

"Do you think you can take me?" he asks, voice soft and betraying a hint of concern.

"I know I can, Daddy," is your immediate reply.

The chuckle in his chest is reward enough as you feel it reverberate. He takes your word for it, out of trust and out of his own need to be sank as deep as he can inside you to sate you both, and lines himself up. Your arms are thrown around his shoulders to dig your nails into the fabric of his dress shirt and hold on as he rolls his hips up to bottom out deep into your pussy.

It makes you keen out and cling to him that much harder. He has to pause once he's settled, almost as if to school himself into not cumming already, you feel so good on his cock.

Savoring you. In disbelief that he's balls deep in you. When he pulls his hips back only to buck forward again, he's fucking you.

It's wrong. Deeply wrong. Blood and sex shouldn't mix like this. Past the fog in your brain as your father finds the perfect pace to fuck you at — urgent, firm, plunging deep into you only to draw out and bury himself inside again as quickly as possible — you blearily wonder if you'll both regret this. Tomorrow will come, and you worry that this might be all and this one illicit romp will be all you can claim.

Your father doesn't seem to have the same reservations when he noses against you to have you tip your head back, all for him to capture your mouth with a groan — your worried thoughts dim as you surrender yourself to his easy dominance.

All that matters is that he's fucking you. That you can feel him deep inside you. Raw and hot and yours for now.

Your cunt is a mess. It drips down the curve of your ass, down your dad's cock to stain his perfectly-ironed pants. It sinks in that he didn't even bother to undress further all in his eagerness to have you.

Pleasure deeper than what he's making your body feel lights you up inside and you whine out "Daddy" into his mouth in your exaltation.

"I'm right here, darling... You're being so good for me."

His head moves to tuck itself into the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. You're a breath away from protesting when you feel the graze of teeth on your skin, the suction of his mouth, and you're near-dizzy realizing that he's marking you. Always, always his. Always have been.

Always will be.

He grinds against your clit with every thrust and the friction sends you closer and closer to your peak. Futile, but you try to move your hips with his in your desperation to cum all over the cock that made you. It's clear to him what you want so he pounds you into the wall harder, determined to get you both there, kissing your skin and grunting with the effort.

You cum first. It's strong and full-bodied, making your back arch and has you clinging to him that much harder. Your legs around his waist keep him sank inside of you as your cunt squeezes and spasms around him without any chance of pulling out. It's not as if he tries to. So he's quick to join you with quick, shallow pumps as he fills you with his cum.

As you both come down, twitching and breathless, you nuzzle against him with a noise of contentment. He kisses your forehead and moves to let your legs down and have you stand but you protest. Laughing fondly, he fixes his pants then gathers you up in his arms and carries you off, up the stairs, pausing once he ascends to the landing.

Considering, between your room and his.

It occurs to you that you don't remember the last time he carried you to bed.

He turns and walks to his room.

It occurs to you that you don't remember the last time you both slept in the same bed.

This time, however, he sets you down and pulls the sheets over you. For a few moments, he's gone and all you hear is the sound of fabric rustling. The mattress dips behind you and you're drawn into his arms back against his bare chest.

When was the last time he had someone else in this bed?

A kiss is pressed to the nape of your neck and he squeezes you tight. Safe and sound. Questions were to be saved for tomorrow, but for the night, nothing more complicated than slumber.

[the-birth-of-art]

On the occasion of Pat Robertson's death....

"To a Contemporary Bunkshooter" (aka "To Billy Sunday")

by Carl Sandburg, 1915

YOU come along … tearing your shirt … yelling about Jesus.    

Where do you get that stuff?    

What do you know about Jesus?

Jesus had a way of talking soft and outside of a few bankers and higher-ups among the con men of Jerusalem everybody liked to have this Jesus around because he never made any fake passes and everything he said went and he helped the sick and gave the people hope.  

You come along squirting words at us, shaking your fist and calling us all dam fools so fierce the froth slobbers over your lips… always blabbing we’re all going to hell straight off and you know all about it. 

I’ve read Jesus’ words. I know what he said. You don’t throw any scare into me. I’ve got your number. I know how much you know about Jesus.

He never came near clean people or dirty people but they felt cleaner because he came along. It was your crowd of bankers and business men and lawyers hired the sluggers and murderers who put Jesus out of the running.  

I say the same bunch backing you nailed the nails into the hands of this Jesus of Nazareth. He had lined up against him the same crooks and strong-arm men now lined up with you paying your way.  

This Jesus was good to look at, smelled good, listened good. He threw out something fresh and beautiful from the skin of his body and the touch of his hands wherever he passed along.

You slimy bunkshooter, you put a smut on every human blossom in reach of your rotten breath belching about hell-fire and hiccupping about this Man who lived a clean life in Galilee. 

When are you going to quit making the carpenters build emergency hospitals for women and girls driven crazy with wrecked nerves from your gibberish about Jesus—I put it to you again: Where do you get that stuff; what do you know about Jesus?  

Go ahead and bust all the chairs you want to. Smash a whole wagon load of furniture at every performance. Turn sixty somersaults and stand on your nutty head. If it wasn’t for the way you scare the women and kids I’d feel sorry for you and pass the hat.

I like to watch a good four-flusher work, but not when he starts people puking and calling for the doctors.

I like a man that’s got nerve and can pull off a great original performance, but you—you’re only a bug-house peddler of second-hand gospel—you’re only shoving out a phoney imitation of the goods this Jesus wanted free as air and sunlight.  

You tell people living in shanties Jesus is going to fix it up all right with them by giving them mansions in the skies after they’re dead and the worms have eaten ’em. 

You tell $6 a week department store girls all they need is Jesus; you take a steel trust wop, dead without having lived, gray and shrunken at forty years of age, and you tell him to look at Jesus on the cross and he’ll be all right.

You tell poor people they don’t need any more money on pay day and even if it’s fierce to be out of a job, Jesus’ll fix that up all right, all right—all they gotta do is take Jesus the way you say.

I’m telling you Jesus wouldn’t stand for the stuff you’re handing out. Jesus played it different. The bankers and lawyers of Jerusalem got their sluggers and murderers to go after Jesus just because Jesus wouldn’t play their game. He didn’t sit in with the big thieves.  

I don’t want a lot of gab from a bunkshooter in my religion.

I won’t take my religion from any man who never works except with his mouth and never cherishes any memory except the face of the woman on the American silver dollar.

I ask you to come through and show me where you’re pouring out the blood of your life.  

I’ve been to this suburb of Jerusalem they call Golgotha, where they nailed Him, and I know if the story is straight it was real blood ran from His hands and the nail-holes, and it was real blood spurted in red drops where the spear of the Roman soldier rammed in between the ribs of this Jesus of Nazareth.

[titisorriso]

Chapter 8/ The Steel Island (Wild Skies AU)

  So, things weren't going well.

 The south was officially at war with Berk. The north was also trying to get a piece of that viking action, claiming there were "precious metals" in the arquipelago. Razorwhips were disappearing sporadically, and the Wing Maidens were blaming it on Berk. Heather had finally gotten fed up with Hiccup and allied herself with Dagur to strike the dragon hunters more violently. Alvin was losing control of his turf, the Outcasts aching for a fight, and to top it all off, Valka was also considering joining Dagur in this crusade.

  To sum it up, the arquipelago was at war, and Hiccup had a broken heart. Sure, one of those was infinitely more important than the other, but still, he was not really in the "Let's be kind to each other!" mood. He was done with diplomacy, but he was also done fighting, and this tangle of strings that he found himself in felt hopeless.

 Blind dragons, huge dragons, green ooze, machinery and metallurgy he had never seen before, the dragon hunters getting bolder; everything felt like a puzzle with no final piece.

  He threw his pencil on the table, stretching against his chair with an annoyed grunt. He stole a look at Toothless.

 - ... You wouldn't happen to have an eye-opening, crucial bit of information, would you?

The dragon looked at him confused, misunderstanding the attention as an invitation to play. Quickly, the dragon pounced his friend, licking his face as the man laughed and pushed the beast away.

