#'The Prickle Eye Bush' is going to be in my head for a while...

[y-rhywbeth2]

Lore: Music

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. There's a lot of lore; I don't know everything. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Useful for bards and priests, one assumes. I had to look up so many songs I'd never heard of to have a clue what half the comparisons were...

Musical education in the Realms (plus what the core Colleges (Lore and Valor) translate to in the Realms (where they aren't called that))

Musical vocabulary

Instruments

Music itself, including: operatic, 'symphonic'-ish, renaissance-style, hymns, 70s folk bands, and 70s rock music. [Popular music | Hymns | Opera | Demihuman traditions] (we got music that sounds like Leonard Cohen, Sinéad O'Connor, 70s folk music, 50s folk music, ELO, Genesis...)

Education

The majority of trained musicians, including bards, start off being apprenticed to accomplished bards willing to tutor, and some seek out Bardic Colleges. The exact focus, quality and curriculum varies by the institution.

To be admitted one must have some experience performing, and be able to pass an audition. They will perform before one of the master bards of the college, as well as one 'invisible' listener they're unaware of. Both masters must agree that the candidate is worth teaching or not for admission, if they don't agree further auditions will follow until they do agree on a verdict.

'Low-order' colleges generally concentrate on mastery of pitch, timbre and nuance. Students are taught to sing scales and perfectly duplicate overheard notes and tunes with their voice, as well as memorizing a set of tunes on a range of instruments to familiarise themselves with different keys and methods. The crafting and repair of one form of instrument is also part of the training.

'High-order' colleges offer a wider range of instruments and repertoire, teaching the history behind the music and lyrics, as well as some language tutoring - not necessarily to speak the language, but to be able to sing such songs perfectly.

New students to any college will be taught the basics in classes at first, but very soon will be passed onto a tutor for one-on-one tutoring.

Pretty much all official colleges in the Realms would make you a College of Lore bard in core DnD terms.

What is called The College of Valor does not actually involve colleges, and is found amongst warrior cultures like Orcs or the Illuskan Northmen, Uthgardt and Reghed: skalds - warrior poets, lorekeepers and clan storytellers.

The most prestigious colleges are the College of Fochlucan in Silverymoon, an ancient bardic tradition which I assume from the name is supposed to be from Ffolk tradition (the Moonshaes). This college has close ties to the Harpers, though most members will stress that their mission and activities are separate to avoid being targeted by the Harpers' enemies.

The College of the Herald is also found in Silverymoon and was founded by a Harper in 922 DR to preserve history. The college maintains a strict neutrality towards the conflicts of the world, and its focus is on preservation of history, folklore and legend over music.

The College of New Olamn, once Ollamh, another ancient bardic tradition, is in Waterdeep, established in 1366 by wealthy patrons of the arts.

On a less formal level, priests of Milil are charged with spreading music and teaching as many as possible to play and sing, and followers of EIlistraee are to 'nurture beauty, music, the craft of making musical instruments, and song wherever they find it.'

Vernacular

'Minstrelsy' is a term for live music, not including hymns and holy music. Recorded music does exist, though mostly in the form of spells that exist to capture and play the song back on command. People like to use them for study, meditation, fun, etc. If you don't have access to magic, due to cost or general mistrust of the stuff, the Gondians have invented music boxes. You can also get those jewellery boxes with the spinning dancer that play music when they open.

A 'song' is monophonic performance or piece, consisting pof a single vocalist with no instrumental accompaniment.

'Allsong' is the term for polyphonic pieces; covering vocals with instrumental accompaniment, multiple singers such as choirs, and orchestras.

'Newclang' is recent music that starts playing with or breaking conventions. May be viewed as a brilliant invention or modern pop garbage, depending on your tastes.

'song-cycles': 'extended stories told by ballads being sung in a particular sequence. Most of these are 'later inventions,' concocted by a minstrel or bard stringing together their personal favourites (or tunes that they could perform well, and that were popular with paying audiences) into a story of sorts, and then knitting them together with altered lyrics, additional linking songs, and sometimes short spoken-word orations, into the tale of one hero's life, or a romance, or the reign of a villainous king, or the saga of a fearsome dragon or other predatory monster (and its eventual defeat).'

If the performance is 'wordless' then there are no sung lyrics. There might be vocalisations along with the music, but as per the name, no words.

The concept of sorting music into genres apparently hasn't much occurred to anybody yet; music is music in most people's eyes. Historical music trends are named after popular artists of the time. Still you have lammuer (slow waltzes), whirls (reels) and tonsets (courtly formal dances).

There is no standard agreed upon scale that is used by the whole of the Realms.

-

Instruments

The instruments most frequently seen in the hands of common minstrels are lutes and harps. Bells, clapping or stamping one's feet, rhythm sticks and a small wooden pipe akin to a penny whistle serve as accompaniment, and for major percussion instruments you have hand drums and 'great drums' (kettle drums).

Ocarinas, kazoos and mouth harps are pretty common.

Yarting: An acoustic guitar, basically, with origins in Amn and Calimshan, but variations exist everywhere.

Songhorn: Recorders

Straele: A violin-like instrument, shaped a bit like a metronome and played cradled in one arm (preferably while sitting).

Great staele: Cellos and basses

Drone: A large, stationary double-reed instrument with a bladder and several mouthpieces, played by multiple musicians and sounding either like the drones of a bagpipe or an organ or synthesizer.

Jassaran: a crude 'keyboard-and-wires' instrument invented in Sembia that sounds something like a harpsichord.

Artang: A dulcimer, though artangs are only plucked or bowed.)

Shawm: A gnomish instrument that's something like an oboe or bassoon in form. There's also a bellows powered variant.

Zulkoon: A Thayan pump organ. Pipe organs also exist.

Tantan: tambourines. Popular with halflings.

Longhorns: flutes

'Birdpipes' or Shalm: pan pipes. Most popular with Lliirans and elves, particularly copper and green elves.

Tocken: carved oval bells set to hang so that they can be lightly struck. Instruments such as this are found in subterranean cultures (Dwarves and goblins, mostly). The sound echoes through the structures.

Glaur: Basically a trumpet (more specifically it sounds like a renaissance instrument called a serpent), shaped something between a cornucopia and a saxophone.

Gloon: Much like a glaur, but lacking in valves and it produces a markedly mournful sound.

'Whistlecanes' or thelarr: The bane of parents. Basically just a cut reed you can whistle with. People like to give them to children, who do as children do and proceed to give everybody ear aches from badly played instruments.

-

Music

With a note that a lot of the following kind of applies to the Sword Caoast, Heartlands, Cormyr, Dalelands and etc. Different regions of Faerûn have different music. The kind of Thayan music you'd hear in alehouses in East Faerûn, for example, apparently sounds like this. (Songs with such tunes are called 'thaeraeden,' or 'life laments', and the lyrics are often melancholy questions and challenges. Usually break up songs and unrequited love, the usual.)

So, switching out more modern instruments like drumkits and electric guitars, this is the kind of music you'd apparently expect to hear from minstrels, street and tavern performers and etc. This is basically turning on the radio:

Popular ballads and songs sound something like:

These: X, X, X, X,

Stuff like Leonard Cohen. X

1970s folk music, like Steeleye Span and Maddie Prior. Like the Prickle Eye Bush X, X.

Tongue-in-cheek songs like the Irish Ballad are popular with the working class. I feel like that one specifically would be popular with drow and Bhaalspawn, personally.

'Easy listening' being played in the background while you're passing the evening at a tavern sounds like standard Renaissance fare like Packington's Pound and My Thing is My Own.

Dance music would sound something like this: X

The kind of music you're likely to hear at an upper class party is going to be bringing in musicians and possibly orchestras and dancing. Stuff like this: X, X, X, X,

Orchestral music doesn't utilise strings very much, and prefers to use vocalisation in its place. You generally get more stuff like this.

-

The Opera

Inasfar as I can tell, the opera is exactly what you expect.

The most famous/popular operas include:

'the War of Three Castles:' Featuring a bunch of kings throwing their sons and daughters off to lead armies against each other. Disaster strikes, two princes and a princess are trapped in a tomb in the Underdark and a love triangle ensues. The princess decides fuck that nonsense, she will have both or neither but she's not having this drama, and they work out a polyamorous relationship, and agree that they will go home and have a 'marriage of three crowns' where they all marry each other, even if their fathers may try to stop them or execute them for it. Then they get back up there, discover that their fathers have been killed turning the entire region into a war torn region. They recover what is left, and they get married and unite their kingdoms in peace and like happily ever after.

'Alvaericknar:' The lovable rogue archetype who shares his name with the title bites off more than he can chew trying to rob a lich - who kills him. But he's prepared for that, and due to ensuring that the lich killed him in a spot that would set of several enchantments he manages to come back as undead, and proceeds to continue his hijinks. 'As an undead, he goes right on being a swindling, fun-loving rascal, only now he doesn’t need food or drink or shelter.'

'Downdragon Harr': An evil sorceress turns a princess into a dragon, uses magic to disguise herself as the princess, murders the king and takes over the kingdom. Her first decree is to have every dragon in the kingdom slain (all dragons are played by bassi profundi). A knight with a magic sword wounds the princess in her dragon form, and the enchantment on the blade breaks the spell on her. They fall in love via duet, and then go to the most ancient wyrm in the land (the titular Harr), wake him from his centuries long slumber and use him as their steed to fly off and challenge the sorceress. 'She sees their approach and uses mighty sorcery, that drains the life from most of her courtiers and all of her guards, to slay the dragon as it dives down on the castle—but in death, it slays her, crashing into the castle and crushing her to pulp under its great bulk as it slides to a (dead) stop. (It sings in death, and so does the queen from somewhere under it.) The princess and the knight begin their happy rule, and wedded bliss, atop the carcass of the great dragon.'

One suspects dragons do not care overmuch for this opera.

-

Hymns:

Religious music is typically plainchant, a form of music that usually consists purely of vocals (typically a solitary singer). There is no set rhythm, as the song consists of singing prayers and religious verse. Sometimes there's the occasional accompaniment from a instrument, such as an organ, or a slow heavy drum beat, in the case of Banite hymns.

They can be more complex: polyphonic hymns involve 'two or more singers or instrumentalists playing independent melodic lines at the same time.'

The hymns of most faiths sound most akin to Gregorian chanting. At its softest and most elaborate, you get something that sounds something like a simplified Enya song.

-

Elves

Ah yes, the mysterious and magic melodies of the Tel'Quessir...

Which apparently sound a lot like, say, Don't Bring Me Down, Land of Confusion, Domino Medley, Mr Blue Sky...

They also have your Enya and Loreena McKennit type stuff.

Replace the guitar with a harp, maybe throw in a flute, that's elven music. It's rock. Elven instruments are the only instruments thus far capable of sustain. The effects on the vocals can be replicated by elves, who have a strange quirk with their vocal chords where they can produce two notes/sounds at once, distorting their voice in a way that's similar. Some have a genetic quirk that allows them to sort of say 'two things at once.' Generally elves prefer softer singing voices.

Elven musical performances feature galadrae - three dimensional illusions depicting scenes to go along with the song, not dissimilar to what one might see at a modern concert. Generally the theme is the history/story behind the piece.

Common elven folk songs are apparently these: Laeryn's Lament My Love Green And Growing Blood of My Sisters The Moondapple Stag Knights On The Ride Thorn Of Rose Winterwillow [an instrumental] Greenhallow Mantle Stone Fall, Tree Rise The Lady Laughing

-

Dwarves

Dwarves like drums and metallic percussion for their music, and vocals tend to be plainsong.

Large clanholds with volcanic vents may build giant complex pipe organs.

'...usually dwarves play piano-like personal instruments (strings hit with hammers; hitting things with hammers is the dwarven way). Most such dwarf instruments look more like an accordion (small portable keyboard) and have metal strings.'

-

Gnomes

Gnomes like drones and oboes (or shawms, I guess). Traditionally, history and lore has been an oral tradition kept by women, so it wouldn't surprise me if some lorekeepers sing it.

-

Halflings

Halflings are apparently known for their comic, and usually bawdy, operas, which are popular with gnomes and dwarves. Titles include 'Ravalar’s Roister In The Cloister; Yeomen, Bowmen, and The Taming Maiden; The Seven Drunken Swordswingers Of Silverymoon; The Haunted Bedpan; The Laughing Statue Of Beltragar; and The Night Six In-Use Beds Fell Into The Castle Moat.'

Outside of that their music overlaps a lot with human music trends.

-

Orcs and goblins

Heavy drumbeats, gongs, warhorns and rhythmic shouting/chanting.

-

Dragonborn

Nothing outside of BG3 that I see, so I'd go with what the game says: throat singing.

[pricklenettle]

Parent's Ghost

This is my fic for @ecto-implosion! I wrote it based on the art by the talented @jackalspine

The little ectoblobs are made of the emotional residue of the creatures around them like dust bunnies. The Fenton house is full of both ectoplasm and emotional residue. So what happens after Danny is injured by his parents?

WC: 4,795

AO3 link

_______

Danny walked along the power lines. Not on the ground, that was for people who liked getting doused with rain water everytime a car came by. It was way cooler strolling along, way above the headlights cutting blindly through the splintery drizzle that made this evening’s twilight so dim. Danny adroitly floated around a buzzing insulator that snapped testilly at every rain drop. He continued his stroll, placing his feet just a finger’s breadth above the black wire.

He supposed he should be grateful for the drizzle, and the quiet evening that was proof of the apparent absence of ghosts to hunt. But really, he was bored. Bored, and his brain was starting to prickle with dread as calculus equations and handwritten paragraphs echoed sinisterly in the back of his mind. The image of the homework he’d left piled in his room loomed closer over the horizon. On top was the English paper Lancer had assigned him. 

He’d written two sentences for the paper’s intro before flying out his window to patrol. So far it was disappointing him. He’d found a wisp of a ghost bear rooting around in the Nasty Burger dumpster and an old granny who wasn’t bothering anybody except the park’s population of stray cats. It was getting uncomfortably more obvious that tonight his biggest responsibility was going to be his homework. 

Danny wrinkled his face. Figures, the one night he wanted a distraction, Amity decided it was time for peaceful quiet. 

Even though he knew he should be heading home he just kept walking along the wire. He folded his arms behind his head and kept an eye upward, hoping the clouds would break up. 

It was just on the edge of too cold. The drops that hit his shoulders and head were like needling icy fingers, prodding him to go home and take cover inside six warm walls. Leave the world to the rain to whom it belonged. He stuck his tongue out at the sky and pulled his phone out of his belt pouch. 

The cracked screen pulsed unhappily at him with aberrant colors. He tilted it forward, trying to shield it from the beads of water that rolled off it with bent light. There were no new messages from Sam, but Tucker was asking about that English assignment. Danny groaned and scrubbed his fingers through his hair in frustration. He knew what he should be doing, the universe knew what he should be doing, he’d cut off his toes and feed it to the resident ghost cats before he wrote one more word tonight. He locked his ankles together, drifting a little higher over the powerline while he texted back. 

“Hey, Ghost scum!” was his only warning before something exploded off to his left. The acid green light of ecto-based ammunition froze the rain in the air in a single flash. It competed and instantly won against the dim sky, lighting up the undersides of tree limbs and throwing everything into a sharp lime light. 

Danny automatically threw his hands over his face, then flew up, searching the ground through the spots in his vision for the interrupters. 

“Damn it, Mads, I missed him again,” came the only slightly quieter voice. Danny’s grin spread sharply when he spotted his mom and dad crouched behind some bushes. 

He floated tauntingly lower. “Hey, I was walking there. How’d you like it if I threw missiles at you when you were on an evening stroll?”

“I’d say you were showing off your true nature, ghost,” Jack cried, pointing a finger at him. The shiny black rubber of his gloves reflected the yellow globe of the streetlight that hummed, lonely in the rain. The single illumination of the deserted road. “An evil, mindless blob of ectoplasmic residue that’s grown too comfortable in the mortal plane.”

Danny hovered in place, daring on whatever happened next. “At least I’d be able to hit you, in that way I am pretty good.”

Maddy was scrambling to quickly reload the gun. It looked like pretty heavy artillery. It might be strong enough to blow him to pieces if the spots still dancing in his vision were anything to believe. Of course, it would have to hit him first. Lucky for him, it looked like it was going to take Maddy a while, and Danny had plenty of time to antagonize his parents. He floated lower, leaning back in the air and crossing his legs. “Don’t you two have somewhere better to be than out in the rain following an innocent ghost around?”

“No such thing,” Maddy hissed, still fighting over the guts of the big gun. 

“Menace to society you mean,” Jack shouted up.

Danny stuck his tongue out at them and raised his arms with limp wrists like the classic ghost. “Boo.”

“You won’t be saying boo when my wife reloads and splatters your ectoplasm– er,”

Maddy threw down her new rocket launcher in disgust. 

“No good, Mad’s?”

Danny looked on in utter delight as Maddie began riffling through the duffle bag at their feet. “I can’t get the damn thing to work with this rain.”

“My bad, Honey. In mark two, I’ll prioritize simplification and ease of use.”

“You can’t have everything in one gun, dear, your design is wonderful just as it is. Only a little tweaking I think.” Danny gagged overtop of them before they could get really sappy. They whipped back around, on guard again. Maddy stood up from the duffle bag this time with the net gun in her hands. She braced herself to fire. 

Danny sighed and shook his head. “You folks need to figure out when it’s time to pack up and save it for another day.” He accumulated a ball of ectoplasm between his fingers and lobbed it at Maddie’s feet. She dived to the side and came up on her knees. They locked eyes and she pulled the trigger. The net burst out with a puff of gunpowder. 

Danny flew to the side, but a corner of the net collided with his leg. The cords snapped around his boot, quickly tangling when he tried to shake it off. He grumbled, annoyed. But still, no problem. The cord was treated to be anti ghost so he couldn’t phase out, but he had a lot of energy humming in his chest that had gone unused all day long. He smiled grimly. So, they wanted to catch a ghost? This was going to be fun. He twisted around and propelled himself up above the treeline. Maddy yelped beneath him. He glanced back to see her feet were dragging in the ground and she was barely holding onto the gun over her head. He put on another burst of speed and her toes lifted off the ground. 

Jack leaped to grab it from her. He braced his feet and grunted with the strain of holding Danny earthward. She let him have it and ran back for the duffel bag. Danny wasn’t quite strong enough to lift Jack off his feet, not without phasing the big man partly out of the physical world. Danny soon found himself fighting just to stay in the air. 

Jack clung onto the rope doggedly. They both seemed pretty determined today to reel him in. No matter how he flew Jack was stubbornly holding on. As though he actually believed he and the phase-proof line could reassert the laws of gravity that Danny had gotten so used to ignoring. 

He was starting to feel a little too much like a toy kite for his liking. Careful to keep the line taut, he bent over his leg to tug at the tangled cords of the net. He was just starting to make progress, a pile of freed loops dropping to hang form his boot, when he heard a pop from below. An instant later a bolt screamed through his arm. He recoiled, grabbing his arm tight. 

The ectoplasm of his arm had been sheered away and hollowed out like a stick of butter in a microwave. Beads of ectoplasm rolled over the creases of his white gloves. 

Looked like Maddy had finally got the gun to work again.

“Hey,” he yelled down. “You missed my vital organs. For all the time you spend hunting me, I’d expect you’d at least be good at it!” He aimed down along the perfectly straight line drawn between him and his dad. As perfect as a math equation, from point a to point b. He didn’t even have to aim. 

Jack dropped backward, electric green smoldering in his orange jumpsuit. Danny buoyed up into the air, cord and gun and all. He would have gotten away then, and he was already thinking about what in hell he was going to write for his damned English paper. 

Maddy dropped the gun and leaped over Jack. She jumped for the cord before it could get away from her. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of the gun, jerking Danny back down. She’d pulled something out of her jumpsuit. Danny saw the flash of the Fenton Ghost Taser™ an instant before she pressed it against the taut cord. 

