#Will also crosspost on ao3

[spacecatchako]

Kissing Lessons- Tenya Iida x Reader

Pairing: Tenya Iida x Gen! Reader Genre: Fluff Content Warnings: Suggestive fluff, Tenya and reader are third years here, marking (reader is okay with it lol), no actual sex or smut, making out, praise, neck kissing Word count: 1.2k words Tenya has never had his first kiss before. You offer to teach him how.

When Tenya Iida, class 3-As representative, declared that he had never kissed anyone before, you almost did a spit take.

It was understandable; an uptight guy focused on hero work probably didn't make much time for romance. But at the same time, it was almost unbelievable. Tenya Iida was beyond handsome, if not the most handsome guy in 3-A. You can't say you hadn't fantasized about making a move on him in your three years at U.A. together.

So that's how the two of you got here, sitting across from one another on your dorm bed. Tenya sits cross-legged in front of you.

When you realized the blue-haired boy had never been kissed before, he confided in you that he'd wanted his first time to be perfect. So you offered to teach him. It's what friends are for, after all.

"So just to be clear you haven't kissed anyone before? Not even a peck?" you verify, gentle and unjudging.

Tenya blushes and shakes his head from side to side.

"Not even a little."

You offer him a small smile.

"That's okay. We'll start small. Here."

You wait for his slight nod and straddle his lap, arms wrapped around his neck. Tenya is leaning against the wall by your bed, and your faces are close.

You can feel his breathing this close, the glisten of chapstick against his lips. His face is so close to yours. Cupping his face with one hand, you close the gap between your lips.

He grunts a little but eventually kisses back. After a few lingering moments of sweetness- chaste, nothing probing- you pull away, hand still cupping his square jaw. You can feel his stubble against your palm.

"See Tenya? That wasn't so hard."

He gasps a little, and his hands find your waist. During the entire kiss, he didn't know what to do with his hands.

His glasses are askew, and a light blush is dusting his face. His blue eyes are wide with shock and wonder.

"H-how. How did you do that so confidently?" He wonders aloud.

You smirk and tuck a lock of his well-kept blue hair behind his ear.

"Practice. Just act like you know what you’re doing and gauge the other persons reactions. That way you can figure out what they like. And ask for consent before doing something huge, obviously. Ask for consent before kissing them. It isn't too awkward if you're upfront and honest about it, I promise." You advise.

Tenya is still flustered, the collar of his blue shirt slightly uneven.

"If you want, you can try initiating. Go ahead." You say, leaning away from his grasp a little. "I'm all yours."

Tenya is hesitant when he leans forward to close the gap between the two of you, but when he does, it feels heavenly. Awkward and a little rough, his top lip bumping into yours, but your hands find purchase in his hair and adjust him to your liking. His lips are plush and soft. His breath is minty- he probably prepared for this- and hot against your mouth. He moans a little bit when you tug at his undercut and bring him closer.

His hands press into your lower back, pushing your lower body flush with his. His hands are so big and robust, capable of maneuvering you however he wishes. Your eyes flutter, taking in the senses. You moan softly, and he follows suit. You pull away briefly to switch angles and let your tongue lap out to meet his a little. Tenya's eyes widen slightly at the intrusion, but you smile reassuringly against his mouth. “This is okay.” You seem to tell him. “I want this,” you hope to convey.

His hands move from your waist to your upper back, under your shirt, trying to feel any expanse of skin he can reach. There's nothing but the sound of your breathing and the smack of your lips as you bring one another closer, closer, wanting never to let go.

You pull away for air, and Tenya follows your lips, desperate for more. You sigh and give him a chaste peck back.

"You seemed to like that, pretty boy. Want to try more?"

"I- yes, if you so wish to."

You hum, scooting against the pillows on your bed.

"Then take me."

Tenya presses you back into the pillows of your bed, pinning you down with his body weight. He is arguably the most muscular of class 3A, exceeding even Bakugo. He has so much strength and could crush you right now, but he chooses to use it gently, pinning you where he wants you, kissing you like you're the air he needs to breathe. You claw at his back, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull your bodies flush together. You're surprised when he pulls away from your lips, kisses your cheek, and then moves to your neck.

"Can I?" he murmurs, a low voice asking politely. He is ready for the possibility of you saying "No. This is too much. I want to stop here." He is prepared to be rejected and return to the quiet of his room to contemplate this last lesson. If that were the case, he wouldn’t feel hurt or entitled at all. Just grateful that he got to have you, like this, in any capacity. Grateful for your expertise and understanding, grateful for your touch and compassion.

So it's to his surprise when you whisper "yes," scritching at the base of his well-kempt undercut.

He hums and dives in, licking and sucking at your throat. You moan at the sensation, back arching into his touch, hugging him closer. Tenya braces himself against your bed and almost growls. It happened instantaneously and without you registering it, but your crotches are grinding together, all heat and light and comfort and carnal.

Who knew your formerly uptight, type-A class rep could be so gentle yet sensual and strong?

Tenya pulls away, and his eyes widen at the mark he left.

"I- shoot, I am so sorry," he panics at the mark left. He fusses over your bruised neck before you cut him off.