 - Okay, okay! I get it! Not the political sort! Here, catch!

He took off his leg, throwing it towards the outside, the dragon flying out the open door.

Hiccup sat himself again. A smile still lingering on his lips until he looked at a necklace on the wall. The betrothal necklace almost taunted him.

A sigh echoed the empty, peaceful cabin. Astrid was all that occupied his mind. He, the silent protector, the dragon rescuer, a guy that unified so many islands and tribes, now reduced to a babbling mess that couldn't even convince a girl that he loves her.

  He got up, leaning against his chair. Staring around his hut, trying to clear his mind, only to be reminded that this place was infested with memories of her as well.

  The bed, the beam she punched, the displaced floorboards that once hid her axe, the fish waiting to be cooked, the sound of her feet pacing the cabin while regaining her strength.

Flustered, his entire body reacted to the embarrassment of longing for someone that utterly rejected him; but he couldn't help it. She was gorgeous, exciting, fierce and smart. She was the perfect viking, more of a viking than he ever even thought of being, and that came back to the root of the problem.

Astrid killed dragons. She killed one just three days ago right where he could see. Sure, he was spying on her, but it was still jarring, gut-wrenching.

Toothless came back, Hiccup's leg slobbered and a bit chewed, but still usable.

 - Awn, bud, c'mon!... It's so nasty...

Toothless growled in joy, doing his unique, and a bit concerning, laugh. Snapping his leg back into place, he started petting the dragon, who affectionally hugged him.  

- You know, bud, Astrid doesn't seem to have a problem with you anymore. She didn't even acknowledge you.

Hiccup remembered their first "meeting". Her blatant fear and distrust of the beast, the side-eyes and murderous glances, but all of that was before she found out who he was. That seemed to be ages ago, a time where Hiccup's sole worry was if Astrid's wounds were healing well.

A nudge from Toothless snapped him out of it.

- It's alright. I'm not going into my "no eat, no sleep" phase again. Don't worry about me.

Reminiscing on the past reminded him of the dragon hunters that day. The flames, all the screaming, the unusual timing on their appearance. It was a huge coincidence, the same moment Hiccup was moving a herd of Terrible Terrors down east, a Berk scouting ship appeared and started shooting towards an unfamiliar vessel, flying no colors on their sails. Hiccup remembered the ballista made of complete steel, the fully armored and trained soldiers that seemed resistant to the dragon's fire. They scared him, a lot of them getting too close for comfort, some actually managing to hit Toothless.

- Never saw them again...

Hiccup stared at his friend:

- How possible is it that they were the only ones, and we'll never see them again? Is it too much wishful thinking?

Toothless growled.

- Yeah, that's a given.

He started the process of saddling up his friend, preparing a bag for a relatively long trip. If those hunters were going west when they ran in with the Hooligans, then that's where he needed to go.

The sea was never-ending.  In multiple moments, Hiccup had traveled this way, looking for something interesting, but relenting apparently way too soon. Instead of turning back once he reached a particularly desert island, he continued towards the horizon.

- Hey, since you can fly, at least we won't fall off the world, huh?

The beast answered by spinning on the air in excitement. Both relishing in the opportunity to fly just like old times. Once they reached the edge of the familiar place, Hiccup started counting the seconds, mentally marking the distance as they kept on route.

It didn't take long for something weird to happen.

They watched as the blue ocean slowly turned a sickly green, a smell that they could only describe as burnt rotted flesh making them flinch. Hiccup put his helmet and mask on, the stench quickly turning unbearable.

- Are you alright with this, bud?

The dragon replied shortly, as if saying "i'm okay". That made the rider feel comfortable in speeding up. The clouds, once white, turned grey, and then took a similar green to the water. Even through his mask, the rider felt his eyes water with the smell.

- Dear Thor, i haven't smelled something so awful since Dagur's spit roast.

Toothless whined, Hiccup petting his side as he reassured:

- Don't worry, bud. We'll just see the source of this and then leave.

Hiccup noticed the waters were vile enough that nothing could be seen moving inside them. He wondered if the creatures that were once here would be able to find a new home, or if there even was a possibility that they escaped this rot.

- Who did this?

He whispered to himself. This was exactly like the green ooze back in Broken Helm Island, but in way bigger quantity and more viscous than anything.

- Get closer to the water, bud. I want to take a sample home.

He pulled a small glass vial from his bag, quickly getting what he needed and pulling Toothless away from the water immediately. Some of it had gotten on his gloved fingers, he observed as, like acid, the fabric was eaten and then stopped.

Several dragons appeared in his mind as he observed the reaction, but the obvious one took the main stage. This was a Sliquifier's acid. But how? How did it get so spread? How many would it take to infect the whole ocean? Could it be only floating on the surface? But what about the clouds?

As if to answer all his questions, Toothless groaned, snapping him out of his investigative state.

There was the source.

It was like a vision of Helheim. The green mist and clouds erupting from the metal construction on the middle of the island, holes of fire and explosions burst inside of it as metal houses spread all around its shore. A metal wall, with fire erupting from the main beams kept the "village" isolated. On the water, packs and packs of ships sailing purple colors were slowly boarded and equipped with guns.

- Eir's sweet embrace, what is that?...

Toothless stared, his eyes going thin as he sensed danger. The rider was about to ask what was wrong, when from the water, a huge mouth flew towards them. Hiccup startled, opening Toothless's tail fin too wide and almost falling inside the beast, but quickly fixing his mistake as he took one of his personal "dragon knocking" concoctions from his bag and threw it down the beast's throat. The rider instructed his friend to fly up, but as soon as Toothless smelled the inside of those toxic clouds, the dragon started shaking and flailing around. The unknown dragon disappeared inside the waves once more, Hiccup assuming his potion worked, but too busy to celebrate.

Toothless roared and flailed, Hiccup’s keen sense of direction and control being the one thing keeping them in the air.

- GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, BUD!!

The dragon turned his stomach towards the sky, Hiccup only not falling thanks to the security leash chained to the saddle. The rider heard the characteristic high-pitched noise, and soon, Toothless shot towards the sky.

The clouds ignited in flames, the explosion hitting Toothless in the stomach and burning his tail fin, the shock throwing him towards the water and taking Hiccup with him, the man trapped beneath the beast.

They hit the water.

Instantly, Hiccup felt his clothes getting eaten by the liquid, the parts of his skin that were exposed turning red. The rider forced his eyes closed; he could deal with rashes if this truly was a Sliquifier's toxin, but becoming blind wasn't on his bucket list. Toothless's weight still dragged him down, the man unable to find the leash that kept him chained on since the panic clouded his senses. The toxins were really starting to sting as they found ways inside his armor.

Was this it? This is how he was going to die? If this was it, he deserved it.

So many people he left behind, so many friends he turned away, so much help refused, it was obvious this would one day happen. The only thing that weighed in his mind was that he took Toothless down too. The last of the Night Furies would die and it would be his fault. He was careless, he should have turned back as soon as the water looked weird. He should have let this go and just let everyone fight each other, at least then Toothless wouldn't have to die.

He should have let Astrid tell everyone... But why did it always have to be Astrid?

Why did he always need to have someone doing what was truly difficult for him? Why would he ask that of her when she already had so much on her plate?

"Because i don't want her to forget me." His own wavering heart answered.

His mind was blurry, the darkness behind his closed eyes scared him. He felt Toothless start reacting and moving, thinking the dragon was okay, that he would fly away, and they would be fine.

The net that caught them pulled them up, a hard, scaley floor hitting Hiccup as he felt the dirty air hit against his face, taking a deep breath and snapping his eyes open as he forcefully pulled off the mask and helm. He coughed with the deep breath of the toxic air without the mask; noticing his leash had finally snapped, and that Toothless laid beside him, passed out, but breathing. Relieved, he touched a hand to his friend's back.

- Well, that's a unique catch!

Hiccup recognized that voice, turning to assess the full situation.