Danny cried out. His body instantly seized up, all his muscles vibrating, making his teeth chatter together. The searing pain that traced the path of the electricity came as a secondary thunder clap. He dropped out of the air. 

He hit the first branches like a second shock. Thousands of tiny twigs crackled under his descent. As he traveled lower he hit branches that bent, then broke. He caught a glimpse of the ground. All scattered with brown, lance shaped leaves. Then he hit.

***

“Ow,” he groaned, pushing himself up. He batted bits of dead leaves out of his hair and suit, making sure he was all still there. He felt like his parents had hit him with the earth like a wrecking ball. He looked up, staggering a little with the tilt in perspective, up through the hole he’d smashed through the perfectly nice canopy the tree had been working on for who knew how long. Maybe he’d been the wrecking ball. 

He had to sit down a moment, his entire body felt burned and achy from the taser. He fished one spikey piece of branch out of the side of his boot. He’d taken bigger hits and farther falls, but when he couldn’t catch himself the stupid part of him still expected to die everytime. He looked up again, ignoring the ringing in his head. He’d fallen into a damn thick patch of alders and bushes— honestly amazing he’d found any flat hard ground to hit at all.

The phase-proof cord— one end still tangled around his leg, wandered off into the underbrush. He could hear his parents thrashing around in the distance. 

Danny quickly shook off his distraction and jammed his fingers into the knotted mess around his leg. He worked and pulled at the strands, brow furrowed into determined concentration. If he turned human he could slip out in an instant, but he didn’t want to risk one of his parents spotting it through the bushes. He kept glancing up to check how close they’d gotten before returning to the net. Of all the things, why did he not keep a knife on him? His parents had made a ghost thermos and laser lipstick. Why not a Fenton Knife™?

Their crashing was getting closer. He stubbornly kept his head down, focused on his scrambling fingers and ignoring the loud sounds of Jack and Maddy following the anti-ghost cord right to him. He just needed to figure out where it had gotten tangled. A careless movement reminded him of the hole seared into his arm. Oh, ow. He’d almost forgotten about that. 

There, he’d found an edge. He freed it from a few misplaced cords, then twisted it, wrapped it back, passed it under his leg, and finally he could pull his leg free. He kicked the limp coil of net away and climbed to his feet. He could see patches of orange jumpsuit through the trees now. He gritted his teeth, pushing down the temper he could feel rearing up. They didn’t know— no. They didn’t care. He’d turned into a ghost under their noses, in their own workshop, and they’d never even noticed. 

He tested his arm with a hand. He still could barely feel it but he could already tell it was going to hurt when he got home and slipped back into his human skin. He winced when his fingers came away green. 

Danny stepped up into the air, flickering out of the visible spectrum.

***

The drizzle was still hesitant to turn into an actual rain when Danny floated outside his home. The neon sign buzzed faintly, briefly illuminating the drops that fell from the sky green, as though it was raining ectoplasm. 

Carefully, Danny pulled open his window and slipped inside. He let go of his invisibility and dropped heavily to the floor. A blanket he’d kicked off the bed bunched uncomfortably under his back and elbow, and his boot was chewing up the pages of a book he’d left open in the middle of the room, but right now he didn’t care. 

He stared up at his ceiling, at the sickly plastic of his glow-in-the-dark stars. It wasn’t dark enough yet for them to light up. The drizzle patted softly against the roof, like the Fenton building was a strange and unusual cat it didn’t quite know how to stroke. His arm ached dreadfully but he ignored it. A glancing thought reminded him of the English paper he’d sworn he’d finish tonight. He turned over, squeezing his fingers into his torn up arm. He scowled into the dark shadows that clung to the floor of his room. He’d do it tomorrow.

***

He came out of a dull fog with something nudging his leg. He hissed and kicked at it, then groaned. He was so sore from the electricity that had pulsed  through ever fiber of muscle he owned. He cracked an eye open. It was dark. Rain shadows mottled the dim light from the neon sign outside that the window cast onto the floor beside him. The constant buzz of rain on the roof made him realize he was still cold and damp. He curled tighter into himself, closing his eyes to try and go back to sleep. Well, it had decided to rain after all.

Another nudge against his leg made him open his eyes in annoyance. It was a tiny blob ghost, apparently small enough to get past his parents' sensors and definitely too small to cause real trouble. It sat in a ball by his foot, gazing him down with softly glowing red eyes. 

“Shoo,” he said crossly. “I’m trying to sleep.”

Instead of going away, it drifted up closer to his face. It was certainly brazen in the face of a much stronger ghost. Danny drew himself up into a half crouch, unwilling to let even this mindless blob catch him down and out. “You should get going, you don’t want my parents to see you hanging around.” 

Instead of listening to him, the blob rolled up to his hand. The surface of its ectoplasm rippled and then it plopped up a wet wad of bandages. 

“Eeew, that’s gross.” But it did make Danny think to look at his injured arm. He grimaced. That gun was seriously concentrated. His arm was still hollowed out and dripping with green slime. He’d been slowly leaking as he slept and it had left a dark, wet spot on his twisted blanket that gleamed dully in the low light. “Shoot.”

The small blob made a tiny murmuring chirp. He looked back down at it and it nudged his hand. He’d never met a blob ghost so friendly. The ones he occasionally spotted in the house seemed peaceable enough, but he never let them get close. They were like fruit flies, they just appeared where their sustenance was. Normally they coalesced after fights, drawn to the spilled ectoplasm like ramora to sharks. Or maybe they were created by it. Who knows. They were skittish, unfriendly, and prone to hurting pets. He didn’t really know how to react to this one trying to cuddle up to him.

When its insistent bumps got no reaction, the blob instead snagged his sleeve. It bobbed up in the air, tugging him to stand up. 

Suddenly there was another blob. It floated out from under his bed and tugged on his pant leg, seemingly for the same purpose. 

Bemused, Danny stood. The room tilted. For a moment he couldn’t move except to sway on his legs. He almost jumped out of his skin when a third blob ghost appeared over his shoulder. It settled as solidly as a blob could on its perch and hummed and chirped in his ear. Its firm press reminded him of when his dad would clap him on the shoulder, his big warm hand a steadying weight. 

The blob ghosts were still tugging on his clothes. So, Danny obeyed. He tottered tiredly toward his bed. He made the bed every day, but the blob ghosts must have been rifling through his room before they woke him up because all the blankets were half off. 

Irritated, he fell into bed. He sighed as his pillow recieved his head with a puff. His ssense of gravity became even looser as the pillow cradled his skull. He might have been floating as unmoored as he felt. How he’d missed it. Did it seem poofier today or was he just really happy to be in bed?

He shivered at the cold sheets and shifted to curl into a ball, but the blob ghost was still holding onto his sleeve. He lifted his head to show a threatening row of teeth, but he didn’t have the energy for much else. He flared the energy of his core. It had never failed to to send blobs darting away like frightened mice. These ones didn’t.

The big one that had sat on his shoulder floated through the air, a long trail of white bandage fluttering beneath it like a tail. Danny was starting to be amused. At least this bandage wasn’t already sopping with ectoplasm. 

The big blob hovered over the bed, edging the bandage closer to his wound. He didn’t know how to tell these things that you were supposed to disinfect stuff first. Whatever, at least it would stop him from soaking the mattress. He could deal with things properly tomorrow. In the morning when he felt less like a dead boy barely filling in his human skin. Yeah, whenever that happened. 

***

He’d figured out how to scare them off the night he’d been following the trail of a giant, mutant ghost snake. He’d been chasing it for most of the night and the snake had left it’s mark on him and a large chunk of Amity Park. He’d been pretty sure it was dead but he didn’t want that one coming back to life to bite him in the ass. Again. 

He’d found it in an old alleyway, its coils half hidden by mounds of trash. The huge snake had stopped moving. It was losing clarity fast and its scales were melting into the broken asphalt. The ambient ectoplasm its blood had added to the air made a glowing haze over the alley. It was also swarming with blobs. Like busy ants they flocked from one wound to the next, soaking it in like sugar water. 

Danny had taken a step back, just like anyone who turned over a log and found it crawling with maggots. Danny blinked at them, squinting with one eye crusted half shut from the fight and the other rubbery with exhaustion. The way the blobs swarmed over the ghost’s corpse before it had even bled away out of their physical world made shivers prickle all over his shoulders. Slowly he backed away. He’d confirmed the snake wouldn’t be a threat anymore, his job was done. 

He’d intended to leave the scene and creep away to finally go home, when his leg gave out and he slipped on the pavement. all the milling pairs of red eyes snapped to him. They hissed like a multi-tongued hoard of snakes. Automatically, Danny flared his core. He’d gritted his teeth, staring them down, thinking very hard about how much bigger and fiercer he was, how easy to squish them and fight them off his prey. The hand in front of him gained an unnatural edge, like a glowing afterimage. All the ghosts immediately fled, abandoning their immense feast.

After that he’d never had much trouble with the smaller ghosts. It didn’t make sense that these ones weren’t bothered about it. 

Danny took the bandage from the bigger blob and pinched it to his arm, intending to wind it around with his teeth. Instead, the three blob ghosts seized it from him, letting him hold it in place while they passed it back and forth around his arm. Danny didn’t have to do anything before he was looking at a tidily wrapped bandage. He wasn’t even seeping through them yet. 

“Thank you.” Uneasily he settled back onto his pillow, warily watching the blobs flit around like alien lights through half closed eyes.

The blob ghosts drifted like flotsam, their cool glow sliding over his freezing sheets to the glistening wood of his bedpost, then back again to bead on the dark wetness he’d spread on the floor and under his dry eyelids. His sight blurred and he realized again how tired he was, but now he’d been roused twice. He couldn’t relax with the huge, cold night huddling in the space of his bedroom. Especially not with the strange ghosts, mindless and helpful though they seemed to be.

The blobs didn’t seem to realize. They briefly floated down out of sight then reappeared holding up a blanket between them. As gently and softly as could be, they drew it over him. Two of them churred soothingly and patted the blanket around him as though they were trying to tuck him in. Danny wanted to laugh but instead he found himself sinking into his pillow, eyes blinking shut. After all, why shoo them off, he could defend himself from a couple of blobs. He yawned broadly. The third blob ghost drifted down to alight on his forehead, unexpectedly similar to the softness of a cool hand against a fever. Danny sighed and let it stay there. He already felt warmth spreading over him from the blankets, he was afraid to move or it would go away. 

The other blob ghosts settled onto his blanket around his legs. Their light dimmed as though they were going to sleep. He finally relaxed enough for the transformation to slip over his head and down his legs. He shivered furiously for a moment, like the first steps out of a cold pool where he’d acclimated to a chill sort-of-comfort and then into biting wind. Before long real warmth stole over him. 

The blob resting on his forehead began to hum. Even through his sleep drenched brain he recognised it. It was a silly song that his parents had liked and turned into a lullaby, just like every parent does. Whenever this one came onto the radio Danny was jolted back to when he was a kid and soothed into a warm bed on a close and sleepy evening. When he was a kid he’d practically vibrated with too much energy. When he couldn’t sleep Maddie would hold him wrapped in a blanket in her lap, singing that song and rocking back and forth, sometimes flubbing and making up her own words.

They needed the lullaby a lot when he was a kid. Some nights it was the only way to keep him in bed. It was a song for a too long road trip when he’d sent the entire car into seismic shifts from his carseat while the windshield wipers worked madly and Jazz was yelling at him for kicking her seat. The song was for a hospital visit where the cold room and unfamiliar walls was more disturbing than the pain in his broken arm. In the past it had never failed to lull him to sleep.

Somehow he hadn’t heard it in a long time. He didn’t miss it, it was just one of those things you naturally left behind as time passed. He wasn’t a baby anymore and Maddie didn’t need to sing it to get him to shut up for five seconds. He didn’t even remember the funny words she’d made up for it. His eyes drifted closed as he tried to mumble them and somehow dredge them up from deep in his mind. He’d almost completely forgotten it. He wondered where this blob had picked it up.

All the wondering he could do ran away from him quickly. His consciousness spun out like a ball of yarn leading him to sleep. The tune dropped him back into those years of falling asleep with his mom’s cheek next to his and finally his brain stopped thinking and let him drift off into deep dreamless sleep.

***

Jack and Maddie came home in the stillness of the hour between night and morning. It had stopped raining but they were drenched and stuck all over with orange pineneedles and other forest detritus. They were tired and trudged heavily through the door, not wanting to wake anyone up. There were twigs and leaves in Jack’s hair and a spray of thorns caught in the weave of Maddie’s suit. She smiled working it free but there was no real mirth behind it. Just tiredness.

They’d found no ghost in their net. But they’d been so sure a ghost couldn’t escape it, and a hit from Maddie’s new gun, on top of a shock from the Fenton Taser™ without being seriously damaged and power drained. So they’d combed the area again. They’d found not a sign of the ghost. They supposed that they’d never know until the next dogfight if that one had survived or had dissolved into whatever aether the scraps of human consciousness were bound for. 

They dumped their tangled and scraped up gear in a pile. Neither of them said anything. Without a word they left it there and took the stairs. Jack looked at the back of his wife’s neck. He might not be good at reading people but he’d known her long enough. All these ghosts were fascinating, they’d never had more work. But the rest of Amity didn’t exactly agree with their glee. Some nights the sheer amount of ghostly activity was overwhelming. And they were strong enough to be actually capable of real property damage! Who knew what else. The sooner they could stuff these spooks back where they came from the better. But this wasn’t what was bothering Maddy. Jack knew the problem that was puzzling her now was Danny. It was frustrating. Life would be so much easier if people could just say what they were thinking.

If only he could figure out the problem. 

Again, without words, they stopped in front of Danny’s door. Dread was boiling in Maddie’s stomach, there’d been so many nights she’d known he’d snuck out. Some nights he just never came home. Jack’s large arm reached past her to press against the door. He eased it open with both hands, For once he payed special attention to not bump anything thoughtlessly. Danny’s room was dark, the only light inside came from the warm stripes that escaped from the hallway lamp around their legs and the dim stick on stars that littered the ceiling. It was messy, as usual. Leaves of homework were layered over his desk and books lay open all over the floor. Drifts of clothes made sedimentary layers in the corners of the room. Jack couldn’t help his well of fondness at the sight. Danny was a still form on the bed. Silent asleep, as he should be. 

Jack sniffed, was the ectoplasm smell stronger here? He glanced around briefly; bed, desk, floor— then shrugged. It was everywhere in the house. It was their fault really, always mixing work and family life.  

Jack looked down and realized neither of them had pushed one toe over the carpet line into his room. It was just as good as a wall. 

Maddie’s mouth worked as though she was chewing over a mouthful of words that needed to be said, no matter how silently. She finally whispered. “Good night, Danny.”

And then they left as carefully as they had come. 

[elsfleur]

⋆·˚ ༘ * COOL ABOUT IT - PART TWO

ellie williams x reader

summary: it was an odd thing to enjoy your work, but with a passion for music and a fling with your coworker the days at the record store seemed bright, until of course you meet her girlfriend.

content warning: i guess it’s angsty, very filthy smut with sub!ellie and dom!reader, mentions of cheating and bad self image, implies of degradation, mentions of masturbation

word count: 1,749 and previous part here

📼 ʾ ⠀

she would come to you in dreams, pale green eyes pointed at you like a weapon, body soft as a menace, reach out towards your face and in tenderness you’d surrender as though you never meant to have walked away in the first place. you’d wake up panting the nights you’d forgive her, you’d shower away the disgust the nights you thought to have felt her tongue– traitor was a dramatic word, but your heart claimed it as ellie’s synonym.

work had become insufferable but you grew into an astoundingly good employee, never at the break room as to not encourage ellie into a conversation, constantly roaming around and chatting up clients with entire discography conversations going as far as escorting them to their car in odd fashion, you appeared sparkling and every glance of your shine that reached ellie’s senses immediately sent her skin on fire. she had been miserable and lazy, escaping from her thoughts only through deafening music as to drown out the distance between you, you too a constant in her nightly affairs, forgiving, beautiful, near.

she melted into the couch imagining it your embrace, let the melody transport her into better times, hated herself for replacing her songs with your laugh as a favourite track, for indulging in temptation through entirely wrong means. she thought herself a symptom of disease, wreckening plague in the lives of those she cherished that once established could only widespread devastation. the idea that perhaps keeping you casual and secret would make it unknown to the universe and therefore not give it the power to ruin it was stupid, once she fully thought it out, but it had been comforting. allowing your affection to fill in the broken cracks of her being as though glueing them together was a sensation she knew selfishly not deserved but craved as a drug addict. you thought she called you her angel as a bit, but she felt it pulsing through her veins.

tears prickled her eyes for the eleventh time that shift, heavy metal not enough. turning the volume down her body rolled sideways and she begged it into slumber for moments of peace.

“wake the fuck up williams we’re mid shift” you cursed taking hold of her headphones and tossing them aside rather agressively, the girl immediately stood up overwhelmed, a scoff being her immediate response to your turned back heading out the room.

“what the fuck? you haven’t spoken to me for fucking weeks those are the first words you say to me since you left this place before i could even explain anything and you just go walking away again?”

“jesus christ, i’m sorry someone woke up cranky from their midday nap but what the fuck else do you even want me to say? oh right i’m sorry, how about how’s your girlfriend?”

“we broke up” ellie stated simply before interruption.

“great! and i suppose you want me to run into your arms straight into a sunset beach now while it rains unicorns and rainbows, isn’t that right?”

“oh my god you are the most insufferable human being i have ever met! i fucking hate you and i hate the way every time we walk to work together you have to stop and pick out a flower at every single bush we walk by and if i don’t put it behind my ear your feelings gets hurt and you have the goofiest smile making fun of me, and i hate the stupid witchy herbs you make me ruin my weed with that makes it taste so girly and like you and i hate the way my mouth memorized your fucking lipgloss to the point i can’t do anything without feeling you on my lips and it drives me fucking insane, i hate your frilly little love songs that only start sounding not so bad by the hundredth listen and i hate that i fucking know the lyrics to taylor swift now and you made me relate to them! i hate your smile and i hate that fruity perfume you wear that always gets stuck to my clothes and i hate the way you looked at me like i’m a good person to the point i almost believed you for a second and and i hate your lame ass sense of humour and how you’re the only one who laughs at my fucking jokes and god worst of all i hate the way i can’t even begin to hate you at all!”

you opened your mouth to reply though not quite sure what words would escape you, but she was quicker, pacing around and heightening her tone in complete desperation that cracked knuckles in soothing.

“no and you know what? yes i fucked up and i cheated on my three year relationship but we were fucking done! we have been done for years! and we haven’t been more done since the day i first laid eyes on you and thought this girl is going to fucking ruin my life! i am worse than a cheater, yes, i’m a coward! because guess what angel, it has always been you. god, it probably has been you since before i even knew you existed and you don’t understand how insane it is to say this because you’re the one who believes the whole soulmate bullshit! i’m a mess and i’m fucked up and i’m too much and still not enough and-“

“ellie” you called out, her eyes finally meeting your own as you felt immersed in the same light green dreams you have ferociously tried to escape from, the pink lips you knew so intimately quivering at your stare as though taunting you to kiss its fear away, you had heard enough for an answer “kneel.”

“what, do you want me to beg for your forgiveness now?” ellie asked ironic though her legs were compliant, lowering themselves till she fell on her knees, running a hand through her messy hair to keep it from falling on her face staring up at you in clear shot.