"Don't be, Tenya. I wanted it. I liked it a lot, you made me feel really good." you praise. Tenya adjusts his glasses, which are fogging up slightly due to his heavy breathing. His cheeks warm with the praise, and his heartbeat speeds up.

You guide him into another kiss, reassuring him that he did well. After plenty of time in class together, you know how Tenya reacts to praise. He thrives for it, chest throbbing. You nuzzle his cheek and jaw, giving him gentle pecks across his sharp jawline. Eventually you pull away, hands cupping his face, eyes meeting his. He seems so gentle here, nothing like the brazen boy or the confident leader that you’ve gotten to know.

"I'm going to ask you again because I care about you and I don't want to put too much on you. Do you want to go further or stop here?"

Tenya looks up at you, blue eyes shining in adoration.

"More. Please don't stop here, I want more of you." He pleads.

You give in his body against yours, hearts beating in tandem. You give him all you're willing to, and he gives you all of him too. He's such a good, strong boy, and you're more than happy to be his friend– or more. Whatever he wants to be, whatever he wants, he's yours.

Maybe he didn’t need kissing lessons after all.

[becauseplot]

Phil wakes up in the morning, curled up on his side of the bed, wings splayed out over the empty half of the mattress behind him. As always. Snags his robe off the hook by the bed and shrugs it on and doesn't look at the vacant hook beside it. As always. Half asleep hauls himself out of bed and shuffles into his slippers and opens the blinds; bedroom flooded by golden sunlight, shining on the glass panes of the framed family photos hung up on the walls, drowning them in morning glow. As always.

It's just another morning up here on the wall. He heads down into the basement expecting the usual: finding Tallulah already awake and writing quietly in her diary, listening to her giggle as Phil drags her dead-to-the-world brother out of bed, sending them both off to go get dressed and wash up while he fumbles something together for breakfast.

When he steps into their bedroom, their beds are empty.

The spike of panic is immediate. He knows he put them to bed last night. They're not staying over anywhere else. They weren't anywhere in the front garden. There's no obvious note or sign anywhere that Phil can see. Where did they go? Where are his kids?

But then he hears it---the laughter. Clinking of dishes in the kitchen. The smell of eggs and bacon and beans. Soft Spanish that's low and syrupy-sleepy, still waking up.

Phil walks into the kitchen, and it's like walking into a dream.

The three of them are crowded around the counter, with Chayanne standing on a stepstool to the left and Tallulah standing on a chair to the right. Daylight spills in through the window above the sink and makes the mirage of Missa expertly dicing onions shimmer, body wreathed in warmth.

Missa sets down the knife. He turns around, the off-white of his bone mask almost dandelion in the sun, and Phil just about loses it.

He's relieved. He's disbelieving. He's ecstatic, and he's furious, and he's oddly numb. Something inside him wants to hurl a fist across his jaw; something else wants him to curl a fist around the lapels of his cloak and never let go.

Phil's arms are around him before he even realizes that he's crossed the kitchen.

Missa makes a sound of surprise, arms briefly hovering like this is the last thing he expected, but it doesn't matter---Phil feels him return the embrace a heartbeat later, and Phil sinks into it. A soft noise of anguish dies in his throat; he buries his face in Missa's shoulder and clutches at the back of his cloak and squeezes him like he wants to shatter bone and nestles in closer with the irrational, irrepressible desire to burrow into Missa's chest and fucking live there. Missa would probably let him.

A hand comes to cradle the back of his head. He feels lips and nose land softly in his tangle of unbrushed morning hair.

"Buenos días, querido."

He's home.

[salemoleander]

Brainfog // A webweave based on waiting for the fog to lift by Odaigahara

MCYT Recursive Exchange 2024 // sources under readmore

What is a webweave?

Previous art: Third Life | Void Falling | Attempt 33 | Martyn | Limited Life | Nightingale Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | singing songs to the secrets behind my eye | A Hundred Things We Had Not Dreamed Of | Solving Counting Sheep

Setpiece Clouds / @snailspng ◆ You're Home Free... Plaque / Jenny Holzer via @killyridols ◆ The Invader / Eva Funderburgh ◆ i walk in long loping circles poem / @erstwhilesparrow ◆ Connubial / Stephen Dunn ◆ Eight of Swords / Sarah Kipin via @thecollectibles ◆ Cat Island / Matt Schu via @nevver ◆ Detail from The Annunciation / Fra Angelico via @santoschristos ◆ I don't know why I'm wearing this button / Busy Beaver Button Museum via @skunkstripe ◆ Compass Ring / @snailspng ◆ Never Found Sign / @albatross-the-pen-chewer ◆ Occupation Helper Murderer / @screenshotsofdespair ◆ "Like it's my fault..." textpost / @mumblesplash ◆ Ethereal / Whitney Barkman ◆ Mountain Landscape / Caspar David Friedrich via @artschoolglasses

[gentil-minou]

so if I put Free Palestine in the title of my fic will OTW censor that too?

Where do they draw the line? Or does the line only exist when it comes to BIPOC?