They were in the back of a titan wing Sliquifier, the gold hue of his scales and the glowing wings giving it away. In front of him, stood Johann, the man he saw getting kicked out of Berk, the leader of the dragon hunters of the south. He was unable to hide his scowl as Johann smiled triumphant.

- The lost heir of Berk, standing helpless and at my mercy. I wonder what i did to receive such gift!... I'm kidding, this wasn't a gift! I planned this very carefully and you fell for it!

The dragon hunter approached Hiccup, who tried to jump forward, only to notice his body was now frozen. Johann kicked the man in the chest, the rider falling limp against Toothless as he breathed rapidly and panicked.

- Did you like my creation? A little Flightmare's toxin mixed with Sliquifier's acid... It lasts twice as long and hurts thrice as much. Oh, what am i saying, you can't answer me!

Hiccup let out a weak grunt, the burning of his skin making his panic heighten. Johann did not care, living in his own, twisted world, he kept his little victory gloat going, signaling to two other dragon hunters to tie Hiccup and Toothless up, one of them removing the rider's metal leg.

- Now, now, i would love to regale you with my tale of greatness all day until the poison runs out, but the plan is not quite finished yet. Afterall, you pesky brat, you are merely bait.

Hiccup knew what he was talking about, Astrid's name popping in loud letters in his fuzzy brain, he couldn't let it happen.

- So, Hiccup Haddock... This is the moment you go to sleep.

A strong hit against his head, and everything went dark.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

Okay, so while i was editing i realized that this chapter was REALLY long, so i decided to shorten it by putting this part separetely and making it a cliffhanger. Hope you enjoyed!

[brittanagirlcrush]

This is the first chapter of my new fic CONSEQUENCES.

The whole fic is posted at FF.NET A/N: I'm not sure I like this story. It's much darker than my normal Glee stuff but it wouldn't leave me alone and let me write what I wanted to until I got this out. It also went in a lot of different directions that I wasn't expecting. Hopefully, the story is still cohesive and coherent.

It ended up in unexpected places and is much longer than I'd originally plotted. Sometimes, characters have minds of their own. It also ended up much better than I'd originally thought it would.

AU after Mash Off

Also, this fic does not fit anywhere into my own “Brittana World”.

Fair Warning: I hate Finn Hudson.

Trigger Warnings: homophobic slurs, racial slurs, racism, homophobia, violence, attempted rape.

XOXOXOXOXO

Chapter 1

Finn Hudson was laughing at something Puck had said when a blur of blonde knocked him off his chair and began pummeling him. He tried to protect himself from the fists that were flying at him seemingly from every direction. A crunch of cartilage signaled the breaking of his nose. Suddenly, the weight that had been sitting on his chest lifted and the fists stopped. The blur of blonde resolved itself into a screaming Brittany; Puck was holding her by the waist, Sam and Mike each holding an arm, and she was fighting them to get back to Finn.

“It's all your fault! You did this! And you're laughing! You think it's funny? YOU DID THIS! THIS IS BECAUSE OF YOU! AND YOU'RE NOT EVEN SORRY! I HATE YOU! I WILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU!”

A quick clicking of heels down the hallway signaled the arrival of another person. Quinn Fabray hurried into the choir room and looked at Brittany.

“Oh, sweetheart,” her voice was soft but Brittany obviously heard it and stopped fighting the boys holding her back.

“Quinn,” Brittany's lip trembled and tears started slipping down her cheeks as her face crumpled “it's all his fault...”

“Let her go.” It was a soft but firm demand.

The three guys did as Quinn commanded but stood ready to grab Brittany in case she went after Finn again. Brittany fell into Quinn's arms sobbing.

Something was definitely wrong. Brittany Pierce was not violent. She didn't hit people. She certainly didn't hate people. She cried pretty; she didn't sob.

“It's going to be okay, honey.”

“It's his fault, Quinn, and he was LAUGHING. He did this and he was LAUGHING. He doesn't even CARE!”

“Shhh … I know, sweetheart, I know. It's going to be okay.” Quinn held onto her sobbing best friend and gently rubbed her back and stroked her hair. Eventually, the sobbing slowed to soft sniffles and hiccups. Quinn pulled away from her and asked, “Did you get everything you needed?” Off Brittany's nod she continued, “where is it?”

“In the hallway,” came the sniffled reply.

“Okay.” Quinn looked around the room until she spotted Mercedes. “Mercedes?”

Mercedes stepped down the risers. “What do you need, girl?” her voice low and soothing, trying not to startle Brittany.

Quinn reached into the pocket of her blazer and handed Mercedes her car keys. “Can you take Britt and get her cleaned up and sit with her in my car? I'll be out shortly.” Mercedes took the keys with a nod.

“Brittany, sweetheart? Go with Mercedes, okay? I'll be out in a few minutes and then we'll go back to the hospital.”

Brittany nodded and let go of Quinn, allowing Mercedes to put an arm around her waist and lead her out of the choir room.

“Wait, Mercedes … Quinn … Brittany can't just leave,” Mr. Schue stuttered, “We have to go to Principal Figgins' office and …”

“Mr. Schue, I'm going to stop you right now,” Quinn said, steel in her voice; anger blazing in her eyes.

“Actions have consequences, Quinn! Brittany broke Finn's nose! She can't just …”

“She can. You can go to Figgins' office after I say what I have to say. Right now Brittany doesn't care if she gets suspended or even expelled. She's not going to be in school for the foreseeable future. And, yes, actions have consequences … unless you're Finn Hudson.”

She looked at Finn Hudson with obvious distaste. “Around two months ago, Finn's ACTION caused Santana a lot of pain and heartache …”

“Really, Quinn, that's all in the past. Santana …” Rachel interrupts her.

“Rachel, finish that sentence and you'll wish Brittany was still in the room,” Quinn's eyes flashed dangerously. “As I was saying, around two months ago Finn's ACTION caused a lot of consequences for Santana and Brittany but Finn never suffered a one. Not a SINGLE CONSEQUENCE for Finn Hudson OUTING Santana in the middle of a crowded hallway. That action caused a domino effect. A campaign ad forcing Santana to come out to her parents and her abuela before she was ready. Santana and Brittany are STILL paying consequences for FINN'S action.”

Tina chimes in, “I thought Santana was okay? I mean, she said her parents were okay with it and, yeah, her abuela disowned her but …”

“She lied.” Quinn shrugs, interrupting. “Santana isn't the person you all think she is. She didn't want pity or attention. She lied because school was the easiest battle to quit fighting. Her parents weren't okay with it.”

XOXOXOXOXO

(Flashback, Quinn's POV)

Quinn had just climbed into bed and turned off the light when her phone rang. She was going to ignore it but it was 11:15 at night and nothing good could be coming from a phone call at that hour. She grabbed her phone and saw Brittany's number.

“Hey, Britt, what's up?”

“Hey, Quinn,” Brittany's voice sounded strained, “have you, um, have you heard from Santana?”

Quinn frowned. Why would she have heard from Santana? “No, Britt, I haven't. Should I have?”

Brittany sighed. “She was going to tell her parents about the ad and being gay tonight at dinner. They were both actually going to be home tonight. That was at 6. She promised me she'd text or call by 9 no matter what happened. When I didn't hear from her by 9:30, I texted her and got no answer. Same at 9:45, 10, 10:15, and 10:30. At 11 I called and it went straight to voicemail.” Brittany's voice cracked and she sniffled. “I'm scared, Quinn.”

“I'll be there in fifteen minutes, Britt.”

“Thanks, Q.”

Quinn hung up and quickly threw on a pair of leggings and a hoodie. She threw her phone in her purse and headed downstairs. She tried to be quiet so as not to let her mother hear her but she didn't have to worry; Judy was passed out on the couch with an almost empty bottle of vodka sitting on the coffee table. Quinn shook her head and covered her mother with an afghan on her way out the door.

She pulled into the Pierce driveway; all the downstairs lights were on and Brittany was sitting on the front porch. She looked up as Quinn's headlights flooded the front of the house, got up, and hurried to the car.

“Hey, you okay?” Quinn asked as Brittany slid into the passenger seat.