“take off your shirt” you demanded, watching intently as she lifted up her arms to remove the fabric obeying though deeply confused, her cheeks flushing red with the attention, eyes drifting everywhere except for your face until your hand found the edge of her chin and forced it up to meet your eye “you’ve done enough talking”

“i fucking hate that you lied to me” you started impossibly close to her face “i hate the way you ruined this job for me, i hate that i can’t look at you without feeling sick with desire like a desperate whore pulsating at flashes of skin, i hate that i’m so used to moaning your name that you may aswell have ruined sex for me aswell, and i fucking hate how your little girlfriend kissed you infront of me and doesn’t even know your mouth was sucking on me minutes earlier, take off your pants”

she slowly rose up to detach herself from the jeans squeezing her figure, only to be pushed back down once fully rid of them back onto the ground, you weren’t finished.

“i hate that i can see how wet you are right now, i hate that you have made it so i feel disgusted to touch you, i hate that i still want to do it so fucking bad as if your moans in my ear would erase your dumb mistakes from my memory. just a question, were you fucking her when you were with me too? nevermind that’s silly, of course you were, unless you spent six months making her believe you have gone celibate-“

ellie shook her head hard, gulping down “n-no i didn’t, i told you angel it was a façade relationship all i wanted-“

“shut up. touch yourself” you ordered as she slid a hand under her underwear, lightly rubbing on her clit and silencing own whimpers through biting down her lip “i hate that i have to ask myself if she made you feel good like i did, if she knows your whole dominant archetype is actually just hiding a brat who wanted to be ordered around and fucked so bad, right els? did she get you on her knees for her too, touching yourself to the thought of her before she even took off her clothes? or am i just special?”

“angel” ellie moaned out, inserting a finger into herself.

“does she know about the freckles on your hipbone that look like the gemini constellation? did she see the bite mark i left there last time we fucked? does she know you like it when i spell my name on your pussy with my tongue, has she tried it? do you remember what it feels like to be inside me as opposed to her, remember begging to add more fingers so you could feel my walls closing in on you, remember staying inside even after i came because you wanted to feel the warmth around you, was she warm for you, ellie?” you asked, warm breath hitting her face like a makeout.

“angel, please” she begged embarrassingly.

“please what? use your fucking words since you wanted to have the last one so fucking bad”

“please fuck me” ellie moaned out arching her back with a gasp as you easily slid one of your own fingers inside her alongside hers, the sounds of wetness with your every thrust bordering filthy.

“i hate that i can’t fucking stop dreaming about you, that you’re so fucking wet for me you’re drenched, that i’m thinking after all this making me an idiot i shouldn’t let you cum, how’s that?” you asked curling your fingers inside her which lead to a near pornographic moan escaping past her lips and an aggressive head shook to your words “i hate your stupid lake eyes and how they shine like galaxies, i hate the way you hold my hand to cross the street because you know i get distracted, i hate the way you effortlessly played my favourite song on the guitar although you claimed before to not like it, i hate how badly i want to fuck the attitude out of you until my heart stops hurting about this”

“i’m sorry, my angel, i’m so sorry” she croaked out whimpering, swaying her hips for friction with your fingers every movement making it harder to keep a cleared mind, dizzy in desire “fuck, i’m here now please please let me show you i can be good i want to be yours”

“want?” you chuckled removing your fingers and shoving them by her mouth so she’d taste herself on them, sucking slowly “you are mine, ellie. i just haven’t decided if i’m yours”

[cottonlemonade]

Protecting You

word count: 791 || avg. reading time: 3 mins.

pairing: not quite post-time skip Daichi x chubby!Reader

genre: angst and comfort, pining

warnings: stalking (not done by Daichi)

synopsis: you call Daichi for help because you‘re scared

The weather was gray. It had started to drizzle and fog crawled along the streets and walkways of the city. Daichi was at home, studying for his police entrance exam, groaning quietly when stretching his stiff neck. His face lit up when he saw your name appear on his display.

“Hey y/n-san, I was just thinking about you.” Ignoring the urge to facepalm about his truck-like subtlety he got up from the desk and moved towards the kitchen.

“I-I’m sorry I didn’t know who else to call, but could you come over, please?”

“What? Do you miss me that much?”, he joked.

“Daichi, please… You can make as much fun of me as you want as long as you do it here.”

His face faltered when he heard the genuine panic in your voice.

“What’s going on?”, his tone immediately serious as he listened intently.

There was a moment of silence on the other end.

“Y/n-san? Are you still there?”

“I… I feel like I’m being watched. There was a man today, who followed me from work to the grocery store and then to my house. Please…”

Your plea made his throat tie up.

“I’m on my way. Do you need me to stay on the phone?”

“No, it’s alright, just… hurry. But please be safe.”

“I will be. I’ll see you in a bit.” He hung up and rushed to grab his jacket and keys.

While driving, he kept glancing at his phone, in case you called again. Were you actually in danger or did you just imagine it? Or, the tiniest voice in the back of his head chimed in, were you maybe just trying to come up with a reason to see him?

The curtains were all drawn, when he pulled into the parking lot of your small apartment building.

Daichi checked his phone again and was just about to call you when he heard a rustling in the bushes to his left.

The fog was getting thicker and the light from the streetlamps hardly made it to your driveway. His neck started to prickle and he squared his shoulders, approaching the bush slowly to investigate.

A small, rather oval shaped man, completely dressed in black was crouching between the branches, a large camera in his hands.

“Can I help you?”, Daichi asked, a tense tone of politeness weaving through his voice, making a mental list of descriptive key points for the man.

“Just move along, kid.”, the creep said gruffly, not even looking at him but keeping his eyes fixed on the curtains of the second floor.

“You know, the last time I checked trespassing, stalking and harassing were still illegal. So it might be better for you to leave, before I call the police.”

At the word police, the man finally spared him a look, noting how tall and broad he was.

He let out a sigh as if someone had really spoiled his evening plans and laboriously got out of his hiding place, slapping imaginary dirt off his pants.

Daichi crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“It really doesn’t take long to dial three digits, just saying.”

“Jesus, kid, I’m going, aren’t I?”

When the man had vanished around the next street corner, Daichi took out his phone again and called your number to let you know he was outside.

His heart broke when you opened the door a handwidth. You had obviously been crying. Unsure about how to proceed he stood there for a second, in the cramped entryway - you, the person he’d been thinking about nonstop since you‘d met, kneading your hands. For a little while longer silence stood between you like an invisible wall, then out of nowhere you took a determined step forward and slung your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. At once his body responded, one hand on the back of your head, the other firmly pulling you against him. This way you stayed for several long moments. Daichi murmured soothing words into your hair, wanting to kiss your tears away when you hugged him tighter, your chubby fingers grabbing at his jacket. He told you about how the situation had been dealt with and you relaxed a little.

In the end, it didn’t take much longer until your breaths became deeper and your body stopped shaking.

“I’m sorry I’m crying into your shirt.”, you mumbled against him and he chuckled.

“No worries.” With you safely in his arms, he swayed a little from side to side to loosen the tension of the situation and actually earned a small laugh from you, making his heart trip.

You let go of him, wiping your tears on your sweater paws.

“Thank you so much for coming.”

[batwingsandblackcats]

Imodna sick fic or nightmare comfort to ease the angst of the last episode?

PS love your fics

thanks so much for sending this in! I do love me a sick fic. And that's real sweet of you to say, I'm so happy you enjoy them!

--

The key scraped against the lock in the dark once or twice before sliding in with a soft grinding sound, and then a click, and then the rumble of the bolt as Imogen turned the doorknob, pushing it open.

"Laudna?" she called softly, nudging the door closed with her heel, flicking the entryway light on with her elbow, her hands still occupied with keys and a paper bag from the little market down the street. "Honey?" she called again, worry prickling the back of her neck before she heard the rustle of movement ahead in the living room.

"Imogen?" came a raspy, strained voice, and Imogen smiled a little, sadly, as she padded into the living room after kicking her shoes off by the door.

On the couch, was what at first glance looked to just be a tangle of mismatched knitted blankets in all sorts of colors, but then there was a rustle of movement as Laudna emerged, wide eyes blinking blearily as she peered out of her cocoon.

Laudna's long hair had evidently been braided at one point, but it had mostly escaped by now, instead wreathing her head in an unruly tangle. She was paler than usual, though the slight apples of her cheeks were rosier than than they normally would be, evidence of a fever.

"Hey, baby," she sighed as she set down the bag on the coffee table. She knelt down beside the couch and reached out, bushing a few strands of hair out of Laudna's eyes.

"What are you doing here?" Laudna croaked, her brows drawing together in confusion, "darling, I don't want you to get sick, I--" she cut herself off and ducked back into her cocoon, a muffled sneeze sounding from the pile of blankets as it shook a second later. Laudna resurfaced with a tissue held to her nose, breathing hard as she sniffled. "I said I would be alright, darling, I don't want to bother you," she rasped, sighing quietly as she settled back against the blankets.

"Takin' care'a you isn't a bother, Laudna," Imogen said with a soft laugh, shaking her head a little. "S'kinda my job, actually, seein' as I'm your girlfriend an' all."

"But--" Laudna began, "don't you have other things that need doing? I'm not dying, Imogen, it's just a cold. I'll survive," she murmured, burrowing into the blankets again.

"Just cause you ain't dyin' doesn't mean I shouldn't come take care'a ya," Imogen said softly, "doesn't mean ya should have to fend for yourself," she leaned forward and kissed Laudna's clammy forehead, and she smiled a little as she watched the flush on Laudna's cheeks darken a little bit for just a moment. "So," she continued, leveling Laudna with a serious look. "have you eaten yet today?"

"I had some tea and toast earlier," Laudna relented. She took a deep breath, blinking slowly up at Imogen.

"When was that?"

Laudna hummed quietly, thinking as her eyes flicked to the clock that sat on her mantle. "A few hours ago, I think. I fell asleep for a while."

"Alright," Imogen murmured, "I think maybe we should get something more substantial in ya, what do ya think? Chicken soup sound good?"

Laudna nodded with a sheepish smile. "Thank you, darling," she said softly. "We can order it if you like, I don't have any canned soup in the pantry right now," she began, but Imogen shook her head.

"Nope, I got everything we'll need for soup," she said, nodding towards the bag that sat on the coffee table. "go back to sleep, darlin, I'll wake you up when it's ready."

[inktailsaystuff]

Introducing Ivy to Nina

Freckle meets Ruby (Ivy's dad)

Tw: None :>

Freckle's tail twitched with anxiety as he stood outside his home. He had smoothed out his fur, and worn his mother's favorite suit jacket. It took all of his energy to flatten his bristling fur, in the corner of his eye he could see his silver furred cousin Rocky from the bushes. The cat offered him one of his signature manic grins of support. Now don't get him wrong. He loved his mother... but he was also mortified that she would be unapproved of his girlfriend. Ivy. Ivy stood tall next to him, her beautiful gray fur glowing silver in the moonlight. She wore a loose pastel green layered dress that went down to below her knees, with a matching green cloche hat. Her long thin wiry tail intertwined with his soothingly, as she fixed her hair. 

"Honey, are you alright?" Her sweet voice cutting through his worrisome thoughts. "You know I can always meet your mother some other time right?" Her piercing yellow stare looking into his eyes. "If your worried-"

"N-No." Freckle shook his head, his ear twitching. "I can do this. It's okay." Swallowing a lump in his throat he knocked on the door. The few seconds waiting for his mother to open the door felt like crawling through hell itself. As each second ticked by he could feel his skin prickle and fur bristle, fear clawing its way up his neck. 

"Calvin?" His mother opened the door, her hair tied back into a tight bun as she smoothened out her skirt. Her small ginger stature sent shivers up his spine. "Who's that you got with you?" She narrowed her eyes, fixing her glasses as she looked Ivy up and down. "You better not be getting hanky panky with her Calvin." (I don't know 1920's slang :'<) Nina's tail swished. 

"What? No Mother." Freckle shook his head, "I- I uh... I'm courting her? Yeah... I wanted you to meet her Mother." He fiddled with his paws, his anxiety eating him alive as his mother inspected Ivy. Earlier both he and Rocky had briefed Ivy on how to act and talk around his mother. Well actually Freckle did most of the briefing while Rocky screamed poetry about how to avoid angering "the wrath and fury that is the woman of ginger fur and short stature." Whatever that meant. 

"What's your name?" Nina asked as she finally let the couple inside. Her brilliant yellow eyes analyzed Ivy and her son as they walked in. Nina had to admit, the girl seemed like a sweet one. Large yellow eyes and soft gray fur, the young cat held herself up with an air of upper class, her thin and wiry body graceful and stunning.

"My name is Ivy. Ivy Pepper. Mrs. McMurray." Ivy smiled as she stepped inside, holding her purse in her hand as she smiled. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you Ma'am."

"Hmph." Nina frowned. "Would you like some tea Ms. Pepper?" Nina asked as she poured three cups of tea. 

"Yes Ma'am." Ivy smiled, sitting down next to Freckle. 

"How did you meet my son Ivy?" Nina asked as she sipped her tea. Her eyes were cold as she analyzed every one of Ivy's moves as if to find a single blunder. 

"W-We met at a cafe." Freckle offered, twisting their meeting into a less… scandalous version of events. 

"Did she start courting you?" Nina asked wryly, her tail lashing. 

"N-No." Freckle shook his head. "I approached her first..." That was a blatant lie, but alas if they wanted this to work they had to. "She was... uh... drinking tea... and she looked like a nice young woman so I asked to speak to her for a bit." 

"Hmph." Nina narrowed her eyes. "I suppose you do seem like a nice young lady Ms.Pepper." Nina closed her eyes as she sipped her tea. “What does your family do for work?” (I dont actually know what he works as so I’ll just pretend he's also a mine owner)

“My father owns a quarry, a little out of Kansas City, currently I’m going to college.” Ivy prattled off, her happy chipper voice polite as usual. “Anything else Ma’am?”

“I suppose. I shall consider this arrangement then.” Nina hummed, “Now Ms. Pepper, if you could wait outside for a moment I must discuss it with my son.” 

“Yes Ma’am.” Ivy smiled, her heels clacking against the floor as she left the room. Freckle almost cried at the sight of Ivy’s slender tail vanishing behind the door, leaving him to answer his mother’s questions.  

“So what do you think, Mother?” Freckle asked as he wrung his tail in his paws. Worried thoughts ran through his head; What if Ivy was too straightforward? What if her manners were off? What if his mother didn't like her? However his worried thoughts were interrupted by his mother’s booming voice. 

“Stop messing with your tail Calvin. You'll ruin your fur.” Nina finished sipping her tea. “I suppose the girl is soft spoken. A good woman for you Calvin.” Nina folded her hands in her lap. 

“You like her?” Freckle’s ears pricked in excitement. 

“Now wait there Calvin.” Nina raised a paw, “I do quite like this young lady, however I do not know if she is the right fit for you.” Upon the sight of Freckles' dejectedness, Nina rubbed her temple. “However, I will give her time, Calvin.” She looked at her son. “And if she proves to be fit, I give you my blessing.” It took all of Freckles' self control to not jump for joy. 

“Thank you Mother.” Freckle beamed, his tail swishing side to side in excitement. 

“Yes. Yes Calvin.” Nina waved a hand, “Have you met her papa yet?”

“Errrrr… yep. He’s a little busy but I managed to speak with him over the phone.” Freckle lied with a smile, praying to the heavens that his mother wouldn't catch that lie.  

“Good. Remember no hanky panky until after marriage.” Nina waved a finger at her son. “Understood? I want no such godless behavior under my roof.”

“Yes Mother.” Freckle smiled, scurrying out of the room, practically quivering with excitement to tell Rocky and Ivy the news. Nina sat down in her chair chuckling. 

“That’s a good one Calvin.” She wiped her hands on her apron watching as Freckle ran over to the car where Ivy was waiting for him. 

“Goodbye Mrs. McMurray.” Ivy called out curtseying to the older cat from outside as she entered the vehicle. “So how did I do?” Ivy asked once Rocky managed to drive the car a few blocks away from the house. “Did I pass?”

“She approves!” Freckle beamed. 

[whump-tr0pes]

Your Part to Kill

Many thanks to @newbornwhumperfly for being so generous in letting me put their boy Morja in Situations, and many apologies to them as well for holding onto this story for so many months while waiting for myself to finish it.

My masterlist

Morja is a diathésimos, one of a class of indentured servants owned by society’s elite - though some would call them slaves. He has been tasked with a mission of critical importance by his anóteros: to infiltrate a dangerous family that has taken refuge in the north, and kill the criminal that they are harboring: Gavin Stormbeck.

Part 1

Contents: slavery, past murders, conditioned whumpee, reluctant whumper, attempted murder, nonsexual nudity

~

Morja’s feet had long since begun to ache. He felt the sting of a blister on the back of his right heel, felt the rough edge on the inside of his boot rub against raw skin. Each step down the dusty road sent a dull wave of pain through his toes where they crushed against the front of the boots. Too small, much too small – but it was better than going barefoot.

He’d walked far longer, before, and he’d done it barefoot then. That he had boots at all was a gift from his anóteros, and it was his duty to obey. What he wore on his feet made no difference at all to his duty. He was a weapon, and weapons do not feel pain.

His throat tightened as he made his way down the dusty lane, the moon shining on the lake that ran beside. He felt the first stirrings of thirst, having had his last sip of water several miles ago. He did not carry water with him. Water would only slow him down, and this mission would be over soon. Twelve miles a few miles did not require water. He carried only what he needed: a gun strapped to his thigh, and a knife tucked into his belt.

He could have gone without the gun, really, but his anóteros insisted he carry it.

“Isaac Moore is the type of man to require more than one bullet to put him down,” his anóteros had said. “If you must put him down – better to do it from twenty feet away with a gun. You stand a chance of surviving, then, diathésimos.”

“Yes, anóteros,” Morja had said, before he’d pressed his forehead to the floor at his superior’s feet.

Morja didn’t shiver, even though the night was cold. The walk was enough to keep his blood moving, and even though he felt a chill at the tips of his fingers, he was comfortable. He didn’t carry a jacket. That would only slow him down.

Morja caught a flash of white light through the bushes that ran down each side of the lane. He froze, fading instantly into the darkness of the night. Slowly, slowly, he stepped to the side, careful to keep his boots silent on the gravel lane. He blinked as the light flashed into his eyes again. He let out a breath. It was only the moon, reflecting off the windows of the house.

His target.

Morja felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as he took another step towards the house. No lights burned in the windows, and the only sound he heard was the rustling of the wind through the trees and the quiet hum of crickets in the darkness. He checked the gun in its holster. The steel felt solid and cold in his hand. He ran his fingers over the handle of his knife. It felt almost warm to his palm, as if it was meant to fit there.

He was meant to be here. Meant to do this. He was not fit for anything else.

He shook his head against the fog that seemed to creep into his mind every time he was sent to fulfill his duty. He never liked to hear the curses, the screams, so he always made it quick. But still – the smell of blood never left him. He could feel it under his fingernails, even after he’d washed his hands over and over and over again. Perhaps that was why he left his jacket. He could never quite get out the stench of blood that seemed to be as much a part of the fabric as the fibers and thread. Perhaps the blood was a part of him, too.

Morja was perfectly silent as he made his way up the gravel driveway and to the front door. There was no security system for him to dismantle, his anóteros had assured him. There was only one thing to do: get in, and assassinate Gavin Stormbeck.

Morja’s stomach clenched as his hand closed around the door handle. He adjusted his fingers around the knob, turned it, and slowly pushed the door open.

The door swung open silently on oiled hinges. Morja let out the breath he’d been holding and rolled his shoulder as he took a step in, trying to loosen the coiled muscle and sinew that pulled taut inside him. A sudden bolt of pain shot through his left shoulder and down his arm. He gritted his teeth and forced away the pain.

His boots lighted silently on the wood floor, but he knew they would, even though these boots had not always belonged to him. He knew how to be silent, when it was demanded of him. He knew how to exist without a single noise at all.

Silence, diathésimos. If I wanted to hear your voice I’d remove the gag.

He shuddered at the sudden twinge in his chest. He pushed down the pain and moved on. The wood floor became carpet as he turned down the hall to the bedrooms. He had studied the layout of the house until he could see it behind his eyes, until he knew it better than the cell room that was his home. He had seen this house in his dreams every night this week, when he was allowed sleep. He knew every inch of it. He knew he would have to know it, if he had to fight his way out.