[falsegrailwar]

Hello QiuRong nation as well

[kudzuoath]

Needful Things

With the reappearance of symptoms foretelling of his arcane hunger, Gale seeks out the party’s paladin to plead his case. He needs help. Hopefully Odette is the kind of person he believes her to be. 

Or, Gale and Odette experience mutual attraction and care. Neither one of them acknowledges it.

—

The party’s paladin was taciturn, and brutal on the field of battle. Not someone he typically would have felt drawn to. But then he watched the way Odette interacted with the tiefling children at the grove. Kindly. With a soft voice and a reassuring hand.

Or in the case of the little helion Mol, with a grin and a witty rejoinder that came to her lips as if it were second nature.

There were other things, too. The way she threw herself headlong into danger, flaming greatsword first, the moment she spotted someone in need. How she treated each battle like a game of lanceboard – or the way she carefully handled and collected the books they came across in their travels.

That last bit was the first thing he’d noticed actually – only someone who loved them the way he did would handle them with such care. Even the copies she set back down. It’s not what he expected from a warrior – though perhaps he was letting his biases get the better of him with that.

There was something about her. Under the blood and the bared teeth and the black tattoos covering her neck and forearms. A cleverness. A curiosity. And tying it all together, a surprising kindness.

So one evening in camp he approached her. She was sitting close to the fire, hunched over a tome they’d found in the ruined temple of Jergal.

“That looks like a fascinating read,” he said, unable to help himself.

Odette startled. She nearly took his leg out with her tail when it whipped back and forth. “What?”

“The book?”

“Oh – oh. Yes.” With a faint frown, she closed it and gave him her full attention. Her mismatched eyes were curious – but wary. Not unusual for her, he’d noticed. Though he had also just managed to sneak up on her.

“Did – you need something, Gale?”

“Well, all this travel and adventure has made it somewhat difficult to find my moment, but there’s something rather important I need to speak with you about – if you would be inclined to listen to me this fine evening.”

“Isn’t everything these days?” She gestured at the log she’d perched on, the faintest of half smiles breaking through her stoicism. “Have a seat. Unspool your woes. You won't be the first.”

He itched to ask more about the book. But that wasn’t what he was here for. “How shall I begin… ah! Yes! The beginning. You see, since you freed me from that stone I found myself trapped in I have seen you demonstrate remarkable guile and courage –”

Her smile dropped for some reason. And – was her gaze a little frosty all of the sudden? Did she not believe him?

“ – The way you diffused the tension between Aradin and Zevlor! How you convinced Kagha to release the girl. Or charged in to save that boy from those harpies. And you’ve demonstrated a fair amount of temperance as well – many a paladin would have run that fellow at the bottom of Jergal’s temple through, even though he’d shown no will to harm us! In short, I’ve grown to trust you, Odette.”

Silence. For several seconds that, by the third one, were starting to send prickles of unease down his spine. My but didn’t this woman have a stare on her that could freeze fire! The thing was, he couldn’t see what he’d done to invite it.

Though… perhaps it was just her face? It wasn’t the first time. She only really seemed to gentle around the very young, or very vulnerable. Perhaps it took conscious effort to do so.

“I see.” Another pause. “You’re being genuine, aren’t you?”

He balked. “Of course I am! I am many things, but I’ve never been accused of lying about my feelings towards others.”

That faint smile returned, and she let out a soft little laugh under her breath. She shook her head and ran a hand through her short raven curls with a sigh. “No, you wouldn’t would you? You have my apologies, Gale. I’m not particularly used to people being so complimentary.”

“With how often you save people?” He couldn’t help but ask.

“Gratitude and… flattery are different things, I think. Or… compliments, isn’t it? That’s what they are when they’re genuine…” This last bit was to herself.

He might have been offended if not for how clearly baffled she was. Personally, he didn’t know what to make of her reaction. It was… odd. And it made him wonder what she’d been doing before the Nautiloid captured them. What roads had their Paladin walked? And what Oath now kept her?

“Well, nevertheless,” he said, pushing forward. “The reason I make a point of saying this is that I’ve grown confident enough to tell you something I’ve yet to tell another living soul. Except for my cat.”

She turned to face him fully now. The only hint of emotion he could glean from her face was in the tilt of her head, and the slight furrow beginning to form between her brows. His heart leapt into his throat as the moment came to bear down on him. This was it. He may well find himself a wizard alone. And he was no Elminster – particularly not now, between the tadpole and the orb.

“You see I have this… condition. Very different from the parasite we share. And just as deadly.”

“Can it be cured?” she asked. Immediate, serious. She was sitting at attention and leaning in, examining him with fresh eyes and real, visible concern. He noted the moment she spotted the darkened veins around his eye, and began to follow them down to where they vanished under his shirt. Surely not the first time they’d been noticed. But the first they might hold her any significance.

The way she looked at him. Ready to leap to his aid. It made his throat feel a little tight. And brought to mind his befeathered and bewhiskered friend back in Waterdeep.

“No, it cannot be cured,” he said softly. Swallowing around a lump in his throat. He cleared it and sat up straighter himself. “And I can assure you I left no page unturned in reaching that conclusion.”