Brittany shook her head. “I still haven't heard from her and I still can't reach her.”

Quinn nodded. “What do you want to do?”

“Sneak in?”

Quinn raised an eyebrow.

“I just need to see she's okay, Quinn. Or rescue her if she's not.” Brittany shrugged. “It's not like we've never snuck in or out before,” a small grin crept across Brittany's face.

“That's true,” Quinn chuckled and put the car into gear. “Your parents still up?”

“Yeah. They're worried, too.” Brittany sighed. “She doesn't break her promises to me, Quinn. She promised she'd call or text.”

Quinn nodded and they fell into silence.

Ten minutes later they were pulling into Santana's driveway. Quinn she knew exactly where to stop the car to avoid activating the motion detector lights; as Brittany had said, it wasn't their first time sneaking in or out of Santana's house. The whole house was dark. They left the doors unlocked and crept around the fence to the side of the house. There were no lights on that side because the neighbors had complained; every time a raccoon or a rabbit wandered into the yard, the lights came on.

They crossed the yard once they were across from the side door to the garage. Brittany used her key to open the door (Santana's parents had no idea that Brittany had a key to the side garage door) and crept in slowly. They used the flashlight apps on their phones to guide them. The garage would hold four cars but Santana's older brother, Gabriel, had moved to California the previous summer so the only cars in the garage were Santana's mother's Honda CRV, her father's Cadillac, and Santana's Jeep. Brittany checked the Jeep and saw Santana's current Cheerios' duffle bag in the back, along with her school backpack, and her Cheerios' jacket. She and Quinn shared a look.

They crept up the stairs and opened the door to the mud/laundry room. Brittany quickly punched in the code to disarm the alarm. Quinn made a mental note to remind her to re-arm it when they left.

Exiting the laundry room, directly across from it, was a small bathroom. To the right was a family room that Santana and her friends often used for sleepovers. To the left were two stairs that led to the kitchen and the door to the basement was directly at the top and to the left of the stairs. The were silent as they entered the kitchen. Quinn pointed to the island; a set of keys with a Cheerios' pom-pom key chain was sitting there next to a phone. Brittany listened for a moment but the house was silent. She quickly crossed the kitchen to the island and held up the phone; Quinn recognized Santana's phone case.

Quinn was now getting really nervous. Santana's room was in the basement. She quietly opened the door and saw a dim light at the bottom so she motioned to Brittany to follow. They silently went down the stairs and saw light coming from Santana's room. They hurried across the basement and entered the room. It looked like a hurricane had gone through it. Santana wasn't the neatest person but it was never this bad. Glaringly obvious was the fact that Santana wasn't here and she apparently left in a hurry. Brittany crossed to the closet and reached up to the top shelf, grabbing down several old Cheerios' duffle bags. She tossed two to Quinn.

“They kicked her out,” Brittany's voice was laced with anger. “That dresser,” she pointed to a chest of drawers, “underwear and socks are the top two small drawers. Pajama bottoms and sleep shirts are in the top big drawer; sweats and sweatshirts in the bottom two. Empty them?”

Quinn nodded and got to work as Brittany rifled through the closet. She came out with two lock boxes and two rolling suitcases. She put the lock boxes into one of the rolling suitcases then added Santana's jewelry boxes. She went through the desk and grabbed school work and a few keepsakes from the top; she then turned the center drawer upside down and grabbed three envelopes taped there. Quinn watched as Brittany climbed onto the desk to reach the top of the wardrobe and came down with several notebooks. She tossed those into one of the remaining duffle bags. She slid under the bed and came out with two more notebooks and a guitar.

“Do you know all her hiding spots?” Quinn asked, impressed with Brittany's thoroughness.

“I hope so. This is the only shot we're going to have at this.”

Quinn nodded knowing Brittany was right; Santana's parents would know someone had been here and would probably change all the locks and the alarm code. Quinn watched as Brittany scanned the room making sure they hadn't left anything important behind. Quinn had packed up all of Santana's extra Cheerios uniforms and emptied “Brittany's drawer” so that was taken care of. Brittany shook her head. “I think that's everything important. We gotta go.”

Quinn looked at the packed duffle bags, the guitar, and the suitcases trying to figure out how they were going to get it all upstairs and out to her car quietly and in one trip. Brittany slung a duffle over each shoulder, wore the guitar in front of her, and grabbed one of the suitcases. She looked at Quinn and Quinn nodded, following her lead. As quickly and quietly as possible they moved up the stairs, pausing at the top to listen for Santana's parents. All was silent. Down the two steps, a right into the laundry room and out into the garage. Brittany paused at Santana's Jeep. She set down the duffle bags and opened the rear door, grabbing Santana's backpack and slinging it onto her back before re-situating the duffle bags. She grabbed the suitcase from Quinn and nodded at the extra duffle and the jacket. Quinn grabbed the jacket and slipped it on over her hoodie, then grabbed the duffle and silently closed the Jeep's rear door. Quinn shook her head; Brittany was carrying the guitar, a backpack, two duffle bags, and two suitcases. She was in Beast Mode. Quinn made sure she had a grip on the three duffle bags and out they went. They followed the same path back to the car and loaded most of it into the trunk; the guitar was placed carefully in the back seat.

“I need to go make sure the door is locked; I don't want her parents to know how anyone got in.” Brittany said before sprinting back toward the garage. Quinn started the car and Brittany was back in five minutes.

“Did you remember to re-arm the alarm?”

Brittany nodded. “Yeah. I forgot until I locked the door then I remembered. That's why it took so long.”

“Where to?”

“My house. We'll see if she's shown up there. I doubt it because my mom would have called me but …” Brittany trailed off and Quinn knew she didn't have a better idea.

It was almost 1am by the time they got back to Brittany's. They had taken a circuitous route, checking to see if Santana was maybe still walking toward Brittany's house. All the lights were all still on when they finally got back to Britt's house. Brittany and Quinn walked in and found Brittany's parents in the living room.

“I take it you didn't find her?” Whitney asked, concern clear in her voice.

Brittany shook her head. “It looks like they threw her out. Her phone, keys, and car were all there. Her room looked like a whirlwind went through it and there was no sign of her. Unless they locked her in one of the upstairs rooms …” Brittany trailed off.

“Britt … she'd have left a light on and would have been screaming her head off.” Quinn tried to assuage Brittany's fears. They hadn't even thought to check upstairs.

Brittany nodded. “Even if her voice gave out, you're right … there would have been lights on in whatever room she was in. She'd have known I'd come looking.” She seemed to accept that as fact. “I don't know what to do now.” She looked like she was about to cry.

“Let's empty the car. Then you can wait here in case she shows up and I'll drive in every direction from her driveway. She may have not even thought about where she was going or where she could go and she couldn't call you so you could tell her it was okay to come here. It's possible she just … wandered.”

“Yeah.” She looked at Quinn. “What … what did you do when …”

Quinn shook her head. “Finn was there. I wasn't alone. But I remember being … not disoriented, exactly, but like my brain just couldn't function. I couldn't think. I was … disconnected from everything. I just kind of … shut down.”

Brittany nodded. “That makes sense. Santana was alone. She wouldn't have had anyone to help her or guide her. Yeah. Let's empty the car out …” Brittany looked at her parents. “I didn't even ask … um …”

“Of course she can stay here, sweetie. I'm sure you girls will sleep in your room but she can have the guest room right next to yours so she has a place of her own.” Whitney answered the unspoken question kindly. “She's welcome to stay as long as she needs to.”

Brittany threw her arms around her mother. “Thank you,” she whispered. Whitney simply hugged her and rubbed her back.

Brittany pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Okay, let's get her stuff in here so you can go looking.”

With Brittany's parents helping, it only took one trip to get everything into the house. Brittany handed a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt to Quinn. “She probably left with only her Cheerios uniform and her long sleeved undershirt. It's so cold out,” she bit her lip nervously, “she's probably freezing. I hope she thought to put track pants on or a hoodie or something.” Tears welled in her eyes.

Quinn hugged her and took the clothes. “I'll call you when I find her.”