But he wouldn’t have to fight his way out. He would be obedient, and silent, and effective. Only one life had to end tonight, and no one would ever know he was there. He was his anóteros’s best weapon. He would not fail.

There was a door directly in front of him – not the correct room, he knew. That room belonged to the one named Sam, who was not a fighter. Morja’s stomach turned at the thought of them falling to his knife. An innocent, and injured, too, without the use of their right arm. But they did not have to die tonight.

Morja made a turn and passed by an empty bedroom. His ears pricked, scanning for any noises: normal ones, like snoring or gentle, even breathing – or ones that spelled something gone wrong, like the shuffle of feet against the floor, the squeak of a mattress. He heard nothing but the light rasp of a snore from the next bedroom he passed – the one belonging to Vera and Tori, two more innocents.

They had suffered a syndicate son in their midst, even though they were innocents.

“No one is innocent that harbors the enemy,” Morja’s anóteros had said. “They are lucky I only want the Stormbeck boy’s life. What they deserve is another thing entirely.”

Morja had shivered when he allowed himself to wonder what this family really did deserve, according to his anóteros.

He swallowed the dryness in his throat. His blister itched as he turned again, perfectly able to navigate the house in the pitch darkness. No moonlight reached him this far down the hall. He allowed himself to reach out one hand to trail along the wall, finger brushing feather-light against the plaster until he reached a wooden doorframe. He drew the knife from his belt and took in a deep breath. His throat tightened around the air as he drew it in. His right hand tightened around the handle of the knife. He found the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open.

Morja blinked in the sudden light. He found the source of it immediately: a night light was plugged into the wall, casting the room in a golden glow. Morja’s heart stuttered as he saw it. He had anticipated doing the killing with barely enough light to see at all. But now… he could see his target – Gavin Stormbeck, heir to the Stormbeck syndicate, torturer, murderer – nestled in his lover’s arms, pulled tight so his back was pressed against Isaac Moore’s chest. Moore’s lips were pressed to the back of the Stormbeck boy’s neck, and as they breathed, their chests rose in unison. 

The floor seemed to tilt under Morja’s feet. His hand shook on the knife. He took a step forward, then another, letting his aching feet carry him towards his mission. He drew in a slow breath, let it out, barely realizing he was matching the breaths of his target, lying warm and asleep in his bed. He gritted his teeth as he came to a stop beside the bed, standing over Gavin Stormbeck. Silently, he brought his knife to Gavin Stormbeck’s throat and let the blade tremble a millimeter above his carotid. All Morja would have to do is thrust the knife in, cutting through the vocal cords in the same strike. Gavin Stormbeck would bleed out all over his bed in one minute. His dying struggles might even seem to his lover like the mild tossing and turning of someone surfacing from sleep, and falling in again. 

His hand shook. His fingers tightened around the blade. He drew in another slow breath, let it out. 

This was his mission. He was a diathésimos. This was his purpose.

A tiny flash of movement caught his gaze, and he glanced at it. His heart dropped in his chest as he realized what the movement had been: Isaac Moore’s eyes flicked open and immediately focused on Morja with a look of protective, unfathomable rage.

Morja found himself taking a step back from the bed.

Without a word, Isaac launched himself over Gavin and off of the bed. Morja only had a moment to process that Isaac was naked, before a fist came flying at his face. He blocked the blow, and his entire forearm juddered with the force. The knife remained tight in his fist, unblooded. He jerked into action and lunged towards Isaac, knife flashing in the dim light. 

Gavin startled awake as the bed lurched beneath him. He sat bolt upright and rubbed at his eyes, trying to process what he was seeing: Isaac, naked, pinning a dark-clothed stranger to the wall with a forearm as his throat as he tried to wrestle a knife out of the stranger’s hand. Isaac slammed the man’s hand back against the wall, and the knife flew from his grip. 

Gavin’s heart pounded in his chest as Isaac grabbed the stranger by his throat and slammed him onto the floor. The stranger’s mouth gaped open as he gasped for air, throwing his arm over his head to defend himself from another killing blow. Isaac snarled as he shoved the man against the floor by his throat, other hand searching for the knife. The man clawed at Isaac’s wrist as his eyes rolled back. Even in the dim light of the room, Gavin could see his face going red, then purple.

Isaac’s hand closed on the handle of the knife. He brought it to the stranger’s throat, just above where Isaac’s palm pushed down, and pressed down to cut.

The man’s eyes went wide and flicked towards Gavin. Gavin’s stomach dropped. The look on the man’s face was so familiar, Gavin felt it like a punch to his gut – the look of someone choking beneath him, desperate for air, knowing he was moments away from death… and a terrified resignation that Gavin recognized instantly.

“No!” he croaked, unable to look away from the stranger. 

Isaac Moore went rigid over Morja. Terror swept through Morja like the lash from a whip. He tore his gaze away from the boy on the bed to stare up at Isaac, sweat stinging his eyes. Isaac was looking down at him with stark fury on his face, but he stayed the knife. Morja could feel it trembling against his throat. 

Ice clutched at Morja’s heart as he tore his gaze away from Isaac Moore and looked once again at Gavin, his chest heaving, one hand held out towards Morja. He shuddered, his mind going blank with a white fog of panic as he wondered: what does Gavin Stormbeck want with me alive?

Continued here

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[thistledown-au-warriors]

fire and ice - chapter 22

< Chapter 21 || Index || Chapter 23 >

“Good thinking, Fire Heart.” purred White Flower. He had seen Fire Heart pad back into camp with his jaws crammed with catmint.

Fire Heart’s mouth had been watering all the way home, although he was beginning to think he’d be happy never to see another catmint bush again. But he was happier than when he’d left the camp. His sister had safely kitted and his head felt clearer.

He was heading toward the healers' den when Tiger's Claw appeared at his side.

“More catmint?” observed the great tabby, his eyes suspicious. “I wondered where you’d gone. Bracken Leaf can take that to Violet Fang.”

Bracken Leaf was helping to clear away snow nearby, and perked up when he heard his name.

“Come and take this catmint to the healers' den.” Tiger's Claw ordered the apprentice.

Bracken Leaf nodded and bounded over at once.

Fire Heart dropped the bunch of leaves onto the ground. “I wanted to visit Blazing Cinder.” he meowed to Tiger's Claw.

“Later.” growled the deputy. He waited while Bracken Leaf picked up the catmint and carried it off, then turned back to Fire Heart. “I want to know where Gray Stripe has been going.”

Fire Heart felt the heat rising under his fur. “I don’t know.” he replied, holding Tiger's Claw’s gaze. "I'm not his keeper."

Tiger's Claw stared back at him, his eyes cold and hostile. “When you see him.” he hissed, "You can tell him he’s confined to the fallen oak.”

“Violet Fang's old den?” Fire Heart glanced at the tangled branches where the healer had lived when she first came into the ThunderClan camp, when she was still considered a ShadowClan outcast. Sand Storm was there, lying beside Mistle Drop and Swift Bird.

“Cats with whitecough are confined there until they are well again.”

“But Gray Stripe only has a cold.” Fire Heart protested.

“A cold is bad enough, especially when it refuses to heal. He’ll stay at the fallen oak!” Tiger's Claw repeated. “Cats with greencough are to nest with the healers. We must stop this sickness from spreading.” The deputy’s eyes flashed unsympathetically. Fire Heart wondered if he thought of illness as a sign of weakness. “It is for the good of the Clan.” Tiger's Claw added.

“Yes, Tiger's Claw. I’ll tell Gray Stripe.”

“And keep away from Blue Fur.” the deputy warned.

“But the greencough has left her.” Fire Heart objected.

“I am aware of that, but her den still reeks of sickness. I can’t afford to have any of my warriors falling ill. White Flower tells me that RiverClan warriors have been scented even closer to the camp.”

Fire Heart nodded, his pelt prickling with discomfort. His warriors . “May I go and see Blazing Cinder now?”

The deputy looked at him.

“I doubt Violet Fang has put her anywhere near the cats with greencough.” Fire Heart added with a flash of irritation, tail tip twitching. “I won’t get infected.”

“Very well.” Tiger's Claw agreed, and stalked away.

Fire Heart met Bracken Leaf in the middle of the clearing. “Violet Fang was very grateful for the catmint.” Bracken Leaf mewed. His eyes showed worry, and Fire Heart guessed he must have seen his sister.

"I'm glad. Thank you." 

Fire Heart nodded and carried on to the healers' den. He spotted Brindle Face’s poor kits straightaway. They lay quietly in a bracken nest, coughing, their noses and eyes streaming.

Violet Fang greeted him. “Thanks for the catmint, we’re going to need it. Patchy Shade has greencough now.” She gestured with her nose toward another nest in the bracken. Inside, Fire Heart could see the old tom’s matted brown-and-white fur.

“How’s Blazing Cinder?” he asked, looking back at the healer.

Violet Fang sighed. “She was awake earlier, but not for long. She's too weak to be awake for long. Thank StarClan she doesn't have an infection, though.”

Fire Heart peered into the apprentice's nest. The little gray cat was twitching in her sleep, her injured leg twisted awkwardly to one side. He turned back to Violet Fang, and the healer sat with her head low. She looked exhausted.

One of the kits cried out and Violet Fang sprang up. As she passed, Fire Heart leaned forward and gently stroked the old cat’s side with his muzzle. She twitched her ear gratefully at him. Then, filled with sadness, he turned and padded toward the fern tunnel. 

Gray Stripe was back, munching a vole beside the nettle clump.

Fire Heart padded over to him. “Tiger's Claw says you’ve got to move to the fallen oak, with the whitecough cats.” he meowed. With a prickle of resentment, he remembered how the deputy had questioned him about his friend. 

“That won’t be necessary.” replied Gray Stripe cheerfully. “I’m better now. Violet Fang gave me the all-clear this morning.”

Fire Heart looked closely at Gray Stripe. His eyes were certainly bright again, and his runny nose had dried to an unappealing crust. At any other time Fire Heart would have teased him about how much he looked like Wet Nose, the ShadowClan healer. Now he spat crossly. “Tiger's Claw has noticed your disappearances. You should be more careful. Why can’t you stay away from Silver Stream, at least for now?”

Gray Stripe stopped chewing and stared angrily back at Fire Heart. “And why can’t you mind your own business?”

Fire Heart closed his eyes and snorted with frustration. Would he ever get through to his friend? Then he wondered if he even cared anymore.

Fire Heart’s stomach growled to tell him he was hungry. I might as well eat . He took a sparrow from the pile of fresh-kill and carried it away to a deserted corner of the camp to eat alone. 

As he settled down, he thought of Princess, far away in Twolegplace, with her newborn kits. If only she could be here with him…

***

In the following days, Fire Heart struggled against the urge to visit his sister. His yearning to be with his kittypet kin was beginning to make him feel uncomfortable. He kept himself busy hunting in the snowy forests, replenishing the camp store. It was doing little to quell his worries - his dreams were filled with cats exchanging bloody blows, splattering the snow in red. Fire Heart hadn't dreamed like this in a while, and it was frustrating him. After all, what was the point of these dreams coming to him? He was just a warrior, there was nothing he could do.

The morning sky glowed pale that day. As Fire Heart padded to the fresh-kill snow store to get his meal, he heard White Flower, Pale Tail and Dusty Earth talking about some ShadowClan scents they'd found on ThunderClan territory. Ever since Tiger's Claw discovery of ShadowClan hunting in their territory there had been night patrols, and White Flower and the others seemed to have gone last night. 

Paws pricking with concern, Fire Heart dug a chaffinch out of the snow to eat. He noticed that Sand Storm was sitting not far from the old oak, eating a vole. The molly had recovered fast, seemingly forcing herself to eat her share to gain strength to beat the whitecough. Fire Heart padded over to her. 

She looked up at him, eyes flashing. "Don't get too close!" She warned, and Fire Heart stopped dead, confused. Had he offended her somehow? But her expression softened. "Sorry. I'm good to walk around, but my sneezes are still a bit dangerous to healthy cats."

"Ah." Fire Heart sat a couple tail lengths away from her, laying his meal on top of his paws. He tore a chunk of cold flesh out. "... How are you feeling?" He asked after swallowing.

Sand Storm shrugged. "Not healed, but better. Being confined in camp sucks, though."

"I can see that." Fire Heart meowed hesitantly. "I… wasn't talking about the whitecough."

The molly stopped eating. She silently stared at her paws for a long moment, then gave herself a shake. "I… might be ready to talk about it once she wakes up. But not now."

"I understand." Fire Heart meowed gently. Sand Storm seemed grateful that he didn't push her to speak. They both resumed eating in silence.

"I didn't know snow would make everything look so different." The pale ginger warrior commented as she cleaned her muzzle.

Fire Heart looked up from the feathered scraps of his meal, nodding in agreement. "You should see Fourtrees. The great oaks look like they're made of dark ice, with the frost. There's snow everywhere." 

Her eyes gleamed. "Hope I'll get to see that before they thaw."

Suddenly, there was a racket coming from the gorse tunnel. Turning his head, he saw the dawn patrol - Dark Pine, Mouse Fur and Thorn Claw - charging through, heading straight to Tiger's Claw. Fire Heart and Sand Storm sat up, ears pricked, as Blue Fur came to meet them. The leader looked healthy, but there was an air of concern to her even as she held her chin high - no doubt concerned about her grandkits. The patrol and Blue Fur exchanged words excitedly. The gray molly soon seemed to dismiss them, beckoning her deputy and senior warriors to the base of the Highrock. Fire Heart's tail moved to and fro behind him. Whatever the patrol reported, it was big.

Snow crunched as Dusty Earth padded over. "Hey, Sand Storm. Thought I'd rescue you from having kittypets for company." The dark tom looked at Sand Storm expectantly. Fire Heart guessed he was waiting for her to join him or laugh, like she used to, but Sand Storm wasn’t listening. Fire Heart felt a small prickle of satisfaction at the irritated look on Dusty Earth’s face as she called Mouse Fur over.

The dusky brown warrior padded over to them, seeming excited. "We found the river completely frozen!" 

Sand Storm's green eyes gleamed. "Is Blue Fur planning a raid?"

"I think so! We can invade RiverClan’s territory and teach them a lesson about stealing prey from us." Mouse Fur meowed, her teeth showing.

Fire Heart felt a cold chill ripple the fur on his spine. What would Gray Stripe think about that? And could Fire Heart even bring himself to go into battle against the starving RiverClan?

At that moment their leader’s call sounded from the Highrock, and the Clan began to gather in the clearing. The sun had reached its high point, which in leaf-bare meant that it was barely above the treetops.

“The patrol has brought good news. The river is frozen over.” Blue Fur announced. “We will take this opportunity to make a raid on RiverClan’s territory, to remind them that we own Sunningrocks and don't tolerate prey-stealing. Our warriors will track down one of their patrols and give them a warning that they’ll remember for a long time!”

Fire Heart winced as he remembered what Silver Stream had told him about her starving Clan. Around him, the other cats raised their voices in eager yowls. Fire Heart had not heard the Clan this excited for moons.

“Tiger's Claw!” Blue Fur called above the din. “Are our warriors fit enough for a raid on RiverClan?”

Tiger's Claw nodded.

“Excellent.” Blue Fur lifted her tail. “Then we shall leave at sunset.” The Clan yowled with delight. Fire Heart’s paws prickled. Was Blue Fur going too? Surely she wouldn’t risk her last life on a border raid?

Fire Heart looked over his shoulder and managed to see Gray Stripe, sitting not far from the warriors' den. He was staring up at the Highrock, the tip of his tail twitching nervously. As the yowls died away, the gray tom called out. “It feels warmer today. A thaw would make the ice too dangerous to cross.”

Fire Heart held his breath as the other cats turned to look curiously at Gray Stripe.

Tiger's Claw stared down at Gray Stripe, his amber eyes puzzled. “You’re not usually reluctant to fight.” the dark warrior meowed slowly.

Dark Pine, not missing the chance to dig at his half-brother, craned his neck and added. “Yes, Gray Stripe — you’re not afraid of those RiverClan fleabags, are you?”

Gray Stripe fidgeted uncomfortably as the Clan waited for an answer.

“Looks like he’s scared!” hissed Dusty Earth.

Fire Heart’s tail flicked angrily, but he managed to keep his voice light as he called. “Yes, of getting his paws wet! Gray Stripe’s fallen through the ice once this leaf-bare, he’s not keen to do it again.”

The tension in the Clan dissolved into amused purrs. Gray Stripe looked down at the ground, his ears flat. Only Tiger's Claw kept his suspicious frown.

Blue Fur waited until the murmurings had died away. “I must discuss the raid with my senior warriors.” She leaped down from the Highrock, landing so lightly that it was hard to believe that she had been fighting for her lives just days ago. Tiger's Claw, White Flower, Black Leopard and Willow Branch followed her to her den, and the rest of the Clan broke away into groups to discuss the proposed attack.

“I suppose you expect me to thank you for embarrassing me!” Fire Heart heard Gray Stripe’s angry hiss in his ear.

“Not at all.” he snapped. “But you could at least be grateful I’m still covering up for you!” He bounded away to the edge of the clearing, his fur bristling with fury.

Misty Step padded over to him. "Eager for your first battle as a warrior?"

"I suppose." Fire Heart meowed. He couldn’t take his eyes off Gray Stripe. Was he imagining it, or was the gray warrior edging farther and farther toward the nursery? Was Gray Stripe planning on slipping away to warn Silver Stream?

Fire Heart got slowly to his paws and began to pad toward the nursery. Gray Stripe glared at Fire Heart as he approached, but before either warrior could speak, Blue Fur’s call sounded once more from the Highrock. Fire Heart stopped where he was but didn’t take his eyes off Gray Stripe.

“Willow Branch and Black Leopard agree with young Gray Stripe.” Blue Fur declared. “A thaw is on the way.” Gray Stripe lifted his chin and flashed a defiant look at Fire Heart, but Fire Heart didn’t care. Blue Fur was going to call off the raid! Now Gray Stripe wouldn’t have to choose between his Clan and Silver Stream, and Fire Heart wouldn’t have to join a raiding party against a Clan he knew was already suffering.

But the leader hadn’t finished. “So we will attack at once!”

Fire Heart glanced sideways — Gray Stripe’s look of triumph had turned to one of sheer horror.

Blue Fur continued. “We will leave a patrol of warriors here to guard the camp. We have to remember the possible threat from ShadowClan. Five warriors will make the raid. I will remain here.”

Good , thought Fire Heart. She wasn’t planning to risk her final life after all. “Tiger's Claw will lead the raiding party. Dark Pine, Willow Branch, and Pale Tail will go with him. That leaves one more place.”

“Can I go?” Fire Heart burst out. Even though his heart felt heavy at the thought of attacking hungry RiverClan cats, it meant that Gray Stripe wouldn’t have to make a choice.

“Thank you, Fire Heart. You may join the patrol.” Blue Fur was clearly pleased by his eagerness. Tiger's Claw didn’t look so happy. He narrowed his eyes at Fire Heart, gazing at him with undisguised suspicion. “There’s no time to lose!” Blue Fur yowled. “I can smell the warm winds myself. Tiger's Claw will brief you as you travel. Go now!”

Dark Pine, Pale Tail, and Willow Branch sped after Tiger's Claw. Fire Heart followed them as they thundered through the gorse tunnel and headed up the ravine, toward RiverClan territory.

They charged past Sunningrocks and reached the enemy border as the low leaf-bare sun began to dip toward the forest. Fire Heart sniffed the air — Gray Stripe, Willow Branch and Black Leopard had been right. He could smell warmer winds, and rain clouds were already pushing in over the treetops.