Odette seemed to draw back slightly as he said this, eyes shuttered. Something he couldn’t blame her for, given he’d all but told her his days were numbered. Woe betide them all should she learn of exactly how numbered all of their days might be, purely by virtue of his company.

Though that revelation… that one he’d keep close to the chest a while longer. If he were very lucky – lucky enough to survive the tadpole, and find his way back to his tower – she need never know the extent of the threat he posed.

“I can keep this condition under control, as indeed I've done for a significant amount of time! But that was under different circumstances altogether. Home, in Waterdeep.”

“Gale… stop blowing hot air and tell me what you need.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and her hands were fists in her trousers.

“What it comes down to is this,” he said, holding up a finger. He was patently unable to give up his habit of lecturing. Particularly with his nerves strung tight enough to snap and his heart a throbbing drum trying to choke him. He trusted her. He could only hope she proved worthy of it. He thought she would. Hoped.

“Every so often, I need to get my hands on a powerful magical item and absorb the Weave inside.”

There.

“...Are you telling me you’re addicted to magic?” Odette said. Her voice was flat, toneless. But her hands were no longer fists.

“What? No – no. It’s nothing like that. Magic isn’t some – some narcotic to me. It’s literally a lifesaver.”

She stared at him. “It’s not that I doubt you – only that I’ve seen what can happen to people addicted to drink when they go too long without it.” Her voice darkened. “What they can do to people. And how, ultimately, the lack of it can kill them.”

The unfortunate thing was, she had a point with that comparison. Even if it didn't apply here.

“Were it an addiction, it might provide some other benefit than keeping me alive,” he said. And realized a moment after doing so that technically, it did. In that it was also keeping everyone and everything else in his vicinity alive and intact. But – no. Not that. Not now. “It is more a salve for a burn, medicine for an infection – though it wont cure what ails me.”

A new tension in her shoulders drained away. “I see.”

“I would not burden anyone other than myself with this were the stakes not so high, and the means of obtaining such artifacts challenging for a humble wizard to face alone.” He leaned forward. Fear sawed at him now. He hadn’t expected her to agree outright of course – he still didn’t. But he had to absorb something, and soon. Elsewise all might well be lost, tadpole be damned. “It’s been a tenday at least since I last consumed an artifact – since before we were abducted. It’s only a matter of time before my craving returns.”

In truth, he could feel it already. An unpleasant tingling numbness deep in his chest. One that made his heart beat just slightly out of tune. That froze his lungs. It was only a bit of morning frost at the moment. But all too soon he would be reduced to gasping on his back, hands pressed to his chest as if that might hold the snarling demon within at bay.

“That is why I turn to you, I need you to help me find magic items to consume,” he said. Intense. Unable to help himself even though he’d planned the rational facade. His hand was pressed over his hammering heart, fingers clawed in his shirt. The memory of what was soon to come biting under his palm. “It is vital. Dare I say it, critical.”

There weren’t words to describe the danger. His panic at perhaps being rejected. He would turn to petty thievery if he must. Not for his own sake, but for the sake of every living being around them, should it come to that. He would need them, if only to clear enough ground so as to minimize the hells he would unleash in his death.

Odette was watching him with a new wariness. His intensity had perhaps been… a little much. But once he’d noticed that creeping hunger in his chest… the panic had taken root in his tongue. Though it might prove needful. And may well have served to illustrate his genuine need better than if he’d managed to remain collected.

“Where are we going to find these items?” she said.

That wasn’t a no.

“We’ve already done the finding – in fact you have one in your possession as we speak.” He gestured to where her greatsword lay. It glowed like a dying ember, even sheathed. “You know for yourself how hardwon such an item was and it will be no easier when even more are required to assuage my hunger.”

As he’d said before – he was no liar. He wouldn’t pretend this would be easy. The least of what he owed her was that honesty.

“There will be danger involved. Or great cost.”

Odette’s eyes had remained on her sword as he spoke. He’d heard the tale of how she’d gotten it. On the Nautiloid. From a devil. His understanding was that it had been a difficult battle, barely won and only undertaken out of sheer desperation with the temporary alliance of her illithid captors. Giving her allies the time they needed to reach the alien transponder that had ultimately dumped them all into this wilderness.

She let out a long sigh, and unsheathed the weapon. Flames danced up and down the blade, merrily viscous. Its sudden heat made the night air steam slightly around them. Very carefully, she offered him the hilt, and met his gaze.

“Take it."

Gale’s mouth didn’t quite fall open, but it was near thing. He stared at the sword instead.

And then his panic melted away like so much snow falling on a wildfire. He’d expected… well. He hadn’t known what to expect. But Odette disarming herself was not among them. He’d been right. As he typically was of course. Right to trust her. Right to tell her. Like his panic, his tension drained too. And all at once the symptoms of his hunger felt far less pressing.

For indeed, they were less pressing. It was the fear. There was still time. And to feed it too soon… it might upset the balance. Might increase its need to consume. He would have a hard enough time keeping up with it as things were. No need to tempt fate.

“I knew I could count on you!” he said. “And – and utterly pleased as I am by your enthusiasm, there is still time. I did not leave things quite until the last moment. I’m a good deal cleverer than that! Keep your weapon for now. Perhaps we shall find something less dear to be parted with. Faerun overflows with magically infused treasure after all!”