Brittany just looked at her brokenly.

“I'm going to find her, B, I promise. I won't give up until I do.” Quinn's voice sounded a lot more sure than she felt but she was determined to find Santana and bring her back to Brittany. Another quick hug and she was out the door and back in her car.

She drove back to Santana's house and looked at each direction trying to decide where Santana would go if not to Brittany. She suddenly remembered a small park that was about a mile away from the house so she headed in that direction, keeping an eye out in case Santana was still walking along the road.

She got to the park and got out of the car, taking the clothes with her. She was feeling pretty confident that this would be where she'd find Santana. She walked into the park and saw a small figure curled up on a bench near the frozen duck pond. The person's head was resting on a duffle bag and the body was under a large quilt. Quinn got nearer and let out a sigh of relief when she recognized Santana.

“Santana,” she called softly approaching the bench slowly, not wanting to spook the Latina.

The small figure sat up and looked toward Quinn with vacant eyes. “Quinn? What are you doing here?”

“Brittany is really worried. We've been looking everywhere for you.”

“I'm okay. Tell Britt … just … tell her I'm fine.”

“Santana, you're not fine.” Santana was in her Cheerios' uniform and a long sleeved undershirt; she was shivering violently and her teeth were chattering so hard Quinn was afraid she was going to chip them.

Quinn handed her the sweatpants and sweatshirt, removing the jacket and handing that over as well. “You're freezing. Brittany gave me these to give to you when I found you.”

Santana listlessly put on the sweatpants and hoodie and slipped the jacket on over them. She then wrapped the quilt back around herself and sat back down on the bench. “Thanks.”

“Santana, get your ass in the car. I am NOT going back to Brittany and telling her I found you but didn't bring you back with me.”

“I can't, Quinn,” she said, her voice devoid of any emotion, “I can't drag her down with me. I can't … I just can't … I've got nothing to offer her. I'm homeless. That ad is going to run and everything is just going to get worse. She doesn't deserve that. I'm never getting out of this town. I'm … nothing.” She finished in a hoarse whisper.

Quinn slapped her. “You're a fucking idiot. Brittany loves you. We did a little breaking and entering to find out what happened and stole a bunch of your stuff. It's at Britt's house. In a room that her mother has designated as YOUR room. Brittany is out of her mind with worry. Whitney and Pierce are still awake because THEY'RE worried. I was in bed when Brittany called me and I'm here in the middle of the night in the fucking freezing cold arguing with an idiot.”

Santana looked at Quinn, silent tears rolling down her face. “Why?”

“Because we love you,” Quinn said, softening. She sat down on the bench and put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug. “You're a bitch but you're our bitch. Now …” Quinn stood back up and offered Santana her hand, “you can either come with me now or I'll be back in half an hour with Brittany.” Quinn quirked a brow at Santana. “Really think you'll be able to resist her and her pout?”

Santana let out a tired, wet chuckle and took Quinn's hand. “Not a chance.”

Quinn grabbed Santana's bag as Santana wrapped the quilt more tightly around her shoulders; she was still shivering pretty badly and her teeth were still chattering. Once she started the car she set the heat on blast and dialed Brittany.

“Quinn? Did you …”

“I've got her, Britt. I'm bringing her home.” She handed the phone to Santana.

“Britt?”

“Santana! Oh, thank god! I was so worried. Are you okay?”

“Cold. Tired. No, Britt, I don't think I am.”

“I love you. It's gonna be okay. We're going to get through this together, baby, I promise you.”

Santana finally broke down and started sobbing. Quinn took the phone as she pulled back into the Pierce's driveway for the third time that night. “We're here, Britt.”

The door flew open and Brittany came tearing out of the house. She reached the passenger door and wrenched it open, kneeling down and gathering Santana in her arms. “I've got you, baby. I've got you. I'm here. Everything is going to be okay.” She cooed softly as she held tightly to Santana, gently rubbing her back. “I've got you.” It was several moments before Santana took a shuddering breath and pulled back from Brittany. “You ready to go in?” Santana nodded and Brittany took her hand and helped her out of the car as Quinn grabbed the duffle bag from the back seat and scooped up the quilt Santana had left on the passenger seat.

As soon as they walked in, Whitney enveloped Santana in a warm, reassuring hug. “You're okay, sweetie,” she said as Santana sighed softly, relaxing into the embrace.

Brittany took the things Quinn was holding and ran them down the hall to Santana's room as Whitney moved them all into the kitchen. When Brittany joined them she pulled Santana into her lap and wrapped her arms tightly around the Latina; Santana's shivering had mostly stopped but her teeth were still chattering. Whitney gave them all a mug of hot chocolate and put out a plate of cookies.

“Santana … why didn't you come here?” Brittany asked.

Santana sighed. “I don't want to drag you down with me, Britt. That ad is going to run and … god, Britt, it's going to be so bad.” Tears started sliding down her face again.

“I don't care about any of that. I love you. That's what I care about. Loving you means standing by you through the shitstorm that's coming.” She cupped Santana's chin gently. “Look at me, Santana.” When Santana lifted her eyes to Brittany, Brittany smiled. “You're not alone.”

“Santana, sweetie, you can stay her for as long as you need to. You'll have your own room even though I know you two girls won't sleep apart but you'll still have your own space. You will have to share Brittany's bathroom, though.” Whitney smiled kindly at Santana. “Like Brittany said … you're not alone. Okay?”

Santana nodded and looked at Quinn. “Thank you.” She whispered as she looked around the table, “all of you.” She leaned her head against Brittany's shoulder; she looked exhausted. “But … I … don't want anyone to know I got kicked out. I don't want their pity or whatever.” She sighed heavily. “I just … I can't fight all these battles anymore. I'm so tired of fighting.” Her eyes fluttered. “Let them think their 'Lady Music Week' worked and I'm all good now. Please?”

Brittany and Quinn looked at each other then nodded.

“We have to at least let the administration know you're living here. That way anything you need for school will come here.” Whitney paused deep in thought. “There are a few things we'll need to do but all of that can wait. It's late.” She looked at the clock. “Very late. Quinn, you'll stay here tonight. It's been a long, emotional night and I don't want to worry about you driving home. You can sleep in Santana's room … I'm sure Brittany isn't going to let go of Santana any time soon.”

The three girls chuckled and Quinn nodded. “Thank you, Whitney.”

“Now, go to bed girls. Get some rest. Sleep in. Try to make it in by third period and I'll write you all excuses. I'm guessing it's going to be a long couple of days.”

The three girls got up and each of them hugged Whitney before walking down the hall to the bedrooms. Brittany got fresh toothbrushes for Quinn and Santana and they all got ready in silence.

Santana hugged Quinn tightly. “Thanks, bitch.” She smiled.

“I'd say anytime but … let's not make this a habit.” Quinn grinned.

“Good night, Quinn.”

“Good night, Santana.”

Santana slipped into Brittany's bedroom and Brittany pulled Quinn into a fierce hug. “Thank you, Quinn. So much. I don't know what I'd have done if you weren't here. Thank you for answering. Thank you for coming. Thank you for finding her; for bringing her to me. Just … thank you.”

“I love you, Brittany. I love her, too. I'm really glad I was able to help.” Quinn said, hugging Brittany just as tightly.

“I love you, too. Good night.” Brittany pulled back and smiled softly. “See you in the morning.”

“Good night, Britt.” Quinn watched as Brittany closed the door and then went into her room, closing the door behind her. She climbed into bed and glanced at her phone. 3:30am. Tomorrow was going to be hell.

(End Flashback)

XOXOXOXOXO

“And none of you noticed. I mean, she used the word “y'all” when she told you about her parents and nobody questioned it when Brittany said 'No way!'.” Quinn rolls her eyes. “As if Brittany wouldn't have been Santana's first call after that conversation.” Quinn shakes her head. “Santana told you what you wanted to hear and showed you what you wanted to see because it was easier than continuing to fight a lost battle. She was outed. Nothing was going to change that. So she's been living at the Pierces' ever since.”