As they raced down the slope toward the river, Fire Heart felt a deep sense of disquiet. Silver Stream’s desperate story rang in his ears, and he fought to push away his feelings of sympathy. His dreams then began to fill his mind, making him feel dizzy.

The ThunderClan warriors emerged from the bracken and skidded to a stop at the edge of the river. The sight that greeted them made Fire Heart weak with relief. 

The river was now a rushing flow of cold, black water.

Tiger's Claw turned to his warriors, his amber eyes flashing with frustration. “We’ll have to wait.” he snarled.

The patrol turned and began to trudge home. Fire Heart sent up a wordless prayer of thanks to StarClan, but there was a bitter taste in his throat. Now he would never know if he could have gone through with the raid. It wasn’t only Gray Stripe he didn’t trust - he didn’t even trust himself.

  Fire Heart kept silent all the way home. Every now and then he saw Tiger's Claw flash a glance at him over his massive brown shoulder. It was a slow journey. The light of the short leaf-bare day was fading when they finally reached the top of the ravine. Fire Heart waited for the other warriors to pick their way down first. By the time he padded through the gorse tunnel, Tiger's Claw was already explaining to the disappointed Clan that the river had thawed.

Fire Heart skirted the edge of the clearing, looking for Gray Stripe. He needed to know if his friend had slipped out of the camp. Instinctively he headed for the nursery. As he approached the tangled mass of brambles, he heard a familiar meow. “Fire Heart!”

Fire Heart felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Gray Stripe was actually grateful he had offered to take the final place in the raiding party? He followed his friend’s voice into the shadows behind the nursery.

Fire Heart mewed quietly into the gloom, but he couldn’t see Gray Stripe anywhere. Suddenly something crashed into his side with a mighty thump. Fire Heart spun around, all his senses alert. He saw Gray Stripe with his hackles raised, silhouetted in the dimness.

Gray Stripe lunged again. Fire Heart ducked just in time as the tom swung a wide gray paw at his ear.

“What are you doing?” Fire Heart spluttered.

Gray Stripe flattened his ears and hissed. “You didn’t trust me! You thought I would betray ThunderClan!” He aimed another swipe. This one caught the tip of Fire Heart’s ear.

Pain and fury shot through him. “I just wanted to save you from having to make a choice!” he spat. “Although it’s true that I’m not sure where your loyalties lie right now.”

Gray Stripe flew at him and knocked him backward. The two cats tussled, claws unsheathed. “I make my own choices.” Gray Stripe snarled.

Fire Heart struggled free and leaped onto Gray Stripe’s back. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protecting!”

Blinded by anger, Fire Heart dug his claws into Gray Stripe’s pelt, but Gray Stripe flipped Fire Heart over and together they rolled out from behind the nursery.

The cats in the clearing sprang out of the way as the two young warriors bundled into them. Fire Heart yowled with rage as Gray Stripe bit his foreleg. He thrust upward with a claw and raked Gray Stripe above his eye. Gray Stripe retaliated by lunging downward and sinking his teeth into Fire Heart’s hind leg.

“Stop this at once!” Blue Fur’s stern yowl made Fire Heart and Gray Stripe freeze. Fire Heart released his grip on Gray Stripe and shuffled painfully sideways. The gray tom backed away, his fur bristling. Out of the corner of his eye, Fire Heart saw Tiger's Claw sneering with barely suppressed delight, curling his lip back to reveal his teeth.

“Fire Heart, I want to see you in my den — now!” Blue Fur growled, her blue eyes flashing fire. “Gray Stripe, go to your nest and stay there!”

The rest of the Clan melted away into the shadows, White Flower and Willow Branch racing to their son. Fire Heart limped after Blue Fur to her den. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, feeling worn out and confused.

Blue Fur sat down on the sandy floor and stared at Fire Heart in disbelief for a moment. Then she meowed angrily. “What was that all about?”

Fire Heart shook his head. As furious as he was, he could not reveal his friend’s secret.

Blue Fur closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I realize feelings are running high in the camp right now, but I never expected to see you and Gray Stripe fighting. Are you hurt?”

Fire Heart could feel his ear and hind leg stinging, but he shrugged and murmured. “No.”

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Fire Heart met her gaze as steadily as she could. “Blue Fur, I’m sorry. I can’t explain.” At least that much is true , he thought.

“... Very well.” meowed Blue Fur at last. “You two can sort it out on your own. The Clan is facing a difficult time, and I won’t tolerate this sort of infighting. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Thunder.” Fire Heart answered. “May I go?”

Blue Fur nodded and Fire Heart turned and slunk out of her den. He knew he had let his leader down. But there was no way he could confide in her. Last time he’d done that, about Raven Shadow's accusation against Tiger's Claw, she hadn’t believed him. And if she believed him this time, he would be betraying his best friend.

Feeling sick with worry, Fire Heart crept across the clearing.

"Fire Heart." A meow sounded from behind him. As he turned, the same set of blue eyes stared back at him. Misty Step beckoned him quietly to the side of the gorse tunnel. Fire Heart sighed. Was he about to get scolded by his former mentor too?

The molly sat and stared at him, a steely glint in her eyes. "You know, don't you?" She meowed quietly.

Fire Heart's ears flattened. "What?"

Her chin raised, but her voice remained quiet. "That Gray Stripe is seeing Silver Stream."

[eeveearoace-creative]

i wrote this all in. one, two days? honestly, i'm not entirely sure, but either way i wrote this CRAZY fast (for me, anyway)

another installment of my warriors fic! ^-^

cat fic time! pspspsps!: @peachpaws0

[if you want to be added/removed from the amphibia and/or warriors tag list(s), just let me know!!]

cw: blood, violence, pain

Moon’s paw pads prickled with anxiety as they followed Dawn through the forest. 

The setting sun’s warmth did little to fend off the coming leaf-bare’s cold. Icy, bitter wind buffeted Moon’s thin calico fur, and they shivered, miserably puffing out their pelt to retain any leftover warmth. Their ears twitched with every new, unfamiliar sound, while their nose worked overdrive to identify every unknown scent. Dawn, however, seemed unaffected, marching forward proudly with her head held high. 

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Moon mewed. 

“We should go back,” Dusk agreed, joining his littermates from where he had hung behind. He pressed his flank against Moon’s – sighing, Moon sank into it, relishing in their brother’s body heat. 

Dawn shook her head. 

“Mom won’t be back for a while,” she pointed out. “If we want to explore, we have to do it now.” 

“But I don’t want to explore!” Dusk complained. “I want to be in the den, warm and safe!” 

“Then go back,” Dawn shrugged, dismissing her littermate with a wave of her tail. 

“Without you?” Moon’s eyes widened. “No way!” 

“We stick together,” Dusk agreed. 

Dawn rolled her eyes. 

“We really should go back, though.” Moon glanced upwards, studying the pattern of the tree branches above them. None of them seemed familiar, and their head spun from how high the trees stretched. “Before we get any more lost.” 

“I know where we are,” Dawn insisted. “Now, would you two scaredy-mice be quiet? I’m trying to explore!” 

Moon and Dusk exchanged nervous glances. They both knew neither of them would be able to convince their sister to go back to the den. 

The sun sank deeper along the horizon, carelessly dipping behind a group of trees. The forest was bathed in deep twilight, darkness creeping from underneath every bush and fern, faint light struggling to filter through the thick treetops above. The edges of the forest seemed to melt away, swallowed up like dying light, vanishing into nothingness. 

“Dawn,” Moon tried again, alarmed by how small their voice sounded, “I really think we should go back.” 

Dawn spun around, her tail lashing with annoyance. Anger glittered in her amber eyes, yet Moon wasn’t as afraid of her as they were of the rest of the forest. 

“Mom never lets us leave the den! Do you really want to spend your whole life cooped up in there?” Dawn demanded. 

“No, but-” 

Dawn puffed out her pelt. “We can handle ourselves,” she announced proudly, looking small among the undergrowth. 

“But it’s scary out here,” Dusk complained. 

“Well, I’m not scared-” 

Dawn cut off as a large, speckled gray shape crashed into her. Dawn squealed in terror as the creature let out a screech, digging its talons into her back. Blood trickled down her pelt. 

Flapping its giant wings, the creature – a bird, Moon’s mind supplied all too late – lifted off into the air with Dawn still held in its talons. The she-kit thrashed, trying to break free, but the bird was stronger, effortlessly lifting her from the ground. 

“Help me!” Dawn wailed. 

Moon couldn’t move. Frozen in horror, they could only watch as the bird took their sister away. 

Dusk, however, sprang into action, leaping towards Dawn and the bird. 

Landing awkwardly right between the bird’s talons, Dusk scrambled not to fall off Dawn’s back. The bird squawked in annoyance as Dusk bit its talon, trying to make it release his sister. 

To their surprise, Moon watched as the bird let go. 

And their siblings dropped. 

Dawn yowled in pain as she crashed to the ground. Dusk groaned as he rolled off Dawn’s back, not moving from his spot. 

“Dawn! Dusk!” Moon cried, rushing forward to meet their littermates. 

Dawn whimpered as she looked up, meeting Moon’s gaze with her own. Her eyes were dark with pain as Moon reached forward to give her a reassuring lick with her tongue – then, eyes shooting open with renewed terror, Dawn screeched. 

“Moon, look out!” 

Moon didn’t get a chance to register what Dawn was saying before something slammed into their back, sharp nails piercing their skin. Yelping in terror and pain as they were lifted up, up, up, Moon fitfully struggled to get free. 

Heart pounding as blood rushed in their ears, Moon looked down to see their littermates staring up at them. Dawn rose to her paws before falling back down a moment later, dread shining in her amber eyes. Dusk stood, shaking out his fur before he charged at the bird again, leaping into the air. 

He missed. 

The bird squawked in victory as Dusk hit a tree instead of it, his paws sprawling out before sliding to the forest floor. Its talons sank deeper into Moon’s flesh, and they could feel their would gurgling with blood before dripping down their fur. 

Reality sank in as the bird took Moon farther and farther away from the ground, farther and farther away from their littermates, their family, their life. They were going to die right here, right now. They’d never be anything more than a kit – they’d never be able to grow up, or see their littermates grow up, or see their mother again. This was it. 

The air was split with a yowl of pure fury as the bird suddenly dropped a few tail-lengths. It screeched in anger as it tried to shake something off its back, but whatever it was stubbornly held on, refusing to let go. 

The bird dove towards the ground so fast it made Moon’s head spin. They tried to struggle free of the birds’ talons, but found their energy draining away like the blood trickling down their fur, seeping out slowly but steadily. Darkness began to swirl at the edges of their vision as their head drooped involuntarily, no fight left in them as they went limp. 

Whatever had been hanging on the bird was still there, though, and Moon could see red spraying down around them. The bird shrieked in pain before letting Moon go, and suddenly they were plummeting towards the ground, tumbling helplessly through the air. 

Moon was too dazed to be surprised when something grabbed their scruff mid-air, pulling them towards it. It was soft and warm, and even though they were plummeting through the sky, likely to their death, Moon couldn’t help but sink into the touch, comforted by it. 

Moon’s stomach lurched as they came to an unsteady stop, bobbing unevenly up and down. Blinking some of the dizziness from their vision, Moon realized the ground was still far below their paws – looking around, they realized they were in a tree, and the thing holding them was standing on a branch. 

The creature, still holding Moon, effortlessly leapt to another branch lower down. Parting their jaws and breathing in, Moon tasted the air for a scent. Among the jumble of unfamiliar scents, one stood out – it was a scent Moon recognized, and their pelt prickled with shame as they wondered how they didn’t pick up on it sooner. 

“Mom?” 

Cherry gently put her kit down as they reached the ground. Dawn and Dusk stumbled towards them, clearly exhausted. 

“Are you alright?” Cherry fretted, checking her kits over. Moon’s wounds stung as Cherry fervently cleaned them with her tongue, working quickly before moving on to Dawn, and then Dusk, finishing quickly when she realized the tom-kit was uninjured. 

“I’m so glad you’re all okay,” Cherry wept, drawing her kits to her with a sweep of her tail. Then, bristling with rage, “What were you thinking?” 

“We, w-we... we just wanted to explore,” Dusk stammered. 

“And what did I tell you about wandering off without me?” 

Dusk lowered his head in shame. 

“It was my idea,” Dawn admitted. “Don’t be mad at Dusk or Moon. They wanted to turn back, but they wouldn’t without me.” 

“You shouldn’t have been out there in the first place,” Cherry snapped. She surveyed her kits, her expression a mixture of rage, relief – and was that pride? “But,” she sighed, “I’m glad that you all stuck together. You could’ve gotten a lot more hurt if you didn’t.” 

“I know,” Moon mumbled. “We’re sorry.” 

“We’re sorry,” Dusk and Dawn echoed. 

“Never do this again,” Cherry hissed. She softened, resting her nose on each one of her kits in turn. “I’m just so glad you’re all okay.” 

Exhausted out of their minds, the kittens allowed their mom to lead them home. 

[goldkirk]

Legend Has It - Chapter 2

[ Read on ao3 ]

get you gone now, have some fun

Tim is nine years old when he realizes, Oh my god. 

Oh my god, staring at the TV screen with wide eyes, homework forgotten in his lap. Robin is Richard Grayson. Robin is Dick. And that means--that means--Batman is Bruce Wayne.

Tim frowns, shoves his workbook and pencil off to the side and slides off the couch onto the floor, onto his hands and knees, scrambles till he’s within inches of the screen. 

It can’t be. It is. He just saw the proof, right there, on live TV--

Tim snatches the remote and rewinds the Tivo to watch the right segment, again and again and again. 

It is. He’s right. There are only three people in the world who could do that quadruple somersault. He knows. 

Two of them are dead. They show up in his dreams at least once a week, still, like they have ever since he was four years old at the circus and met a boy who hugged him like a friend and promised to show Tim a flip, special just for him, and was smiling wide before his parents’ rope snapped and they fell down to their--

Tim slams his fingers against the TV’s power button, and then spends a long time staring at his own blank face in the dark screen. 

Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne. It’s been them, this whole time. His heroes, the ones he’s been watching, daydreaming about--

He knew there had to be a reason Bruce Wayne glowed two different colors, nestled within each other. He knew it. And Dick--he’s so bright. Brighter than almost any other person Tim’s ever seen. 

He has to go out there. He has to see Batman and Robin in person, not just in a picture or on a screen. He has to see their colors himself, double check that it’s true. Then he’ll know, for sure. He just needs to check . 

It’s not hard to sneak out of the empty house with his dark clothes and knowledge of bus schedules and lack of supervision. He’s just going out to see them, just to take a few photos--he needs the practice, anyway, and since he’ll already be out, he might as well see what he can shoot. 

One night turns to two. Two nights turn to many. 

Tim gets very, very good at hiding. He gets even better at photography. 

The thing he gets best at? 

Talking to the ghosts.

Tim doesn’t speak much, as a general rule. It’s not that he can’t, it’s just that--adults don’t tend to listen . Tim tries, he does, but every time he speaks with his parents, or teachers, or Mrs. Mac, or anyone, really, his words just...don’t want to come, very well. For everything that matters, Tim struggles to find what word he’s reaching for, the right words in the right order that will summarize with exact precision what he’s trying to say. 

It takes him time, to choose his words so carefully. Most people, they don’t want to listen that much. After a couple of seconds of his slow sentences, most people tend to be off in their own heads, already thinking of what they want to say, and Tim’s given up trying to make that any different. 

It’s okay. He has the ghosts, after all. He doesn’t get to practice talking with normal people, which is probably why he’s so bad at it. But with the ghosts--

With the ghosts, everything just flows better. He still feels the urge, the prickling need to be careful what he says, to make it right . But it’s easier with the dead. Less pressure, or something--maybe because whatever he is, it’s closer to their plane of existence than his own. Or maybe it’s just because--who can they tell, if he’s slow or screws up a sentence, or starts over five times before finally finding the phrase that sounds right and strikes a chord like a deep, earthy bell somewhere deep in his bones. 

The first one he met was Martha. Two months after the bird incident. He’d been wandering barefoot in the grass, feeling it crinkle and poke the arches of his feet while little goosebumps danced up his legs in the fall air that wasn’t yet cold but wasn’t quite warm anymore, either. And he’d been looking at the cracked stone bench, next to the butterfly bushes his mom insisted on planting. And one moment, it was empty, and the next, there she was. Dress and beautiful hair and pearls and all. She had smiled at him, right away. Patted the seat next to her.

“Come join me,” she’d said, and even though he was ten feet away at least, and her voice was pitched low, he could hear her clear as anything. “Come join me,” she repeated, holding out a hand. “You look like you could use some company.”

Dead birds. Dead animals. Tim thinks he’s losing his mind. 

First he resurrects all kinds of living beings, no explanation, no warning. Okay. Sure. That’s fine, he’s managing, he’s--coping admirably, he thinks. Necromancy. Okay. Whatever. 

Now there’s a ghost in his backyard. Good grief. What next? A werewolf? His mom’s actually a witch? A fairy is gonna step out of the tree line and try to drag him off to Fae?

Somehow, he’s dropping to sit next to her on the old bench. Except it doesn’t look that old, anymore--the years of mold are gone, suddenly. It’s not new, but it’s clean, and the crack running through one side is half the size it had just been.

Tim thinks maybe it’s time to stop questioning things. For his own sanity. He needs to get really good at rolling with things, really quickly.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” the woman asks him, reaching out one translucent hand to try to brush stray hair behind his ear. He shivers as her fingers brush his skin, but--the hair moves. 

Tim stares. 

“Timothy,” he whispers. 

“What a strong name,” she says. “I’m Martha. I live at the house next door, usually, but the birds were talking the other day about someone new over here, someone young and alone, and I thought I’d come say hello, show you the ropes.” She frowns a little, then. “But you don’t look like a dead child to me. I think there’s been a bit of a mix-up.”

“Dead,” Tim echoes. 

“Yes,” says Martha. “Which you are most definitely not.”

“No,” Tim agrees. “Uh, I’m not. Dead, I mean. Definitely alive.”

“But you see me,” Martha murmurs. “They usually can’t. The living. Have you had any near death experiences recently?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hm. Any odd experiences, strange happenings--maybe a possession, or a new object that gives off strange vibes, anything like that?”

“I--” Tim starts, then stops. He’s blank, somehow, and yet feels full to bursting with words that he can never get out. 

Martha just watches patiently. Really watches, like she’s focused on him. Like she understands he just needs a little time.

“I think I’m wrong,” Tim gets out. “I’ve been resurrecting animals and that’s not supposed to happen. I don’t know how to stop.”

“Oh, baby,” Martha says, tugging him against her side, and he should be cold. And he is. But at the same time--at the same time, he leans right into it, shivering and curling in closer, because along with the icy touch there’s a sort of warmth, too, and Tim suddenly needs it more badly than he’s ever needed anything before in his life. 

“You’re so young,” Martha whispers, pressing her ghostly lips to his hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t know exactly what’s going on. But I’d like to listen, if you want to talk about it. Maybe we can figure it out together.”

“Together?” Tim asks. People in his life don’t do a whole lot of things together. 

“Yes,” she says, with a nod. “Together. You don’t deserve to be alone. And someone ought to keep an eye on you, what with the animal population around here, and also introduce you to the other local ghosts, considering that if you can see us now you’re bound to run into all of us sooner or later.”

“Oh,” Tim says, because he’s not sure what else he should say to all that.

“How about this,” Martha tells him. “I’ll tell you about my old rose garden, hm? And then you can tell me what your favorite flowers are over here, and we’ll go see them, and then if you want to, we can talk more about what’s been going on. But only if you want.”

“I--okay, I guess,” says Tim. “That sounds good. Are you like, a ghost fairy godmother?”

Martha’s laugh is the most beautiful laugh Tim’s ever heard, and for a few sweet seconds it fills the whole area around them while she throws her head back and shakes with the force of it. 