Odette considered him for a moment, but re-sheathed her sword.

Then, in a move that made his heartbeat stutter she set her hands on his shoulders and squeezed lightly.

“Thank you. For asking for help, Gale. I know… it’s not an easy thing.”

Her gaze was as true as her heart was. And he found himself wondering how he’d written her off, no matter how briefly. A wizard she was not. But perhaps she was something just as good. A truly, deeply, decent soul. No matter her viciousness in a fight.

“Nor your promise to sacrifice these items, Odette,” he said, his voice dropping with softness unfeigned. “I know what I am asking –”

“There’ll always be magic daggers and enchanted rings,” she said, cutting him off. “You’re the only Wizard of Waterdeep I know, though. Don’t…” she swallowed. He caught a glimpse of an old pain on her face. One that made those eyes – one brown and one purple – look so lightless he might have been frightened had the emotion not been so clearly one of hurt. Her grip tightened slightly on his shoulders and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. When she finished her thought, it was in a whisper soft voice. “Don’t kill yourself with your silence.

He lifted his hands to cover hers. “Believe me, I shan’t be quiet should my need arise.”

“Good.”

For a moment, they watched each other. And Gale couldn’t help but think of how long it had been since mortal hands – or the hands of anyone at all – had touched him. There had only been Tara. His heart beat stuttered as he looked at the planes of her face, illuminated by the firelight. It was a beautiful sight. He found himself wishing to stroke his thumb over the black flame tattooed on her forehead for some odd reason. Or better, to follow the curved pattern of dark flames along her jaw with his fingertips.

Odette was smiling back at him, and there was a softness there. But then she seemed to notice their closeness. She let go of him abruptly and pulled back. Put distance between them as she busied herself with setting aside her sword, with repacking the book.

He was all at once given the impression of many doors closing and locking one after another. By the time she turned back to look at him, her face was settled back into its normal vaguely intimidating neutrality.

“I should try to get some sleep,” she said. “And so should you. We need to find where those bloody goblins have holed up with the Druid. Interesting as that ruin turned out, our new friend is not the cure we’ve been looking for.”

“Indeed not,” he agreed, standing. He recognized a dismissal, no matter how kindly given. He made a dramatic gesture and half bowed. “Dear lady, may you sleep the sleep your kindness so richly deserves!”

She let out a surprised laugh, that mask breaking again. “And may you rest your eternally wagging tongue, dear wizard.”

A dig, but she said it with a fondness he found gratifying. He wasn’t unaware of his talkative nature, when he’d been given half the chance to chatter. Good that she seemed to like it.

“I shall do my very best to oblige.”

Gale returned to his tent with a lightness in his heart most unfamiliar, and a smile he would have been hard pressed to extinguish.

[presumenothing]

so we all know the drill, yeah? my keyboard slipped etc etc and thus i present: 吉祥纹莲花楼 aka LOTUS CASEBOOK (the novel) CHAPTER ONE: TASTER EDITION further aka "the first chapter, but minus the Case Exposition bit because wow noooope". note also that this is not as serious nor thoroughly-edited as some of my other TLs (nif fandom alumni may remember me from known, unknown aka this absolute unit/research spiral of a post-canon fic; this is Not That and also, hi!!). and now with that out of the way, enjoy! ETA: fixed some missing bits that got eaten while posting to tumblr + only maybe 30% on-topic footnotes over here

PART THE FIRST: A GHOST, MURDER, IN THE GREEN GAUZE WINDOW

Changzhou City, Xiaomian Inn.

The seventeenth of the sixth month, just around midnight.

It had been two days since Cheng Yunhe, the head convoy of Hexing Convoy Company, started escorting these sixteen boxes of precious goods. Though all had been well so far, he felt tight-strung with exhaustion, and despite having fallen asleep he woke up without quite knowing why.

Silence permeated the dark room.

Outside the window… there was singing.

Faint waves of sound, barely discernible, as if someone was singing; and apparently quite in earnest, too, but in an incredibly odd tone… just as if… someone was singing with their tongue cut out. 

He opened his eyes, and looked at the window directly across from his bed.

Amidst the darkness, green flecks flickered dim and sudden across that window, now far then near, and only on this one window across from him.

Outside the window, the faraway song continued, that broken tongue singing a tragic melody that no-one living could possibly understand…

He’d already practised almost forty years of martial arts, and though his hearing and sight might not be the top in the jianghu, it could hardly be weak either, but he… could not make out the sound of anything human.

As the wind whistled through the slightly-ajar window, he stared at that window with its flickering green shadows – and for the very first time in his life, he thought of a word – ghosts?

–

ONE: LUCKY PATTERN LOTUS PARLOUR

The broad daylight of a sunny day.

Bingshan Town was not a remarkable place by any means; it had neither rare treasure nor great legends, and just like the vast majority of places in the jianghu, its denizens were a little boring, its crops a tad skinny, its rivers a tinge dirty, and its post-meal conversational topics a touch lacking… far too lacking, actually, so whenever there was something everyone had to delight in it for the longest time – not to mention how that recent happening was an odd one indeed.