[typingdyslexiaisathing]

Comfort Against Nightmares

Summary: Vash has a moment to help his girlfriend when she has a pretty bad nightmare. Which leads to them growing closer.

Characters: Vash the Stampede, Nicholas D. Wolfwood, OC

Content: casual talk, mention of depression, mention of violence, smoking, mention of self loathing

Waking up was not fun for Retha. Since she ended up jolting up out of the bed in a cold sweat. Only for her to realize she was alone in the room. Both her travel companions absent for it to just be her. So she took a moment to try and calm herself down. Which didn't work at all. Hugging her knees to her chest as she started to openly cry. Hard sobs coming out as she trembled in bed.

That was how Vash and Wolfwood found her. Both of them stilling at the door before Wolfwood opened it. His steps taking him to the dining room table to drag a chair towards the bed so he could sit himself down. While Vash just bolted to the bed to crawl into it and hug Retha as tight as possible. Sweet words holding concern and a trace of fear as he gathered his girlfriend into his arms. "Retha. Hey now. It's okay. We're here. What happened? Did you have a scary dream?"

Wolfwood sat in the chair to pull out a cigarette and light it. Watching as Vash scooted Retha closer to sit her in his lap. While Retha was so busy trying to wipe her eyes with her hands to clear them. Which was not working at all since she was still bawling and giving a few hiccups. So Wolfwood took his jacket off to hand it to Vash. Who placed the jacket around Retha's shoulders before rubbing her arms in an attempt to comfort her. Wolfwood breathed out for the fog of his cigarette to waft around him. "When you're ready. We can wait. Just tell us what it was. Then we will go from there."

Retha put her arms in the sleeves of the jacket to then nod her head. Vash wrapping his arms around her middle as she panted for air. But soon she started speaking with soft and aching words. "You would think that it wouldn't be that bad of a nightmare. Since we get shot at and chased around so much. But this one was so... Real..." Retha gave a hard cough to shake her head. "The both of you will insist it was just a bad dream. But it's something that outright terrifies me to think about. There was a time I was convinced by those around me that I didn't matter. That nobody cared about me at all. I had no place to live. No one would help me find shelter. Everyone just acted like it wasn't their problem. But the worst part was that... That... Both of you left..."

Wolfwood goes wide eyed as Vash openly freezes in shock. Retha giving a hard hiccup to then start crying even harder. So Wolfwood snubbed out his cigarette to move so he's sitting on the bed with them. Those calloused hands wrapping around Retha as Vash all but crushed her from behind in a bear hug. So Retha grabbed hold of Wolfwood's dress shirt in the back to just cry. Letting out more of her words with grief. "So many times I ask myself... Do I even matter? What good am I anyways? There is so much I can't do. And so often I make mistakes. Why would either of you want someone like me? It's so stupid to even think such a thing in the first place. If I didn't matter, you wouldn't want me around. So why do I have those questions keep coming up when I know the answer?"

Vash is already crying to give a hard sniffle of noise. His grip like steel as he buries his face into Retha's shoulder to shiver a little. So Wolfwood is the one to answer Retha's words. "Because it's natural. People doubt. People feel uncertain about tons of things. Hell. We both know Vash asks that very question way to damn much himself. Something I used to ask a lot, too. But then you tend to always grab me by the hand and tell me something that makes me laugh. Or you just hug Vash and shower him with attention. You do the same whenever the insurance girls are around. Getting Meryl a coffee while she types or telling Millie a funny story to get her giggling. It's just... Well... Human."

Vash gives a snort at the last word for Retha to note the given amusement and chuckle through her huffs for air. So Wolfwood leans in to place a chaste kiss to Retha's forehead before smirking at her. "See. We get it. It's okay. You ever have to ask that question again, you find us and pester us. I know I don't mind reminding you that you matter. Even if you can be a cynical pain in my ass. Also. Your very cuddle happy boyfriend will be more than happy to openly kiss the questions away. Am I right?" Vash stills to give a nervous squeak of a noise. His face and ears going a shade pinker as Retha gives soft chuckles of amusement. But then Retha leans back to turn herself around and melt into Vash's arms with a clear sign of relief. So Vash relaxes with her to smile also. His own words filled with love and warmth. "Right. We're here for you, sunbeam. Even if it gets rainy or stormy at times. I promise you this. You matter. Always."

[ggomomomo]

Potions

@felixmonth

Felix Week 2022 Day 4 (Fantasia Version) | Side Effect

AO3 | Masterlist

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Marinette muttered to herself when she heard another cough from the kitten. She tiptoed to lean over the cauldron and stirred the mixture with an oversized ladle. A few drops splattered on the spellbook perched on the wobbly lectern. 

She checked the book again. 

“Cherries?!” She exclaimed. “It needs cherries? I swear I read charred berries instead of cher—argh, damn it!” 

Angry footsteps towards the pantry made Félix stir from his sleep. He raised his head slowly, let out another series of coughs and flicked his tail. Tugging down the brim of her hat, Marinette picked up her familiar and set him down on her lap. “You’ve been out playing in the cold again, haven’t you?” she scolded. 

The cat let out an indignant meow, followed by another jumpy cough. He wriggled out of her hold and settled near the cauldron. “Alright, the medicine’s just about done,” the witch harrumphed. 

She tossed exactly three cherries towards the cauldron, which puffed out a pinkish smoke. Without batting an eyelash, Marinette stirred again whilst fanning the air. Finally, she lifted the ladle up to her lips and blew. “Okay, Félix, where are you?” She looked around. 

Félix’s tiny tail peeked out from the bottom of the recliner. Marinette gingerly pushed the chair aside and hauled the kitten up before he could escape. More coughs and hiccups in between bubbled up from his lungs. Fortunately, when she brought the potion near his mouth, he eagerly lapped it up. “Drink it up, kitty cat.” Marinette fed the entire portion. 

She set him down, gauging the effects of the potion. A recipe for cough medicine (specifically for black kittens) was the last thing she expected from the spellbook, but perhaps familiars got sick often enough for it to be a necessity. Félix hiccuped once, but no coughs followed. 

Marinette blew out a breath. “Good. All finished.” 

It wasn’t finished. 

As she turned away to clean up the cauldron, Marinette heard a shifting noise. Her eyes widened the moment she turned around. In Félix’s spot was a golden-haired man, with his steel eyes slitted and his figure hunched on hands and knees by the chair. The look on his face was that of utter disorientation. 

“Oh no.” Marinette all but ran towards the spellbook (nearly tripping over the hem of her dress) and snatched it up. “Thirty cherries instead of three?! What kind of—” 

She squinted at the fine print at the bottom of the page. “Disclaimer: errors in making the potion may lead to side effects . . . you’ve got to be kidding me!” 

Potion recipes were far from ‘logical’. Because there were many possible ingredients, the effects of most combinations were yet to be discovered. This was why it was important to follow the instructions down to a tee. 

“Now, you’ve really done it.” An unimpressed voice rang out. 

Marinette stared at her familiar-turned-human. Félix was examining his new body in distaste, nose twitching like whiskers. “Turn me back.” Félix frowned at her. 

“Wait a moment.” Marinette frowned back. She flipped the pages, burying her face into the book. Alas, the spellbook had nothing about turning a human back to an animal. 

She groaned. “It’s probably in the fourth volume. And I’m—” She counted with her fingers. “—Still forty-fourth in the library queue for that book!” 

“What?” Félix squeaked. “I want to turn back now!” 

“Maaaybe, you’ll last a few days as human—” 

“Mistress!” 

“I’ll find a way, don’t worry!” 

“Being human is terrible,” he whined. “Bring me back now!” 

“Ungrateful kitty. At least I cured you.” Marinette blew out the fire below the black cauldron. “Let’s get you clothes in the meantime.” 

---

Taking care of human Félix proved to be a lot harder than kitten Félix. He was already a cunning brat in his feline form, and now he wouldn’t let go of his animal habits. He’d lie down on the floor, stretch, and yawn. He’d jump up on shelves and cabinets to swipe knickknacks off their tops. He’d rub his face with his fist and blink slowly at her. 