“A fairy godmother,” she says, wiping one eye and grinning down at him. “Oh, Lord. Thomas’ll never let me hear the end of this one. No, sweetie, I’m just a lady who’s stuck here for a while longer. Perfectly ordinary. But it’s sweet of you to wonder that.”

Tim has no idea what’s happening anymore. He really doesn’t. Somehow, he’s also starting to care less and less. It’s not like any of this has been feeling particularly bad, or even scary. Just odd. 

Tim can handle odd.

“We have roses too,” he tells her, slowly. “But my favorites are the peonies, over on the other side.”

“Let’s go see them, then,” Martha says. “And while we walk, I’ll tell you about my roses, and the man who’s been taking care of them since I died. He and I used to argue for hours over fertilizer, let me tell you.”

She holds one hand out, expectantly, and Tim stares at it for a moment, trying to figure out what she’s doing. And then he realizes. 

He slowly reaches one of his own much smaller hands out, up, and slips his fingers around hers. They nestle together like a jigsaw puzzle, and Tim’s hand gets cold but his heart--his heart blooms. 

So yeah. Martha was the first. And probably the one he loves best. But she definitely wasn’t the last .

So Tim resurrects animals, sometimes on accident, sometimes on purpose, always in secret.

He talks to ghosts. A lot of ghosts. So many ghosts, oh my god, he cannot believe how many ghosts. Most of them are pretty cool. A few of them aren’t. 

He sees things, more and more. He’s very good at seeing things. And finding things. Where Tim looks, things seem to just--light up. Not everything, and not even most things, but sometimes ordinary places will shine like bonfires, or a book will glow in a bookshelf, or certain people will shine with colors of the rainbow, and Tim just knows, somehow, that there’s something more . Whatever more means.  

He follows Batman and Robin, most nights. In secret, silent, disguised and hidden, of course. He takes his photos and watches their own lights shining from under their uniforms. He checks in with some of the ghosts he’s friends with on their various patrol routes, and catches up on the latest gossip and tips. 

He doesn’t tell anyone any of this at all. It’s not like his parents are ever around much, anyway, for him to tell, but still. He knows how to keep a secret. 

He still doesn’t talk much. But he talks more than he did, and when he does, it’s much smoother. He has Martha and her endless patience and whoever her son was, once upon a time before she kicked it, to thank for that. 

Tim even has some younger ghost friends he plays with, sometimes, in the trees, or in his bedroom--Brent and Luis both figured out how to actually hold game controllers, and Tim’s pretty pleased that he’s one of the only people in the world who can say he’s had Mario Kart tournaments with literal ghosts. 

No one needs to know that the ghosts tend to kick his butt at it. It’s bad enough that they tell the rest of the ghost community. Tim can only handle so many roasts, and definitely not roasting from two planes of existence all at once. 

So yeah. It’s not bad, really. His life is weird. He still doesn’t know what’s going on. But he’s doing okay. It’s okay. 

He’s okay. 

Tim brings back a hawk, he brings back some baby mice for a grateful mama, he resurrects a squirrel something killed overnight, he even brings back a turtle who strangled to death in a tangle of garbage by the pond. 

And then he brings back a spider in the hallway, that his mom stepped on, and failed to notice that she’d come back to get something she’d left behind.

In two seconds flat, Tim finds his upper arm gripped so tight it aches, and his back collides with the old wallpaper lining the hallway, his head thunking against drywall. His mother’s face is twisted in fear, in anger, and it’s inches from his own. 

But, he notices, she doesn’t look surprised . 

“Timothy Jackson Drake,” she shouts at him, and Tim wonders if his father can hear from out front, with how loud she is. “Never do that again. Never. We do not do things like that here. You can never let anyone know.”

Does she--is she implying that she knows? That this has happened before, to more than just him? Is he not the only one--

Her hand slaps him on the cheek, and his attention snaps back to her.

“Do you understand,” she snarls. 

“Yes, Mother,” he gets out. 

She lets go of him, steps back. He doesn’t move. Her face turns into something more haunted, now, and she glances once down the hallway, towards the front entrance, before turning back and pinning him with a fierce look. 

“You do not see them,” she whispers. “You will not touch the dead, and there is nothing strange to see in the world. Do you understand.”

Tim swallows, forces himself to nod once.

“Yes, Mother,” he says. His palms press against the slick wallpaper.

She nods back at him, then sweeps away down the hall and out the door. He doesn’t move for several minutes after she’s gone, not until he’s totally sure their car has pulled away and they’re well down the drive to the main road. 

The spider, he notices, has remained by his foot, and when he looks down, he could almost swear that it lifted two legs and waved . 

Tim tears the house apart. 

There’s no one here to be bothered by the mess, so long as he keeps it out of the main areas. Most of the actual stored items are tucked away in unused rooms anyway, so he spends four days going door by door, digging through drawers and closets and cabinets and shelves, and even a few hidden panels, finding every box and bin and bag and searching every inch. 

He finds photos, old junk, old artifacts, old canned food, old heirlooms. He finds millions of papers. He finds books. He finds two separate sets of woodcarving supplies, for some reason.

On the fifth day, he finds another wooden chest. This one--this one shines. 

Tim swallows. Then he reaches forward and clicks the latch open, lifts the lid, not sure what he’ll see, but this is it. It has to be. 

There’s an old-looking leather journal, nestled on top of what looks like a hodge-podge of items. It’s stuffed full of pasted-in papers, with wrinkled pages and all sorts of colors of ink and smelling like lavender and sandalwood and something else he doesn’t know. He picks it up like it’s an unexploded bomb, and tugs the strings till it falls open to the inside of the front cover, and the cursive written there. 

Property of Janet Dormer, of the line of daughters of Magee, sixteenth holder of the peridot adder. Book the third of her encounters with the Other and knowledge thereof, to be passed down as record to eldest daughter--

Tim slams the book shut, sets it down in the chest, and snaps the lid into place before falling back onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. 

A witch. His mom was a witch. Or magic. Or something. The sixteenth, at least, apparently. And it wasn’t--it wasn’t for his eyes. Apparently. 

If if was a line of daughters, if it was--if it was supposed to pass to the eldest of a family, why did it seem to have come to him?

What in the world was going on? Why would she hide this? From the world, he could understand. But from him? And what had happened in the hallway--the way she reacted--

Tim wants to ask her. Tim wants to email her, or call, forget encryption--but he knows he shouldn’t. There must be a reason. 

He can’t ask her. He can’t. She’ll probably bind him to silence forever, or something. She definitely wants to put it behind her, if how much she’s hidden the chest and how angry she got at him are any indications. 

Tim squeezes his eyes shut. 

He went looking. That’s on him. He wanted answers. 

As seems to becoming a pattern in his life, he didn’t find them. Instead, he’s only got more questions. 

More questions, a thousand questions, and never an answer, not for years now. He’s so tired. 

Tired and alone and lost and lonely. 

But he’s okay. He’s okay. He’s got his ghosts. He’s got Batman and Robin. He has school to keep him busy, doesn’t he?

Tim’s fine.

His mother told him not to, but Tim can’t help it. He still talks to the ghosts--even when he doesn’t search them out, he runs into them, they find him. Apparently, he glows too. They can see the people who glow much more clearly than the rest of the living. They can’t really tell him what it means, though.

Another mystery to add to the pile.

The more he tries to avoid any dead animals, the more he bumps dead flies at the bus stop, sees a cat hit by a car and has to step in, stumbles across a bird with a broken neck that flew into a window right in front of him. The more he resists, the worse it gets. So Tim gives up. He resurrects the ones that need it, instead of running away, and the whole thing seems to slow down some. 

Karma’s happy, or something. Whatever works. 

So he carries on, for months. He does his schoolwork and makes some friends and talks to the ghosts and helps the animals and when his parents are home for days or a week or two, he still doesn’t give any of it up. They come into his life, over and over, again and again whether he wants them or not. And he can’t just leave them there.

So Tim just gets good at not getting caught. 

But what he doesn’t know yet, what isn’t in any books he’s found at the library or any websites he’s stumbled upon, not even in the strangest forums he finds in the deepest corners of the internet, is that there are creatures in the dark that is deeper than the blackness in the back of his closet. There are creatures who bide their time in deep places, tangled, twisted pockets of nastiness, waiting and watching for opportunities. 

Opportunities like Tim. 

There’s a Beldam, is what he doesn’t know. There’s a Beldam who’s caught his scent. Tim’s ten. Just ten years old, quite independent, settled into whatever his new normal is, but.

Beldams hunt down sadness. Small beings, gray clouds over particularly bright souls, sad and curious and open and naive and lonely, is what they look for, and so, so sweetly, deliciously vulnerable--

A Beldam is hunting. Waiting, watching. Scenting her prey, in various dimensions. And Tim, right now…

Tim smells like a five course meal.

He finds the key on a Tuesday. Sees it on the wet grass of one of the school fields, after a night of rain that’s left the whole morning full of thick, soupy fog, and he sees it glint and picks it up. It looks off, to him--it glows, like some things do. He figures that’s probably why he managed to notice it at all. But it doesn’t glow any color he has a name for. Possibly not a color that exists in the English language at all, even. 

But right now he has six minutes until the next period, and since no one is in sight, he can’t tell if someone dropped it on accident. He tucks it in his pocket to try to figure out later.

And when it’s later, he’s wandering the halls of his house, listless. Because once again, his parents haven’t made it home for his birthday, his tenth birthday, even after they said they would. There’s been not so much as a call, or a text, and Tim doesn’t need them, but--

But it’d be nice. To at least know they remembered. 

Something feels warm against his leg, when he turns a corner, and he suddenly remembers the key in his pocket. And in front of him, to his surprise--there’s a door. 

Well. There are a lot of doors in the hallway. But there’s one he doesn’t recognize, somehow. One he doesn’t really remember going into before. And oddly enough...it’s the exact same color as the key resting in his hand. 

Not painted, or wood, he means--if he unfocuses his eyes, and squints just right, opens up more to that side of him--it glows the same indescribably shade of iridescent something that the key has ever since he found it this morning. 

There’s a door. And a key. And if Tim’s learned anything in the past few years, it’s that there is a lot more in the world than people realize, and that coincidences are rare for people like him. 

He has a key. And they’re glowing so warmly. And it is his birthday, after all, and he has the time, so...maybe a bit of an adventure on this long, lonely evening would help. 

Maybe it’s the universe balancing out his disappointment somehow. Who knows. 

Tim lifts his shoulders, takes a few steps forward. He slides the key into the lock, and it’s a perfect fit all the way, the heavy iron weight of it so satisfying in his fingers, and he twists, and hears the click, and the door swings open to reveal a tunnel of soft silk, studded with stars, with warm air, with swirling colors--it’s beautiful. It’s magical. 

He feels like--he feels like it’s for him. 

Tim grins for the first time in days. This is the kind of birthday surprise he can get behind. As long as he wedges the door open with a nearby bookend, from the table down the hall--there. Just like that.

As long as he keeps the door open on this end, he should be fine. He pockets the key and steps forward to the edge of the doorway, lines up his toes with the very edge of the tunnel. 

Then he takes a deep breath, smiles one more time, and steps through. 

[albaedough]

"You're Marvelous. ."

GENSHIN IMPACT Character x Fem!Reader Smut Stories

Word count: 1.4k+

Characters: Dainsleif

Pairings: Dainsleif x VirginFem!Reader

Warnings: ⚠️ 18+ ONLY ⚠️, virgin reader, self-conscious reader, body hair, penetration, tummy bulge, overstim, multiple orgasms, praising, princess play

Taglist: @stygianoir

Special thanks to @/scumharu for helping me with ideas/scenarios and bouncing them back and forth with me, ilyyy <3

Click below for more~

Dainsleif

The trek was long and arduous. With sweat trickling down your face and heaving breaths, you wipe the sweat from your brow, eyeing Dainsleif, who, much to your surprise, doesn't seem to have broken a sweat. Continuing your journey, the two of you weren't quite sure where you were going, but one thing was certain, you desperately wanted a bath. Breaking the silence first, Dainsleif stops you, "There's a clearing up ahead; let us rest there for the night. You must be tired," he says gently, guiding you to the clearing. Your eyes widen at your new surroundings; decorated in the middle is what appears to be a hot spring, the warm steam looking so inviting.

Taking in the joyous feeling, you rush forward, beginning to strip off your mud-caked clothing, almost completely forgetting about Dainsleif until you hear his throat clear, "D-don't look!" you shout towards him, throwing your clothing haphazardly to the ground below. Before getting in, the sense of dread consumes you, and you sigh. The prickling hair of your legs and your unkempt womanhood had you feeling self-conscious, "P-please don't look this way," you plead, and Dainsleif obeys, giving you the space you need to bathe in peace.

Finally submerging yourself, you relax, the warmth of the water completely opening up your pores as you scrub the dirt and debris away from your skin. Finally, feeling at ease and clean, you lift one of your legs, eyeing the hairs that adorned it, wishing that you didn't have so much hair. Sighing reluctantly, you turn your head to reach for your clothes but can't find them. Positioning your whole body, you glance up from the hot spring and notice your clothes and Dainsleif are nowhere in sight. Panicking, you call out nervously, "D-Dain? Where are you?!" you shout before hearing a rustling behind some bushes, and emerging, is Dainsleif, shirtless, and your jaw drops, "U-uhm. .where are my clothes?" you ask shyly, turning your face away from him.

"Ah, I took them to a nearby river to wash them. I figured you'd like to relax in there for a while, but if you're ready to get out, this will do for now," Dainsleif says, taking his cape and handing it to you. Grasping at it gingerly, you step cautiously out of the hot spring, ensuring you are fully covered. Still feeling self-conscious, you turn away from him, trying to fidget with the cape, but his wandering eyes catch your shy gaze. A feeling of hunger arose in Dansleif's gut as he began to study your physique, his soft sapphire eyes slowly following the natural shape of your body. As if he was caught in a daze, Dansleif's gaze stops at the curvature of your hips, blending all too nicely with the rest of your body, much to his liking. Finally, continuing his glance downwards, he feels his breath hitch as he reaches your ankles, and you feel the world spin.

Is he fond of the view, or is he uncomfortable around the presence of my unshaven body? The latter concern won in the monologue in your head, and immediately, you snap back to your senses, not caught under his intense watch any longer. Swiftly, you spin around, clutching the cloak until your knuckles begin turning white and begin, "Ah. . I-I'm!" your breath failing you between despondent words. Finally, with one steady breath, you muster up the courage, "I'm very sorry. I'm an adventurer, as you know, so I don't feel the need to shave, let alone even think about it. Please forgive my awful state. ." you say, turning your back to him, hiding from embarrassment.

Feeling a warmth emanating on your back, you're quick to realize Dainsleif had stepped closer to you, grazing his hands along your hips, causing you to shiver, "My sincerest apologies for staring. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable," he murmurs, feeling you tense up, he continues, "May I be honest with you?"

Waiting to hear those dreadful words, you tightly close your eyes, but much to your surprise, he blurts out, "You are enticing, body hair or not, you see. . .you've turned me on. The way my cloak is tightly wrapped around your body. . .is stunning, and I can't contain myself. Might you allow me to continue. .?" Dainsleif confesses while his impressive manhood probes at your derriere; behind the cloth of his pants, it hungers for more.

Cheeks growing warm and your eyes widening in surprise, the only thing you can muster as you instinctively press into him is, "I-I don't know much because I'm a virgin; so please be gentle," you say, allowing him permission to continue, his breath hitching as he grabs your hips to grind into you. Feeling more confident, you slowly remove his cape, letting it fall to the ground below. In response, Dainsleif trails his hands down your body, meticulously taking tender care of your breasts as you let out small moans of pleasure, embarrassed that such a slight touch could get you so wet.

Wriggling your hips further into his groin Dainsleif sucks in a breath, "If you keep doing things like that, I may not be able to control myself, Princess," he muses, pushing you up against a nearby tree, still gently twisting and flicking at your nipples as you brace yourself against the tree, "You're. .just delightful," Dainsleif confesses, and finally, with one hand, he trails down your abdomen and towards your excited folds, keeping one hand at your breast. Finding your clit with ease, he slowly rubs at it, paying no mind to the hair in place as you whimper under him, "I promise to make your first time just as appetizing as you. ." Dainsleif continues, kissing down your neck as you pitifully moan his name.

Already feeling yourself near the edge, you grind into the rhythm of his fingers, setting you off, "D-dain. .!" you call weakly as your folds gush around his fingers, "I th-think I came~," you breathe heavily, your body still convulsing under the pleasure as he removes his slick fingers out of your cunt and thumb away from your clit. Turning to face Dainsleif, you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down so his lips greet yours.

Tongues battling, Dainsleif hoists you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as you cling to his shoulders, desperate for more. Your slick wet cunt stains his pants, and pulling away from the kiss, Dainsleif catches his breath, "Oh lovely Princess, I'm far from over; are you prepared?" he asks softly, pushing a strand of your hair behind your ear as you nod at him timidly, glancing down at your messy cunt. Holding you up with one arm, Dainsleif releases his cock, having it slap at your womanhood eagerly as you gasp in surprise at his impressive length. Holding your breath, you brace yourself, closing your eyes tightly as Dainsleif takes your hips in his hands, positioning his dick right at your slick folds, "This might hurt, my love. .I'll be gentle," Dainsleif coos, kissing the top of your forehead as he pushes into your cunt slowly.

Feeling his girth in you, you moan out his name as you grit in pain, biting your bottom lip as he pulls out and then eases himself in again, "A-ah, Dain, i-it hurts. ." you cry pitifully as he reassures you with gentle kisses, easing in and out of you until you no longer feel pain, but pleasure. Hearing his groans of delight sends you towards Celestia, and becoming more confident, you nip into the crook of his neck, and Dainsleif growls, slamming his cock into you roughly, unable to contain himself any longer.

"You're taking me so well, Princess. ." Dainsleif murmurs between soft groans. Pushing you further into the tree's bark, you were sure you would be left with scratches, but paying no mind, he continued to ram into you. Looking down, you can't help but admire the way his cock slid in and out of you with ease. The way your tummy rose with each thrust of his dick got your head spinning.

Nearing your climax once again, you cling onto him, tears stinging your eyes as he rails into you, over and over, grazing your sweet spot each time. Not familiar with this feeling, your toes curl in delight, and your breath quickens, your heartbeat pounding rapidly, "I-I think I'm going to e-explode~ A-ahh~," you cry out in ecstasy, your walls clenching around his cock as he throws his head back and groans from the tightness of your orgasm.

Dainsleif, thrusting harder and faster into you as you ride out your orgasm, "Yes, Baby. .cum for me, just like that, H-hngh. ." he groans, pulling out abruptly as his hot cum paints your cunt and tummy with sticky goodness, "Marvelous. ." Dainsleif coos as he kisses you softly and pulls away; he continues, "Shall we get you cleaned back up?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

[endlessnightlock]

12. Nautical Horror (or) Death Omens

Let's go with Death Omens.

31 Horror Prompts

Katniss paused at the edge of the woods, swearing under her breath at the dark clouds rolling in from the south. She was headed north, back to the district, but the storm was already hard on her heels.

There was a choice to make. One she'd better make quickly. The shelter she and Gale used in case of inclement weather was behind her, while the fence and home were too far to make in time.

Katniss remembered that there were caves she could take shelter in nearby, so she followed the path a little further, looking for landmarks she recognized. Almost at a dense patch of bushes, she raised her now at the sound of rustling leaves. She inhaled and held her breath, preparing to shoot whatever hid from her if necessary.

A coyote meandered out of the underbrush, a large male with sharp eyes. When he paused in the middle of the path a tight, prickling sensation rolled down Katniss's spine. The animal tilted its head to study her.

A coyote crossing your path north was a bad omen, a prediction of death, if the stories were to be believed. Katniss wasn't superstitious typically, but her hands shook when she pulled back on the string and let her arrow fly.

She missed, and the animal ran away, disappearing down a bend in the road.