The tale so far: on this day, the eighteenth of the month, when the people of Bingshan Town opened their doors to sweep their stoops, they abruptly found that their only-too-familiar main street had suddenly sprouted a two-storey wooden building. This building was hardly a short one, either, fully capable of housing people inside, and in spacious lodgings no less; it was made fully of wood, and engraved with patterns unusually fine and ornate, that even a blind person could recognise by touch – none other than lotus flowers and auspicious clouds.

After a good half-day’s worth of discussion, some eagle-eyed people recognised at last how this building had “suddenly appeared”: though its structure was that of a building, it turned out that it was not connected to the ground… at any rate, this building had been pulled by someone with a cart, here to the main street of their Bingshan Town, and put it there. Everyone expressed their amazement at this, but nobody could comprehend why anyone would bother dragging over such a large building in the dead of night just to leave it on the street, or what it could possibly be for. Perhaps as a shrine for their town god? Though speaking of which, their local shrine had indeed fallen into disrepair and gone unworshipped for many years now…

Such debate continued for three days straight, up until an express convoy working at some company who happened to be coming home was struck dumbfounded upon seeing it, screeched “The Lucky Parlour!” and there and then turned to run madly away without even returning home, still yelling “Lucky Parlour!” along the way – and thus the building abruptly became a haunted house, that would drive anyone who saw it right mad.

Only seven days later, when that express convoy suddenly brought the entire convoy company back to Bingshan Town, did the masses discover that said building was not in fact some haunted house. 

Not only was it not a haunted house, it was actually an auspicious building, a super-duper auspicious building. 

The “Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour” was a medical clinic.

Its master was of surname Li, named Lianhua.

What kind of a person was Li Lianhua? As a matter of fact, nobody in the jianghu knew either. Whether his master, his background, the level of his martial arts, his age, or even the matter of his looks: all of it was unknown. Six years had passed since this person appeared in the jianghu, and in total he’d done only two things, but just these two things alone had been enough to turn the “Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour” into the single most fascinating legend in the jianghu.

The two things Li Lianhua had done: the first was bringing back to life the martial scholar “Lifelong Learner” Shi Wenjue, who’d been buried for many days after dying from major injuries after a decisive duel. The second was bringing back to life “Ironflute Hero” He Lantie, who’d also been buried for many days with all his bones broken after dying from a cliff fall.

Just these two incidents alone had already made Li Lianhua the one figure in the jianghu that people most wanted to acquaint themselves with, but there was also the matter of his strange house that he always brought along with him – this only made Li Lianhua more of a legend amongst legends.

The head convoy of Hexing Convoy Company led every last one of his men on swift horseback to Bingshan Town, and after three days of clean baths and devout incense, finally delivered on great tenterhooks a letter of greeting to that building carved of precious softwood: Cheng Yunhe of Hexing Convoy Company wishes to consult on an important matter.

Said letter was pushed in via a window gap.

All forty-odd men of the company waited alongside Cheng Yunhe, as if it was the King of Hell inside of that building, passing judgement––

Soon after, that building that had been so silent as to seem unoccupied let out the faintest of creaking sounds. All of Hexing Convoy held their breath, and even the rubbernecking passers-by caught theirs, too, widening their eyes to better await whatever creature could possibly emerge from this building.

The door swung swiftly open, and not in the slow swing of everyone’s imagination.

A large cloud of dust burst forth with a bang, blowing all over Cheng Yunhe, and the figure in the door made a sound of dismay, saying with great apology: “I was tidying up odds and ends, and didn’t even realise I had guests, my apologies, apologies indeed.”

All of Hexing Convoy, now covered in dust and sawdust, stared in astonishment at the one who’d opened the door with a broom in one hand; the very same broom where that bright red greeting letter was now stuck on. He looked very young, no older than twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and perhaps even a little younger than that if not for the much-mended grey robes he was wearing; his skin was fair and his looks refined, but neither was he so beautifully handsome as to be unforgettable from a glance. He held the broom in his right hand and a dustpan in his left, and looked out at the dozens-strong line outside his door with a face full of apology.

Cheng Yunhe gave a heavy cough, and saluted in greeting: “I, “Thousand-Mile Crane” Cheng Yunhe, humbly greet Li-xiansheng of the Lucky Parlour; may I perhaps request that you pass a message to him that there is a matter I wish to consult him on?”

“Ah,” said the grey-robed young man. “A message?”

Cheng Yunhe spoke gravely: “I fear we must meet with Li Lianhua, Li-xiansheng himself, for there is crucial business to discuss.”

The young man set down the broom. “I am indeed Li Lianhua.”

Cheng Yunhe’s eyes widened abruptly, mouth falling open, and in that moment every last bystander wanted nothing more than to toss three or five eggs into his mouth. Very swiftly he shut it again, and gave another heavy cough. “Your good reputation precedes you, Li-xiansheng…” 

And then he found himself at a loss on how to continue, for he had already detailed the ins and outs of the matter on the greeting letter, but that same letter was now stuck on Li Lianhua’s broom.