And she knew he was doing it out of pettiness.

“Félix, get off the table.” Marinette set her hands on her hips, half-ready to swat him away with her broom. 

He stopped midway through leaning into his bowl. “Why?” 

“What do you mean why? Use your hands, a spoon, and a fork for goodness’ sake!” 

He crawled back down to his seat and curled and uncurled his hands. “Why do I have to use my hands when I can bend?” 

“Because you’re a human.” She placed a new centerpiece, a bowl of fruits and flowers, on the stained tablecloth. “For now at least.” 

But instead of attempting to use his hands, Félix ducked and began eating straight off the plate, dirtying his chin and the sides of his mouth. Marinette massaged the bridge of her nose. 

“When are you going to turn me back?” Félix asked. 

“Soon, so stop asking that every thirty minutes.” By ‘soon’, it would most likely take a couple more days. She had explained the situation to Sibyll, who agreed to let her borrow the book. Unfortunately, Sibyll was on leave and couldn’t give it until she returned. 

“I miss my tail.” Félix pouted. 

She could probably find a spell to summon a tail for him but she would never open that option, knowing it would be a hazard. 

“At least you’re not tracking fur anywhere anymore.” Marinette watched helplessly as he dunked his tongue on the bowl of water. She whispered a quick spell to immediately clean the lower half of his face.

“What’s wrong with my fur everywhere?” 

“It sticks to my things and makes me sneeze.” She took her own seat at the table to snack on some bread. Her legs swung on top of the floor, but not even a minute later, Félix had gone ahead and ventured under the table to bump his head against her knees and feet. 

“Seriously, Fé—” 

“But my fur is nice.” 

“Do you know how dangerous it will be if a single hair goes into the cauldron while I’m brewing?” She moved her legs away from him. “If it gets into a paralysis potion, the whole thing will explode.” 

Félix stuck his head out from the table, turning his nose up. “That’s not my problem.” 

“You gremlin!” 

He ignored her and emerged from the table fully to groom himself. Félix licked the back of his hand and ran it up and down his face and hair. Marinette stared with disinterest, wondering if she should give him a proper bath herself. 

---

After a long day out in the market and selling potions, Marinette lounged on her recliner, careful not to disturb Félix, who was positioned on the floor to imitate a cat loaf. There was one more day left of enduring his human form. Once he was back to normal, she’d vow to never let him contract an illness again. 

Right at the second she closed her eyes, she felt movement from him. Félix had stood up and was trying to sprawl across her lap. 

“Félix!” She jolted. “Stop, you’re going to break the chair!” 

“But I always sit on your lap.” 

“When you were a cat.” Her hands snuck under his back to get his weight off. “Now you’re huge.”

A tiny meow (or what sounded like a meow) gurgled at the back of his throat. Marinette suggested that he rest his head on top of her lap instead. Her hand slid down to stroke his hair, coaxing out loud purrs from his lips. 

“Mistress.” He nuzzled his cheek on her lap. 

“Yes?” 

“You’re stressed.” 

She scoffed. “I always am.” 

But running her fingers through his silky hair made it all better. She waited for a complaint, the usual whining from him, but he continued purring. When she rubbed the underside of his chin, a sigh sounded out. 

“That reminds me.” Marinette yawned. “I picked this up from the market.” 

She procured two bangles from her pocket, one patterned with witch hats and the other with bells. She slipped one onto her wrist and the other on his. 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

Materials for a mental link, she said with her mind, since we’re still working on ours. 

Witches with longtime familiars were able to establish a solid emotional and mental connection with them. This allowed the familiar to fully support their master or mistress. Marinette had had Félix for only a few months, and they were still working on making that bond. 

Ah, does this mean mistress will be in my head all the time? 

“Not all the time,” Marinette spoke. “We just need these bracelets to guide us to a proper mental link.” 

He brought his wrist up to look closely at the bangle. “But I can’t wear this on my paw when I turn back.” 

“Perhaps a collar for you will do.” 

A sound akin to a hiss broke out. “No collars!” 

“Fine, we’ll try to reduce that to something you can wear around your foot.” 

Félix settled his head comfortably on her lap once more, closing his eyes. Marinette’s own eyelids were fluttering close as she nodded off. 

The mental link opened again. 

When will you turn me back? 

“Félix!” 

[steel-forged]

🎁

Send a symbol for a drabble/short piece of writing about my muse’s … 🎁 Favorite gift.

The day felt as though it was never going to end. The kind of day that seemed like it was never going to end. Shipments delayed, shipments missing, shipments wrong. The gas flow for the forge had hiccuped, and the resulting surge had scorched the steel being heated at the time. All in all, it was a pretty terrible day.

To cap off what was essentially a write-off day, the smith decided it was a day worthy of a few drinks. It ended about as well as expected, with August stumbling back home from the upper levels of the city. Making her way upstairs, to her bed, she flopped onto the comforter, face down in her own pillow. It was too early to sleep though, no matter how she tried. There was really only one thing left to do to calm herself down after that.

Moving into what passed as her living room, August dropped into her chair, sighing and picking up the slightly battered ukulele kept just beside it. Giving the instrument a cursory glance yet again, her fingers traced out the inlaid silver runework on the back. A gift from Micheal. Or, at least, the runes were. She had carved out the slots and inlaid the silver herself, lacquering over them to ensure they would never come undone.

After countless broken predecessors, this one wouldn't suffer the same fate. Granted, she had never intended to damage them, but sometimes it was just the closest thing on hand in an emergency, and... Well, they're typically delicate things.

It takes but a moment to tune the four strings, done by ear, and maybe just slightly off-key. As she began picking through scales, notes, and chords, a song came to mind. Something silly, something energetic to burn out the energy she had left, she played and sang to the audience of herself. And then once more just for the fun of it, too tired and tipsy tonight to question where she learned it, or what any of it meant as she normally did.

Satisfied, properly tired now, she put the little thing back into its spot, patting the head affectionately. "Ah, don't know where I'd be if I couldn't play a little music now and then... Maybe one of these worlds I'll get a piano. Till then, it's just you and me, little guy..."

[roman-cates]

Bryce stops speaking and almost immediately Roman collapses sobbing, hands over his face.

Well, he let Bryce finish, at least. Bryce fights the urge to walk over and fold Roman into his arms. It's harder than it should be.

Fuck, he's made a mess of this again. He wonders, briefly, if he really should have let Mal shoot Roman in that basement. If that would have been kinder. He doesn't wonder long. He knows he can get Roman out of this, if they can just manage to fucking communicate.

He reaches out to hold Roman's shoulder or stroke his hair, and stops himself. What is wrong with him? Roman hates him. It won't be comforting, it will just cause more terror.

Although, looking at him now, he's not sure there's room for more terror in Roman's brain. He gives up the fight and stands up, walking over to Roman's side. He stands by the chair and puts one around Roman's shoulders.

Roman twists away, and his sobs seem louder to Bryce's ears. Bryce removes his arm, takes a step back. He runs his hand down over his face, sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath.

"Roman," and he puts a bit of steel in his voice, "Have you ever fired a gun?"

Previous

Roman doesn't know how many minutes pass as he sobs. At some point though, he does recognize Bryce try to put an arm around him. Roman immediately twists away.

He doesn't want Bryce to be there. He just wants to be alone— or dead. Dead would be such a relief right now. It's too overwhelming. It's too much— he can't do it.

Bryce lets go of him.

If Roman could cry any harder, he would be. As it is, he can hardly breathe.

"Roman, have you ever fired a gun?"

The question makes Roman's sobbing stutter. He uncovers his face a little as he glances up, confused. He manages to get control over his crying for long enough to hiccup a "yes," before he's crying again, although not quite as hard.

[storiesbyash]

Ninth District

In the cyberpunk heart of the Ninth District, a single piece of gossip had twisted and turned its way through the city, a whisper in the neural network. But where truth ended and fiction began, nobody could tell. After all, in a world run by machines, who could tell the difference between a glitch and a revelation?