Unnerved in a way she wouldn't let herself dwell on, Katniss moved on, finding the cave just as the wind picked up, urging her inside the dark space. She had no other option for shelter, not when the rain fell, ice cold in a way it only could in winter.

Katniss found a place to sit, just within the mouth of the cave. She set her bow beside her on the dirt floor, and held her game bag in her lap to wait the weather out.

The wind and rain was relentless, giving way to thunder, but at some point Katniss fell asleep.

KPKPKP

She dreamed of chaos, washouts and mudslides in the hollow where the cave lay, and when Katniss woke, she wasn't dry-the cave floor was wet and her clothing was drenched. The storm had let up, although the forest floor was a mess, branches, holders, torn leaves scattered the ground. She wondered how she slept through it.

Across from her on the sodden ground sat a young man, with light blue eyes and a mild smile. Wavy blond hair hung over his forehead. He looked a lot like someone she used to know.

"There you are. You were out for a while," he told her shyly, standing and holding out his hand.

Katniss frowned at him, rocking forward onto her feet. "Who are you?"

The young man laughed as he helped her stand. "You know who I am," he insisted, putting his arm around her for support when she wobbled on her feet.

Katniss locked eyes with him, licking her very dry lips. "You look like Peeta Mellark."

But he couldn't be because Peeta was dead, the victim of a serious beating his mother gave him for burning one two many loaves of bread to feed starving little girls.

"Maybe a little," Peeta agreed (because it was Peeta somehow). "Time to go home now, Katniss."

She followed him to the entrance but froze in her tracks. "My gear. I need to go back and get it."

Peeta glanced over his shoulder, studying a small, dark mass of something Katniss couldn't make out. It almost looked like a body of a girl, about her age, blue around her eyes and nose and lips, with blank grey eyes staring at nothing because the girl was dead.

Almost.

Peeta gave her fingers a comforting squeeze before dropping her hand. "You go on out and wait for me. I'll get your bow."

[peachesandmilktea]

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒯𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝒫𝑜𝓌𝑒𝓇 - 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝐼𝐼𝐼

Barbarian King!Bakugo x Priestess!Reader x Fire Diety!Dabi

Part 1. Part 2.

Part 4.

You'd always known exactly what was to be your fate. Enter the temple of the fire god as a high priestess, serve Dabi in his every need, and dedicate your whole life to worshipping him. That fate slips between your fingers when invaders plunder the temple and King Katsuki takes you as a war prize.

TW : Yandere, War, Sexual Slavery, Noncon to come in the next part.

AO3 Link.

Once, there had been a little girl who had caught Katsuki’s eye.

His tribe had been visiting a foreign country with an offer of peace in exchange for a few goods and, since he hadn’t been old enough yet to take part in the negotiations, he’d found himself roaming in the large, empty hallways of the royal castle. His footsteps had led him to a pretty garden, full of lavender bushes and olive trees, disgustingly sweet smell of orange blossoms floating in the air.

He had felt the need to trample the flowers then, if only to swallow the taste of disappointment that lingered on his tongue at the fact that he was but a child, too young to take on political duties with his peers. Life was too short to take so much time to grow up, and, at thirteen, he already knew he was going to be the best of them all. He was going to be the King; why bother waiting then? Why did he have to waste time and stroll around stupid, flowery gardens while peace negotiations were made in his absence?

He gave an angry kick into the root of a sunflower, completely destroying it in his rage.

And instantly got hit so hard in the head that his skull jerked forward, eyes widened in pure shock, ears ringing like drums at the violence of the strike.

A few seconds of stunned silence passed, only troubled by the song of the cicadas hidden in the heavy branches of the olive trees. Katsuki blinked, turning towards his attacker, blocking the second hit that was aiming for his forehead by catching the weapon in a firm grip. It stopped mere inches away from his skull.

It was a rake. Held by an angry child.

She looked at him, eyebrows joint in a deep frown, a furious wince pulling at her plump lips. Her hands were coated in dirt, and she held the wooden staff so tightly her knuckles were turning white. She seemed ready to swing at him once again, and he raised his hands, not in defeat but to catch her and break her arm should she try anything.

If he’d been annoyed before, he was now pissed.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, before deciding that he didn’t care. “Stupid little girl. I’ll make you regret this.”

She scoffed, and that annoyed him even more. He hated it all; the fact that there wasn’t a single hint of fear in her gaze, the way she eyed him as if she were his equal, the contemptuous shadow of a smile pulling at her lips when his gaze met hers.

“Why do you seem so surprised?” she asked, voice surprisingly pretty for such a feral child. “You beat up my flowers, I beat you up. Isn’t it fair, stranger?”

Her voice sounds like a song, Katsuki thought, and anger left his heart as easily as if the girl had torn open a hole in his chest for his rage to seep through, no matter how much he tried to keep such a reassuringly familiar feeling tucked in the safety of his mind. It was replaced by a weird, prickling warmth, one that pulsed under his ribs, strange, unknown.

Disgusting.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” Katsuki snarled, but the words lacked the usual threat that was so characteristic of his tone. He felt empty, weaker than he’d ever been.

Powerless.

She didn’t seem to notice and lowered the rake, her head tilting sideways as she eyed him to study his appearance. Her gaze moved from the furs that covered his shoulders to the white streaks of paint that adorned his strong chest, the earring that dangled in between strands of blonde hair that were a bit too long.

“You’re from that warrior tribe,” she concluded, and, once again, her voice wasn’t filled with fear or wonder but pure contempt instead. Katsuki felt the need to catch her attention, craved for awe to fill her tone next time. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“I’m their future King,” he noted, and she shrugged.

“My father is King, too. That doesn’t make him better than any other man.”

It’s not an excuse to trample on my flowers, she meant, and Katsuki heard it loud and clear.

“It’s not the same thing,” he insisted, annoyance pulling his eyebrows in a deep frown. “Here, a King inherits his title. In my tribe, the best warrior gets to rule. There is pride in earning the crown.”

She seemed to be only half-listening to him as she kneeled by his feet to replant the root of the sunflower he’d destroyed earlier. His gaze didn’t leave her for a second, fascinated by the swift and efficient movements of her small hands coated in dirt.

“The best at what?” she asked.

A sunflower petal had found shelter in between the strands of her hair. She didn’t notice it. Katsuki wanted to rip it from her mane and destroy it, too.

“I’m the best at gardening,” she kept going, never even meeting his eyes, as focused as she was on her task. “And pretty good at singing. Does that mean I should be queen?”

She was toying with him, he realized.

And he kept falling deeper into her trap.

“The best at war, at fighting,” he replied. “The strongest, the most powerful of us all.”

That’s me, he meant. Look, I’m better than you. Better than anyone you know. Look at me.

Her gaze didn’t stray from the tiny, weak flower he had destroyed.

Was something so insignificant more worthy of attention than Katsuki was?

“If everyone was good at gardening, the world would be the most magnificent flower field,” she noted, voice flat as if she was simply making an observation. “If everyone was good at killing, there would be no world left for life and beauty to grow into.”

Why was there such pride to be found in destruction?

Katsuki opened his mouth. Closed it. He had no answer.

She raised her eyes to his then, a soft smile pulling at her lips.

Her hand caught his in her palm, warm and welcoming.

“Come, I’ll be nice and share peaches from one of my trees with you. Maybe you’ll change your mind and become a gardener instead of a warrior once you taste them. Who knows.”

Mischief coated her pretty voice this time.

Katsuki found that he didn’t dislike it.

He nodded and followed her as she led him, deeper and deeper, into her garden.

--------

Days stretched and went by, sun rising and falling and rising again above the tall towers of that stupidly luxurious castle that always smelled like orange blossoms and cinnamon. Negociations were made, still in Katsuki’s absence, but the bitterness of his powerlessness had left place to simple resignation, soft like cotton filling his harsh little heart.

He didn’t trample any other flower and, instead of the council’s meeting room, both Katsuki’s thoughts and steps constantly made their way towards the girl he’d met in the gardens.

Lazy evenings spent by her side tasted like the fresh almonds she loved so much.

“What’s with your voice?” he asked one day after hours spent listening to her ramble about the stupid cookies she’d tried making that afternoon and failed. It was a dumb story, completely uninteresting, and yet, Katsuki had found that he couldn’t get enough of it. The unnecessary tale sounded like the sweetest symphony to his ears.

She raised her eyes to his, an eyebrow arched in realization.

“Ah.” The sound left her lips, pretty, too short. “And here I was, thinking you were simply interested in my story.”

He glared at her and she laughed, her smile bright like the sun.

Too bright. It made him want to gouge his eyes out of his skull.

“I’m fated to be a priestess. My voice is special because it can reach the gods.”

The gods. Katsuki had never been a faithful worshipper, but he knew just how hard it was to reach those pretend higher beings. Aizawa was the only person he’d ever met who had such an ability, and even then, it was solely because divine blood ran in his veins, too.

But then, if she’d been really gifted with a golden voice, that explained a lot.

Why he felt so damn weak at every word that crossed her lips. Why he was craving for nothing more but the sound of her voice. Why he would gladly spend hours and hours and hours just hearing her talk nonsense. Why he felt like his heart was melting and dripping from his chest, escaping his hold as every drop of it fell to the grown to nurture her stupid flower garden with blood, gore, and excruciating feelings left unspoken.

Why he felt the need to fall to his knees and kiss her hands, worshipping.

“Don’t worry,” she scoffed, seeing the quiet snarl that had taken over his face. “Most people feel fascinated by it, at first, but it wears off. You’ll get used to it in a few days, and you being you, you’ll most definitely order me to shut up every time I try to speak.”

She mimicked his voice and expression when the two words fell from her lips, beauty made flesh, glorious symphony of divine sounds reaching his ears and making him want to die at her hands.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to kill her. To devour her whole and feel her heart pulsing inside his own chest. To have her bowing at his feet, pleading for his mercy with that sweet, delicious, exquisite voice of hers. To catch her by the throat and pull her to him and take what had been rightfully his ever since he’d first heard her speak.

Gods, he wanted her. He wanted her to possess him whole.

“Shut up,” he spat, rolling his eyes.

It’ll wear off, she’d said.

For now, he still felt the need to both kiss and strangle her when she laughed at his reaction.

Disgusting.

--------

It didn’t wear off, and Katsuki felt like his own heart weighed more than earth itself.

He was sick, cursed, devastated, dying. She was his first thought in the morning, his last thought in the evening, and every thought in between. Her presence was spreading in his mind like a disease, an ignominious pest he couldn’t seem to get rid of. Had he been able to, he would have clawed through his own chest and skull, plundering his own body to tear her image from his heart and brain, until he could forget all about her and her damn flowers.

“She’ll be a priestess,” Aizawa reminded him when he caught Katsuki watching her through the castle’s tall windows, her little form constantly fussing in the garden down below. Another sunflower had bloomed in place of the one he’d destroyed. “You can’t have her.”

Katsuki wrinkled his nose at the thought.

“I don’t want her.”

Lies, lies, lies.

It’ll wear off, she’d said.

Filthy liar, goddamn witch that she was.

“But remember, sorcerer. Nothing in this world will keep me from what I want. Not even gods.”

That day, he joined her at the top of the tallest tower in that stupid castle. My favorite place in the world, she’d called it. It was that time right after the sun had sunk below the horizon, when night stretched over the sky, covering the world in a cloak of shadows. She’d waited then, eyes always looking up, up, up, until stars started appearing. Tiny, little silver freckles littering the inky black coat of the night, the light of them reflecting in her eyes like fireflies in a dark forest.

He hadn’t ever seen anything so beautiful.

And when his fingers slowly brushed against hers, she let him take her hand in his.

Holding tight, in a tender grip.

Katsuki, future King of the most blood-thirsty warrior tribe known to man, forgot how to breathe.

“They’re so pretty,” the girl said, irises full of stars.

You’re prettier, he wanted to tell her.

Instead, he simply let out an approving hum, which was the nicest way he’d addressed her since their first meeting. His thumb slowly stroked the palm of her hand, soft, warm. Overwhelming. He wanted to let himself melt into her touch, for her to burn a brand into his skin, for her to drink from his heart just so that she’d understand, just so that she’d feel exactly how he felt.

Powerless.

“You’re nice, today,” she noted, and there was no mockery in her voice, no laughter in her tone for once. And then, she added in a breath, almost dreamy: “It feels nice, being here with you.”

He wanted her, needed her, craved her.

And it felt so painful he couldn’t withstand it, yet he yearned for more. He wished for her to look at him again and again, for her to let his name fall from her glossy lips right before he kissed them raw, for her to love and want and need and crave for him just like he did her. He wanted more pain, more hurt, more suffering, if only such hell was granted by her hands.

Oh, how he wished to feel his bones cracking under the weight of her love.

His heart, stabbed with the rusty blade of her attention, torn from his bleeding chest.

Or his eyes, gouged from his skull and deposited into her palms so that she’d be the only thing he would gaze at, ever.

“I’m not nice,” he said, and it was the truth. There was nothing nice about the thoughts that swarmed his mind against his will.

She nodded, though the little frown that pulled at her eyebrows told him that she disagreed, and simply did not want to ruin the moment with yet another stupid quarrel.

Silence fell over the castle, and Katsuki listened to the soft sounds of her breathing, the steady beating of her heart. The ruffling of her clothes when she moved to let him intertwine his fingers with hers.

He wanted to stay like this forever.

So, of course, he had to ruin it.

“What happens when I leave and you become a priestess?”

Will we meet again? he meant.

She let go of his hand as if he’d burned her. He wished he had.

Her teeth dig into her lower lip and she curled on herself, shy for the very first time. It was uncharacteristic of her, out of place. Katsuki hated it.

“I’ll forget you,” she whispered at last.

Something broke in him.

It wasn’t right.

It wasn’t fucking right.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Anger. It was back, familiar fury taking a hold of his heart just like it used to do before he met her. Rage burned through his veins, devouring his thoughts, and he caught her by the wrist, rough, violent, his grip so tight his knuckles turned white.

She glared at him, her eyes cold.

“I knew you’d react like this,” she spat, contempt filling her voice just like it had that first time she’d spoken to him. But now, she knew him, and that made her words stung even worse. “I was born to serve a god. From the moment I was conceived, I belonged to My Lord. Our souls are linked, bound together like no others are, and it means that none but him will ever hold any importance in my heart. There are things I’ll remember, like this place, my family, my studies. But not you.”

She said it as if Katsuki were forgettable.

As if he were worth less than the sunflower he’d destroyed.

He wanted to destroy her just the same.

“And you’re okay with this?” he snarled, hatred darkening his every thought. “Being some god’s little plaything?”

Her slap hurt less than her words.

He was burning alive, and she’d lit the match of his pyre.

“While you were born to kill, I was born to love. I wonder, Katsuki, who is the most unfortunate out of the both of us?”

It was him, him, him.

Needy, desperate, dying him.

And as she turned his back to him and went away, as he watched her leave for the very last time, it felt as if she’d taken a part of him with her, tucked painfully in her palm.

A little part of his heart that he chose to fill with greed.

----------

“That’s just how priestesses are,” Aizawa told him when they rode far, far, out of the castle, letting that dreadful place become nothing but a shadow of tall towers littering the line of the horizon once the negotiations were over. “They’re only born to serve. Their souls belong to their gods, which means that any memory that doesn’t have anything to do with their deity will simply fade away.”

Katsuki wished for those worthless gods to die by his hands.

Stupid.

He wished he were one of them.

Stupid.

He wished the little priestess would kneel by his feet and kiss his hands in devotion.

Stupid.

“I’m not fucking forgettable,” he snarled, but even his anger felt weak. It felt as if he’d lost a battle for the very first time in his life, and had been left for dead to be devoured by the vultures.

So that was what defeat tasted like, then.

He liked the taste of power much better.

“‘s not your fault, Katsuki,” Kirishima said, giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder in support. “These priestesses, their brains, it’s not the same as ours, it’s tinier, with so little space. She’ll only need a year or two before she forgets you even existed.” As they passed a little temple by the side of the road, he tilted his head towards it, showing Katsuki. “Priestesses live on a leash in their tiny little world, so leave her there if she wants. You’ll have the world at your feet, my friend. What could be better than that?”

Nothing.

If she forgot him, then Katsuki would remember. The little look they exchanged every time he bit into one of her peaches, her checking if he’d changed his mind and decided to become a gardener, and him simply glaring at her, as if to say it’ll never happen, dumbass. That time she’d almost made him smile with a stupid joke, and teased him about it for two days straight. The feel of her fingers brushing against his lips when she’d forcefully slipped a fresh almond on his tongue (it looks disgusting, he’d said. It was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted). Her stupid cookies, her ugly flowers, her useless stories, her annoying laugh, her disgusting voice. He’d carry them all in his heart, buried deep like forgotten treasures but there, still.

Their paths had crossed like two shooting stars falling in different directions, but that was all it was.

Now, he’d learn how to steal, destroy and kill while she learned how to nurture, how to protect, how to love. She would lead her stupid little servant life while he became King. He’d be powerful, strong like he was always meant to be, a ruler in his own right. And he wouldn’t look for her, wouldn’t see her again, ever.

He would never hear her voice again.

Or so he thought.

________

There will be a 4th chapter, this isn't the ending!

I know I said I was trying to wrap the story in 3 chapters, but I failed, sorry dnskdns I tried not to make it a cliffhanger though! And just to clarify: Reader did not forget about Katsuki between chapter 2 and chapter 1 because only a few months have passed. She needs a few years to completely forget that kind of stuff. And she remembers her family and her life in the castle because it is all under Dabi's protection. Katsuki isn't. Please please please, tell me your opinion on this one! I find most of my inspiration thanks to the comments, so it would really help if you told me your thoughts on our poor little Katsuki's POV ♡ And also what kind of ending you expect/would like to read!

Taglist: @mistalli @ajaviary @milkyyberry @insane-without-delirium @miadraws0 @snapped-chopstick @sageyrage @lunatsunachan @girl-who-likes-cold-bois @angie-1306 @cookiesformytummy

Join my taglist?

Also tagging @beware-thecrow because you said you like to see Katsuki suffer hehe

[cuchufletapl]

I may be jealous of the air, it gets to touch your hair

For Edling Week 2022. Day 1: Voyage | Growth | Habit

AO3

The knock on the door gave Ed the impulse he needed to get out of bed.

“Coming," he said hoarsely, rubbing his eyes with one hand and running the other through his hair.

Ling was on the other side of the door (and it was him, no doubt, the affable turn of his lips and relaxed shoulders revealed as much). The morning light coming through the slit in the curtains painted him in warm, soft colours. Ed had to blink for a second to clear his eyes and clear the pink from the edges of his vision.

“Did I wake you?”

The clock read nine-thirty. Ed knew that well, awake since six in the morning, tossing and turning in bed and fighting for sleep to come back. He hadn't been able to sleep for ten hours straight for five months and had hoped it would be different at Granny Pinako's house, but sleep had eluded him that first night too.

He replied in the middle of yawning, “No. I had to get up now anyway. What's up?” It was then that his brain registered that Ling’s hair was down on his shoulders, all loose and tangled. “Again?”

Ling flashed his I’ll annoy you until you yield grin, and Ed let out a long, long-suffering groan towards the ceiling.

“Well, my hair isn't going to brush itself.”                                                         

Ed was still staring somewhere above Ling’s head (and it was a narrow space between his head and the door frame, damn it) as he mumbled the same protest as all mornings.

“You should have the hang of it by now.”

Ling shrugged.

“Every time I touch it, it always ends up a mess.” Ed lowered his gaze to his face and raised an eyebrow, disbelieving. The corners of Ling's smile twitched for a second. “I like the way you do my ponytail better," he amended.

Ed's mouth had been dry since he'd woken up, but the sudden need to swallow and the lack of saliva to do it seemed to give the dryness new meaning. He turned away abruptly to rummage through Winry's dresser while Ling made himself comfortable in the desk chair.