Li Lianhua said: “Apologies, apologies… my residence is covered in clutter at the moment…”

He raised a hand to invite Cheng Yunhe inside.

The Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour was indeed covered in assorted junk; from nails to hammer, saw to axe, dustcloths to broom, sawdust and dust everywhere, and a few boxes holding who-knew-what. The front room held only one table and chair each, both made of bamboo and not worth even twenty bronze coins. Cheng Yunhe felt heavy doubt in his heart, but what with the sheer reputation of the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, and this grey-robed man to be sitting in it, he dared not to suspect him to be a fake, either; and thus he was left with no choice but to sit respectfully across from Li Lianhua and recount every part of those fearsome events he’d encountered a half-month ago.

[––CASE EXPOSITION CUT FOR SANITY––]

Such was the tale of the “Green Window Ghost Murder” that had thrown the martial world into heated debate over the last half a month. Yu Mulan, heartbroken over the senseless death of his beloved daughter, flew into a rage and commanded the death of all the swordsmen who had been escorting Yu Qiushuang that night, alongside a kill order for the entirety of Hexing Convoy Company. Cheng Yunhe, pushed to his wits’ end, had been about to bring his family and disband the company for a scattered escape when he heard the news of the Lucky Parlour.

Li Lianhua could bring the dead back to life – and so Cheng Yunhe suddenly thought: if Li Lianhua could resurrect Yu Qiushuang, wouldn’t that resolve everything? Resurrection was not something he would have ever believed in, just a half-month ago, but with matters the way they were now he could only work with what he had, dead or otherwise, and since the heavens had seen fit to let him come across Li Lianhua, why not give it a try? After all… if the legends were true, all could not but be well.

But even until he’d finished recounting the “Green Window Ghost Murder” incident, he hadn’t heard any startling insights out of Li Lianhua, only an ah and a nod of his head.

After finishing his tea, Cheng Yunhe had no choice but to leave. He truly could not think of any good reason to remain any longer in that empty building of Li Lianhua’s, full of assorted junk and Li Lianhua’s expression full of gentle incomprehension. 

Cheng Yunhe departed.

From the second storey of the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, someone said, leisurely: “Even five years later, you’re still plenty famous, aren’t you…”

Li Lianhua sat on the chair, drinking tea. “Ah…”

Who even knew what he was ah-ing about.

“Actually I’ve never been able to figure it out.” That figure descended slowly from the second storey. He was thin and pale, all skin and bones, and perhaps if he gained twenty pounds he’d be a elegantly beautiful young man, but as it stood he mostly just resembled a victim of starvation. Yet this particular hungry corpse also happened to be wearing a set of rich white robes of particularly meticulous workmanship, with the tassel and jade ornaments favoured only by those fine young masters untouched by worldly troubles, and a long sword with an unusually elegant shape to its hilt. “How could anyone in this world possibly believe in something like resurrection? It’s been five whole years, and yet nobody has forgotten those two scandals of yours…”

“Because none of them are as smart as you.” Li Lianhua smiled faintly, stood up to stretch, then picked up his broom and resumed sweeping the floor.

“Can you not sweep the floor?” The hungry corpse from the upper storey suddenly glared. “How can you possibly keep sweeping when I, the great Fang-dagongzi, am here right in front of you? Do you realise that if Cheng Yunhe had known I was in here just now, he’d definitely kneel down and beg me too ask that old geezer Yu not to slaughter his entire family? You have a young master of my handsome looks and eminent status in front of you, and yet you’ve been doing nothing but sweep the floor?"

“I can’t.” Li Lianhua said: “I haven’t cleaned and repaired this building in too long. It’s very dirty, and leaks when it rains, too.”

The white-robed corpse kept up the wide-eyed glaring for many moments longer, before suddenly letting out a sigh. “Someone like you who can’t fight and can’t treat diseases, who doesn’t plant crops or commit theft either – how have you even managed to survive all these years in such fame? I really don’t get it.” 

This white-robed hungry corpse was “Melancholic Young Master” Fang Duobing, the eldest son of the of the Fang martial family. He’d known Li Lianhua for an entire six years, long enough that he even knew exactly how this same person had come to fame – Shi Wenjue had suffered major injuries in his duel and used the Turtle’s Breath method to close his qi and recover, the local villagers had taken him for dead and buried him, Li Lianhua had gone to dig him up, and thus Shi Wenjue had naturally come back to life; He Lantie, on the other hand, had staged an entire cliff jump after failing in his pursuit of a wife, played dead and buried himself in the ground, and Li Lianhua who’d just happened to be passing by dug him out yet again. The whole world was wondering how Li Lianhua had managed to bring the dead back to life, while all Fang Duobing wanted to know was how he knew where on earth (or under it) there’d be a live person to dig up.

“I did still have some silver coins, a while ago.” Li Lianhua carefully swept the front room, then put away the dustpan. “As long as you plan well, you can still make do.”

Fang Duobing rolled his eyes. “And how much silver do you have now?”

“Fifty taels.” Li Lianhua smiled faintly. “That’s enough to use for a lifetime, to me.”