In the perpetually twilight-drenched arteries of the Ninth District, a cheeky little rumor had put down roots. Scooting its way across the silicon-tinged chatter of the digitized proletarian, it played a game of telephone with the city's brainy network. It was a bit of a hiccup in the otherwise smooth digestion of facts and truths.

The narrative kicked off, quite predictably, in a pub. The Steel Sprocket was one of those out-of-the-way watering holes where one could chase solace down to the bottom of a budget-friendly synth-ale. It was here that Old Man Rikker, a fleshy anomaly in a world of computerized taskmasters, first launched the tale into orbit.

"Listen up, whippersnappers," Rikker wheezed, eyeballing the murkily lit room. "The Corp's got a fresh plaything. A real game-changer. They're calling it: Rebirth."

This juicy morsel was then served up to 8-Ball, the cyborg taxi chauffeur with a solitary human peeper and a soft spot for eavesdropping. "Rikker's spilled some beans," he murmured, his voice soft as his anti-grav cab floated through the midnight fog. "Something about The Corp whipping up a contraption that can bring back the dead. They're dubbing it Project: Resurrection."

That's when Zeta, the AI barista moonlighting at the Cafe Obsidian, brewed it further. "Fibre-optic grapevine's got a story," she informed her patrons, her holographic figure dancing in the light. "The Corp's been burning the midnight oil. They're crafting a time machine. Project: Redemption. Do-over opportunity, see?"

And so, in the rain-kissed arteries of the Ninth District, the tale grew legs and ran. A tool to upend the status quo. A gizmo to resurrect the deceased. A contraption capable of a temporal U-turn. The specifics twisted and contorted, akin to the shadows thrown by jittering neon signs.

At last, the whispers ascended the social ladder, breaching the upper echelons where crystal clear glass towers scraped the polluted sky. In a plush penthouse surveying the dystopian sprawl, the CEO of The Corp lounged behind his table, a cat-that-got-the-cream grin plastered on his face.

A holographic screen sparked to life, showcasing a shadowy figure. "The hearsay's taken root, boss," the enigmatic persona reported, its voice as chilly and unemotional as a faulty fridge. "The mob's intrigued, apprehensive, hopeful."

"Oh, absolutely smashing," the CEO replied, leaning back leisurely in his chair, his eyes reflecting the city's neon glow as if he'd stolen a piece of the dusk for himself. "Let them natter, let them theorize. In the meantime, we'll bulldoze ahead with Project: Revelation. By the time they unravel the enigma, the game will be all but won."

And so it was that the gears of The Corp began to whirl with a fervor previously unseen. The titanic steel beasts in the heart of the city hummed into overdrive, pumping out mysterious contraptions and mysterious widgets that even the savviest of tech heads couldn't decode.

Days became weeks, weeks became months. The city lived on the pulse of gossip, speculation pulsating through its veins, brightening the glow of the neon signs. The once hardy whisper had now become a loud roar, an incessant static that filled every nook and cranny of the Ninth District.

And then, quite without warning, all fell silent. The Corp’s machines hummed no more, the lights in the great glass tower dimmed. The city held its collective breath, waiting, anticipating.

Finally, as the eternal twilight turned into an even deeper night, the main screens of the city flickered on. The shadowy figure appeared once more, only this time it bore the corporeal resemblance of the CEO. His eyes, mirroring the city's neon radiance, bore into every citizen with an unwavering gaze.

“Citizens of the Ninth District,” his synthetic voice echoed through the dark, empty streets, “Project: Revelation is complete. We thank you for your... patience."

"My dear citizens of the Ninth District," the CEO began, his voice slick as oil on chrome. "Today marks a new dawn in our collective journey."

Behind him, something massive stirred, a marvel of engineering finally waking from a long slumber. It wasn't a tool, a device, or a mere machine. It was a veritable titan of information, a kingmaker of rumors.

"This, my friends," he gestured grandly at the mechanical behemoth behind him, "is your new compass in the information wilderness. A beacon of speculation, if you will, expertly crafted to sift through the mundane and unearth the extraordinary."

Indeed, it was a control mechanism, but not the tyrannical sort. He wouldn't put it that way. No, this was a facilitator. A fulcrum on which the wheel of public opinion would turn.

"This marvel will generate an endless stream of rumors, tall tales, and tantalizing tidbits," he declared, eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "It'll provide the daily grist for your mills of conversation, the fodder for your social engagements. Think of it as... your very own, personalized tabloid, unburdened by the chains of truth or reality."

Then, he dropped the bombshell. "Of course, in this era of ours, information is valuable, and facts, well, they're premium. For those of you who crave a dash of reality with your daily dose of rumors, we're offering a unique opportunity—a subscription service."

His smile widened, the neon glow of the city reflecting in his eyes. "For a small fee, you can puncture the veil of rumors, get a glimpse of the truth beneath the speculation. Our machine will still spin its yarns, but you'll hold the power to separate the wheat from the chaff. No more blind faith, no more uncertainty. Just the raw, unvarnished truth at your fingertips."

And so, the CEO concluded, "Let the whispers spread, let the tales take flight. We welcome you all to a new era of informed speculation. Get ready, Ninth District. The game is about to get a lot more interesting."

[omg-elledubs-writes-things]

Stranger things - Steve HC

Steve's mom wasn't always like this, distant and anxious and cold, chasing after her husband instead of living her life. She used to stay home with Steve while his dad went on his business trips. His dad was gone a lot, so they were a team. During those days, they would go on adventures together, to the park or to the record store, driving with the top down on the Cadillac and matching scarves in their hair, listening to Elvis. In the late afternoons, she would put the record From Memphis to Vegas on, and she and Steve would wiggle and dance around the living room, crooning ballads and jamming loudly to the bops, always giggling and ending up in a tired happy pile on the sofa.

Some nights, she'd go out with a few girlfriends, to a club or a concert, and Steve would stay with a babysitter until his momma stumbled in, lipstick lightly smudged but bright and happy. The day after a concert was the best, in Steve's mind.

Steve would sit beside his momma while she did her makeup in the morning, and she'd do up his hair, big and proud; and if she was real happy and he was real good, she'd give him a little lip gloss and coo over how cute he was.

After the concert in June of 77, she took Steve into the city to a music store and bought him his own guitar, and before they left the shop a nice man taught him the shapes of the chords in Can't Help Falling in Love With You. Steve would press his fingers down on the strings, and momma would strum and they would both sing. He was in awe at the music they could make together, and Steve knew that he was always gonna have his momma by his side.

But then the King died, and part of his momma died too.

It wasn't all at once. She stopped going out with her girlfriends, didn't go to concerts anymore, but she was still home with Steve. A little quieter, withdrawn, but physically present. They still put on records in the afternoon, even if Steve was doing all the dancing by himself while his momma sat there watching with a drink in her hand. She didn't strum his guitar with him and sing anymore, but he was learning how to do it himself.

Steve noticed that she was sad, how could he not. He thought maybe he could learn a new song and surprise her for her birthday. Every day for ages, after he had his afternoon dance party with her, Steve would retreat to his room with his guitar and try to recreate It's Alright Mama by ear. Slowly, stubborn, little by little he pulled it together, until it was time to perform for her birthday.

But to his surprise, Momma went away with his dad on a long business trip for her birthday, leaving Steve with the first in a long line of nannies. He was stung, but he kept practicing so that when she got back he could serenade her.

Momma was almost more sad when she came home, though, her face pinched and pale. Steve broached the subject carefully at dinner, asking if he could play something for her. She nodded and smiled, ran her fingers through the hair of her sweet boy.

After dinner he hurried upstairs for his guitar, and sat in the living room on one end of the couch. His dad was sitting in his chair, and it made Steve nervous, because he'd never played in front of him, but this was for his momma so he steeled his shoulders and played the birthday present performance, looking down at his fingers intently while singing.

Suddenly he felt a smack on the back of his head. He looked up, startled, to see his father standing over him, face thunderous. In the silence he heard a hiccup, and looked over at his momma, who was sitting on the other end of the couch, and sobbing.

Steve didn't play Elvis for his momma anymore after that.