Having an actual, ready-made brush on hand was new. The position Ed found himself in next, behind Ling, with his silky black hair between his fingers, was not. Neither was new the strange calm in those few minutes, as he worked the brush, expert hands—used to braiding every day—untangling the knots that had formed during the night. He had the feeling that a warm silence enveloped them, despite the morning small talk they usually turned to while doing this ("Did you sleep well?", "Well, since Al and I got separated I don't need as much sleep and the notion of what that might mean terrifies me, so no, not tonight either. How was the sofa bed?", "I've slept on ground that was softer, but at least it was Greed who had to suffer through it").

He brushed from root to tip, starting to gather up the hair with his left hand. Ling let out a sigh and a deep sound from the back of his throat.

“Uh," Ed stammered, his heart suddenly beating down in his belly.

“No, go on, go on," said Ling. “It feels good.”

Again, Ed's throat was coming short on saliva. He breathed in slowly, trying not to let his fingers tremble, and resumed the task, taking care to brush firmly in the areas that made Ling let out more of those involuntary sighs. And taking very careful care not to think about why he wanted to hear more sighing and why he felt his cheeks prickle.

Ed wasn’t nearly oblivious enough to delude himself into thinking that this had become routine out of actual necessity. He knew that Ling asked him to do this every morning not because he still didn't know how to do his hair, but because he wanted Ed to do it.

Well, except for that first time, back in January.

(Ed had just returned to camp, woodpile in arms, and had found Greed grumbling, his hands buried in an absolute mess of a mane that was starting to resemble a yarn ball.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“A ponytail, can't you see?”

Ed looked at the bush Greed seemed to have turned his hair into and then up into his face. He raised his eyebrows, an amused smile beginning to creep onto his lips.

“No. I take it you've never done one in your life?”

Greed grunted.

“The other me had short hair.” He frowned, contemplative. “I think. Either way. Fullmetal, you know how to handle long hair, tell me what to do with this.”

“Why don't you let Ling take over for a while and let him do it?”

“Whose idea do you think it was to redo it? The spoilt little prince hasn't got a fucking clue either. His servants used to do his hair.”

Ed stared at him with his mouth open for a second and then a cackle burst from his throat, short and loud.

He set the pile of firewood on the ground and, with a clap, used some of the sticks to make a brush. He beckoned Greed to come closer.

“C’mere, you're both useless.”)

Greed had cringed as soon as the transmuted brush had touched his head, so he had handed over control to Ling to avoid the experience. So since then, every two or three mornings per week they would do this, because even though Ed showed him how to put his hair up each time, the next day Ling would insist that his own handiwork was just terrible. And Greed, for some unfathomable reason, just refused to do this very basic aspect of self-grooming himself.

They had started in January and now it was April.

It made him dizzy, to think about the fact that this was now a thing.

The Edward Elric of a few months ago, the one from back in October who had found a stranger passed out in an alley, would have told Ling to go fuck himself after the second time he would’ve showed up with his hair in a mess, the hairband tied in a seemingly physically impossible knot.

Failing to ignore the burning in his chest as he took the thick black hair in hand (it was so, so soft, so much softer than his own, which, now that he didn’t put it in a plait every day, seemed to be developing an alarming amount of split ends), he had to admit that the Edward Elric who wanted nothing to do with the Xinguese pest was long dead and buried.

“Ribbon," he muttered.

The conversation had died down after that first sigh, so even the murmur seemed so loud, so intrusive in the silence, that he thought it should have echoed down the hallway beyond the closed door. Ling offered up his white ribbon and Ed was careful not to touch his fingers as he took it, for he feared he wouldn’t be able to hide the bolt of electricity that would shoot up his arm upon contact.

He tied the ponytail quickly and took a step back. He cleared his throat as if that would make the blood go down and away from his face.

“Done.”

Ling stood up and peered into Winry's mirror over her dressing table. As if he had to inspect Ed’s work—the high-skill job of doing the simple pony-tail he’s known how to do since he was seven.

“You know what, Ed?” he said suddenly, and Ed was startled, because by now Greed would usually be back. But then again, usually they were at the camp, Darius and Heinkel tinkering away at something not too far away, and now they were actually alone in a closed bedroom. “I should hire you as my imperial hairdresser so you can dedicate yourself to what you were clearly born to do.”

Ed snorted.

“Sure, why not, if it pays well. From military to doing ponytails until I die. The glorious fate of the Fullmetal Alchemist.”

Ling turned back to him with a jovial smile and a slight, sudden blush on his cheeks.

“If that's what it takes to get you to come with me to Xing, it's not a bad plan.”

Ed blinked.

His heart leapt into his throat.

Huh?

“What?”

But before he could elaborate further—and he’d opened his mouth, and he’d reddened further, Ed didn’t think that was a trick of the light—he scrunched up his face, a shudder coming over his body, and when he opened his eyes again, it was with Greed's arrogant, amused expression.

“Well, that's enough entertainment for today. Thanks for the hairdo and all, Elric," he said, opening the door.

Ling's last words bounced around in Ed's skull still, echoing in his chest as if it was the first time he'd ever said something like that (it wasn't. The offer to work for him and go back to Xing with him was one of the first things he'd ever said to him, in fact. Ling said things like that, often, probably jokingly, like when he'd implicitly offered Winry to be his bride out of the blue. It didn't mean anything, it didn't have to mean anything, damn it), but he shouldn’t and wouldn’t start wondering the meaning behind that, because Ling wouldn't have been able to answer directly and Ed would rather shoot himself on the flesh foot than ask Greed to intercede in this.

“You were taking your time," he said, a touch wry, a touch bitter. “You even gave Ling five whole minutes. Careful, the generosity might kill you.”

“The boy insists. It's less annoying if I give in.” Greed gave him a lopsided grin that seemed to mean he knew something Ed didn't.

He clicked his tongue and decided to ignore the comment.

“Close the door on your way out, Greed.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He slammed the door, as usual, yelling something about "more stuff tomorrow, but probably not better stuff, since no one here seems to have some goddamn balls," as he went down to the kitchen for breakfast.

Ed sighed and ran his hands down his neck. He stopped as he touched his own hair, loose and probably a mess.

Oh, right. He hadn't even brushed his yet.

[b0ba-chan]

Middle of Something

summary: Atsumu facetimes Suna while you suck him off.

pairing: Atsumu x fem!reader, Suna x fem!reader (lowkey)

word count: 819

a/n: Suna and Atsumu make my brain go brrrrr. I also haven’t written in YEARS, let alone smut, so I’m posting this to get it off my chest and I’ll be less embarrassed if I post this now rather than later.

warnings: NSFW, 18+, humiliation (??), kinda phone sex, stress writing, terrible grammar, idk what else

Part 2: Between the Two

⭑･ﾟﾟ･*:༅｡.｡༅:*ﾟ:*:✼✿　　✿✼:*ﾟ:༅｡.｡༅:*･ﾟﾟ･⭑

It is humiliating how bad you want Atsumu in your mouth. He is the only one who could really calm your oral fixation. That’s why you’re in his apartment, sitting on your feet, naked with your hands under your thighs.

“C’mon, ya were doing so well, princess. What happened?” The faux blond teased, tightening the grip on your hair. Tears prickle at the corner of your eyes as you continue to take Atsumu’s cock. You ignore the tears as you shoot him a sharp glare. He knows exactly what he is doing, pushing your head without warning, causing you to choke at the sudden movement.

Atsumu hums and lets go as he sits back on the couch, getting comfortable as you continue to work your mouth on him. He lets out the occasional moan with his head thrown back on the cushions. A loud ping coming from his phone shocks you, shifting your glance to him as he picks the phone off the armrest to read the text. As he reads it and smirks, running his fingers back into your hair. The affectionate touch elicits a moan out of you, causing Atsumu to shiver a little. 

You weren’t paying attention to what Atsumu was doing until a loud ringing jolts you to start pulling off. He sends you another mischievous smirk pushing your head gently, messaging for you to continue what you were doing. Your mind panicking as you could tell the call was a Facetime call, though your body betrays you as arousal forms in your core. Thighs clench together, trying to calm your soaking cunt. You whine softly around him and take more of him, breathing through your nose so you can deep throat him.

“Yo.”

(E/c) eyes shoot open wide and pull up from his cock, as the sound of Suna’s voice echoes through your ears. Red flushes across your chest as you continue due to Atsumu’s hand forcing your head back up and down.

“Hey, yer busy right now?” Atsumu does not sound the slightest bothered but it is obvious what could be happening. Suna isn’t stupid, he can see the hair clinging onto his forehead due to sweat, he can see the pink painting his cheeks, and if he was to listen closely on the highest volume, he can hear you quietly gagging and moaning. He isn’t stupid, but he knew his friend was so he’ll entertain him for now. 

“Nah what’s up,” Suna hums, ignoring the fact that Atsumu is mirking, thinking he’s getting away with it. You also know that Atsumu is not getting away with it, the obvious clues pointing to his face, but the man just blames it on the fact that he just finished his work out. Being the little brat you are, you try to get him to spill a moan. From pulling off to suck his tip to jacking him off to suck on his balls lightly. Though every moan was covered up with a cough, which again was too obvious so Suna finally brings you up.

“Isn’t (Y/N) with you? What’s she up to right now?” Suna mirrors the smirk Atsumu wears on his face, though the blonde doesn’t realize it. “Ah that’s why I called, had to show ya somethin.”

You panic as your nose is buried in his neat bush, as it is too late to pull off. The camera is pointed at your sweet face, your doe eyes boring into the camera as tears start to well up from humiliation and arousal. Atsumu reaches out to wipe the tears away and tells you to continue your movements. You can tell Atsumu was close by the way his legs start to twitch and his jagged breathing, but his phone was held still, keeping the focus on how well you’re taking him. You make it more of a show so you can impress the man on the other side of the screen.

“She takes it good, doesn’t she?” Suna comments as Atsumu moans, using that as a sign of confirmation. Once more, he cards his fingers through your hair once more, pulling you off. Your face is a mess, covered in spit and tears, mouth still hanging open as Atsumu pump his cock. After a couple strokes, he lets out a whine and a drawn out moan as he paints your face with white, some landing on your tongue. Suna can’t help but to groan at the sight, causing you to turn more red if it’s even humanly possible. 

“You weren’t that sneaky, you know?” The brunette mentions from the phone, earning himself a quiet ‘shut up’ from Atsumu. His thumb picks up some of the cum left around your mouth and pushes the finger past your lips. Suna can’t help it anymore and rustles around his room. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” He says as he pressed the end call button.

[hannie-dul-set]

PAIRING. huang renjun x fem! reader. GENRE. high school! au, suggestive. WARNINGS. attempted murder, mentions of blood and self injury, veryy descriptive kissing, mc has a few screws lost, swearing, depictions of unstable behavior. WORD COUNT. 1.8k GENRAL TAGLIST. @danishmiilk @wownajaemin @leejunini @astroboy-lele @unknown5tar @yunoyeol @w0nni3wrld @charm-art @bat-shark-repellant @keemburley @deliciouslyyellow​ (pls dm me to be added/removed!)

NOTE. ah yes, the only two genres: murder and making out. inspired by the dream i mentioned earlier. different events, but same vibe HAHA. disclaimer that no matter how much you hate your academic rival, never ever turn to attempted murder! thank you and enjoy

huang renjun— with all his picture perfect smiles, prim and proper tucked in shirts, a pretty face enough to have you on your knees, and with a perfect gpa to top it all off— was someone you wanted.

wanted six feet under the ground.

“hey, congrats!”

speak of the fucking devil.

“you always do really well,” huang renjun towers over you in front of your desk as you sit down. you look up from the wrinkled certificate that have the abhorrent words second honorable mention printed on it's scented surface, only to face his fucking face instead. he beams at you with a smile. you feel convulsions wringing inside your throat. “congratulations again.”

you don't miss the first honor certificate tucked between his books in a measly attempt of concealment. it takes everything in your power to force out something of a smile.

“thanks. you too.”

with that, he quickly scurries away into his seat next to yours with red ears.

your first period teacher enters, beginning class with a greeting, but your mind is elsewhere.

it’s only midterms, you breathe out through your nose, hugging your arms above your desk while sketching out a study plan for the rest of the semester in your head. there’s enough time before graduation. the hold you had on yourself gradually becomes tighter.

still, you know that even if you worked yourself day and night until you bled cold and crimson, huang renjun would still be one step ahead. you bite down your lip, peeling off the dry skin with a sourness writhing in your gut, digging your fingers deeper into your arms. if only he were gone. you leer at the boy diligently taking his notes beside you. if only he were gone gone gone gone—

your eyes widen, ignoring the blood staining your nails.

if only he were gone.

after class, you walk up to his desk and asked if he wanted to work on the physics homework at his place tomorrow. he says yes with starry eyes in a heartbeat.

the next day, renjun couldn’t wait for the final bell to ring. you, too, couldn’t remain in your seat— albeit for a different reason. so when the ringing occurs, the both of you don’t waste a second in finally heading out of the campus.

it’s a silent walk to his place, a standard suburban neighborhood, the sky slowly turning orange in the background. every time you turn your head to look at him, he looks back with a small smile, and you can’t help your hands from twitching at your sides.

renjun unlocks the door and meekly welcomed you inside.

“you can leave your shoes here,” he says, digging his keys into the back pocket of his school slacks with dangling noises. you look at him, smiling, and with a soft hum you leave your school shoes next to his, trailing behind him into the living room.

looking around, you ask him. “are your parents home?” there was an opening that leads to the kitchen, glass doors showing the backyard. the stairs that lead to the second floor are made of sleek, dark oak. it’s a modern interior. they have a fireplace inside.

“no,” he breathes out, wetting his dry throat with a swallow before turning back to face you. “they’re out on business. i don’t think they’ll be home until the weekend.”

the both of you stop right in front of the staircase.

“i see.”

he quickly muffles a cough and leads you up to his room.

the inside of renjun’s room is neat— organized books on the shelf and sheets neatly pressed. There’s a set of candles beside his bed. you hold back a scoff. as expected from the top student.

your eyes flit over from the window above his bed to look at him, instead.

“you don’t have to be so nervous around me, you know,” you muse, dropping down your bag to join him on the floor. worksheets littered with numbers and constants, gravity and acceleration, all scatter on the floor. they blow with the wind knowing that they wouldn’t even be filled in, anyway.

“sorry,” renjun sputters out, loosening his striped necktie with two fingers. his vision is kept trained on the wall behind you. “i’m not— i’m not doing it on purpose.”

you adjust your legs on the floor, skirt riding. “is there a reason?”

“a reason?” he gulped.

“why you can’t look me in the eye.”

renjun thinks he sees the corners of your lips twitching upwards.

“i’ll— i’ll go open the window, it’s a little hot in here, isn’t it?” scrambling to his feet, his knees sink into the navy sheets of his bed, reaching for the window in a nervous flurry to let the air in. “the news said that the temperature’s slowly gonna start rising but i didn’t think it would be—”

he bumps into you when he turned back.

there’s a click from behind him.

the wind stopped coming in.

“it’s not really that hot.”

the way your breath fanned against his lips makes his head spin in circles.

you have an arm out against the glass, your sleeve’s fabric grazing his tempered cheek when you went to shut the window down. renjun feels a ghost in the air where there’s a space in between you. “i— i guess you’re right,” he says, clearing his throat. “i never expected that you’d ask to work together.”

there’s syrup at the end of your sentence. “you seemed pretty happy when i did, though.”

he isn’t sure if it’s just him or if you’re slowly getting closer. “well, that’s— that’s because i—”

“you don’t have to say it.”

your voice digs deep into his bones like chains of velvet. he can feel your chest pressing against him now, crushing the sense of rationality that he was bestowed with from birth and is replaced with a warm lush of rabid, violent waters gushing into bit of him stomach,

it comes off a whisper yet it sends him reeling.

“i know.”

renjun swallows. hard. but he’s afraid you’d hear the manifestations of a tempered restlessness that had managed to crawl its way up to the tips of his fingers— which found themselves resting onto the curve of your back. stray strands of his swair sweeps above his eyes, obscuring the closeness of your face, and he wants to ask how. how did you know that he likes you.

he never got to.

the question doesn’t even get to resurface after the first hit of your cherry flavored chapstick, his bottom lip caught in between yours, teeth grinding against the plush, pink skin. the second hit has his decorum slowly peeling away from his skin when his tongue traces over yours in a hot mess of delirium, when you settle between his legs, a coarse groan vibrating in his throat. the third has him forgetting his own name.

his eyes are hazy when you pull back with a rough smacking of the mouth. with a short-winded voice, you ask him.

“do you mind if i make a call?”

renjun looks at you in a fit of breathlessness.

an airy laugh leaves your lips that he can’t stop staring at. you press a kiss on his nose. “my parents need to know that i won’t be going home tonight.”

dazed, he answers. “y-yeah, sure.”

he blinks a few times before letting you go.

“take your time.”

you send him a smile before fishing your backpack from the floor and leaving the room.

just like that, a switch was flipped.

upon closing the door, you quickly twist the knob, locking it with the keys that you’d snatched from him earlier. it’s convenient that he has each one labelled— a belated thank you to your school’s ever organized golden boy who never fails to make you sick in the stomach.

at each wall you pass, you make sure to seal the windows shut and have all the doors closed. the contents of your bag make steady pangs against your back as you shuttled down the stairs. you lock the back door shut, close all the windows, turn on all the lights, and throw a match into their fireplace, waiting for the fire to come to full bloom. all that’s left is the kitchen.

there’s no time wasted in turning everything on— the microwave, oven, and the stove until you can't crank them any further. embers fly into the air. it’s getting hotter. you duck down to the compartment under the stove to reveal a white painted propane tank, taking out a cordless soldering iron to seal the safety relief valve close. you place a rag over the opening valve and twist it halfway through. a hissing sound whizzes through the air.

with that, you leave through the front door, locking it for good measure. his keys disappear into the bush nearest to their porch.

it’s only a matter of time until huang renjun ceases to be a pest anymore. if not for good, then at least lethally injured.

you head home to finish your physics worksheets that were due tomorrow.

for the first time in god knows how long, you wake up and head to school with a well rested air.

you take your things out of your backpack, humming a soft tune right before the bell rings for your first class. your other seatmate— donghyuck— notices your unusual cheery demeanor, and inquires about its oddities. you simply answer him with an allusion to finally being free. he laughs it off and turns his head to the chalkboard.

five minutes before eight. the doors creak open. you’re ready to stand and greet your teacher until you realize that it isn’t her.

it’s not.

it’s not.

it’s not.

something nauseating knocks into your lungs and stifles your throat, eyes wide and stinging. it squeezes your neck with poison prickling the surface.

huang renjun enters the classroom with his usual nods and smiles to everyone he passes.

“holy shit, dude. you look like hell.”

“i didn’t get any sleep last night,” he laughs, lightheartedly. “guess i’ll have to sleep through recess.”

your teeth grind against your lips, supple skin turning redder at each nip. your nails leave scratches on the desk as you rattle in your seat, thinking, thinking, panicking. each breath feels like choking on pulverized copper in sulfuric air. there’s a ringing in your ears and you hear nothing except your own voice screaming why is he here why is he here why is he here?

he doesn’t go to his desk. he’s standing right in front of you.

“you look well.”

it sears your fingerprints off your skin.

you don’t answer, don’t even look at him. he breaks into a small smile and leans forward, one hand pressed against your desk and the other reaching for a lock of your hair as he nears and nears and nears. “there’s something here,” he says.

there isn’t.

“you left my window unlocked, baby.”

his hot breath hits your cold cheek, tucking a strand behind with a smile. to everyone else, it would look sweet— heart fluttering. to you it was a death sentence. renjun breathes out a contained chuckle into your ear before letting his hand fall on your shoulder, a tight grip at the last second.

“better luck next time.”

© HANNIE-DUL-SET. 2021.