Fang Duobing tsked. “To think that there’s losers like you in the martial world, who only plan to spend fifty taels in their whole life, it’s practically a shame upon the jianghu. Had Cheng Yunhe known what kind of person you are, I’d like to see whether he still would’ve come asking for help… heh, asking a ‘miracle doctor’ who doesn’t know a drop of medicine and has to go everywhere with his house on his back because he’s too stingy to stay in an inn, to go treat the dead, I can’t believe he thought of that.” Fang Duobing rolled his eyes again for good measure, and eyed Li Lianhua up and down. “Though I can’t actually tell whether you are going to help him go treat the dead or not.”

Li Lianhua sat on the chair, fingers still meticulously fiddling away with the interlocking joint on that squeaky bamboo table of his, and gave a small smile upon hearing this. “Why wouldn’t I go? After all, I don’t know how to plant crops, or sell vegetables, and I’m not in want of coin. Wouldn’t life be incredibly boring if I didn’t have something to do?”

“When that old geezer Yu finds out that you’re a fake miracle doctor and decides to kill your entire family, Fang-dagongzi is absolutely not going to save you,” Fang Duobing said, leisurely. “Go on then, don’t expect this young master here to see you off.”

And so it was that Li Lianhua spent a whole three days tidying up inside the Lucky Pattern Lotus Parlour, packing who-knows-what into that small parcel of his, and after meticulously writing a lengthy missive temporarily entrusting the parlour to the care of “Lifelong Learner” Shi Wenjue, he set off at last.

He was headed to Yu Fortress, to see the corpse of Yu Qiushuang.

[soleilenchaine]

You died.  

Your body melted from the intense heat of a reactor meltdown. Whatever was left of your body is now pinned into the cockpit seat thanks to a piece of serrated shrapnel from a rampaging Blackbeard, your finger mere centimetres away from the eject button.  

It happened so quickly.

One second you were dragging Sui away from danger, his mech squirming against your Ferrous Lash.  

Something’s not right. 

The next second you hear his bloodcurdling scream from the intercom.  

“SEKHMET, NO.”  

//////////// 

You feel yourself sink deeper and deeper into the warm waters of the river Styx.  

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.  

You sink into a pool of your liquified body; blood, flesh and liquid metal mixing together into some strange concoction. Your brain, in its final moments of consciousness, thinks this must be what humanity would look like as it slowly emerged from Cradle’s primordial womb. 

/// How agonising. /// 

You sink deeper.  Warm liquid fills your mouth.  You taste iron and melted plastic. 

/// How putrid. /// 

You sink deeper.  Warning messages, red and green, dance on your terminal.  Your neural connection severed; all you see are fluorescent halos. 

/// How pretty. /// 

You sink deeper.  And deeper.  You can almost hear the song of the Hyades. 

/// Nothing but silence. /// 

You sink deeper.  And deeper.  And deeper. 

You’re almost there. 

//////////// 

No.  Not yet. 

//////////// 

Deeper.  And deeper.  Whispers from the furthest edges of the universe.   They’re singing to you.  They want you to come home. 

//////////// 

Do not listen to them.  A siren’s call brings nothing but ruin. 

You will not go further. 

I won’t allow it. 

//////////// 

Deeper.  And deeper.  Drink deep, and descend. 

//////////// 

YOU WILL NEVER FEEL ETERNAL REST.  THAT WAS OUR DEAL. 

WAKE.  UP. 

//////////// 

“Jackdaw, do you copy? Jackdaw, can you hear me?!” 

“Hey, Conduit, you sure she’s still in there?” 

“Yeah, I hear something moving in the cockpit.” 

“The chassis is moving! You see that?! I swear I saw a limb move.” 

“It’s—” 

“—Horrifying. A reactor meltdown would turn any human into mush, yet I’m still getting signals from her life support system. Well, barely; it’s so weak Ozzy had trouble picking it up.” 

“Even if she didn’t turn into mush, the cockpit’s destroyed; that piece of shrapnel made a direct hit. Damnit, SEKHMET.” 

“...Hey, Polaris?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You might wanna open your comms terminal.” 

>//SIGNAL DETECTED  >//SOURCE: LICH [HORUS]; DESIGNATION “WILLOW”  >//PILOT: NADIRA STOTHARD; CALLSIGN "JACKDAW" >//STATUS: ONLINE [EMERGENCY LIFE SUPPORT ACTIVE]  >//SECONDARY SIGNAL DETECTED  >//SOURCE: NHP  >//CLASS: DIDYMOS  >//INCOMING COMMUNICATION FROM SECONDARY SIGNAL  >//RECEIVE_TRUE, OPENDOC:::Y   >//TRANSCRIBING....  ....  ....  ...  ..  Medbay.  Now. 

[misslisamiray]

Yay, finally, here's the next chapter of Down With the Rickness!

In this chapter, we're going to check in with Space Beth & SumSum, AND we get to hear Rick's thoughts on Jerry's plan. Took me long enough, but Chapter 9 is here and below the cut!

Also, I've decided to start posting screencaps with the new chapters on here & with the links on my other socials, and thought this would be a good one to start with, considering where the previous chapter left off. 😁

Meanwhile, Space Beth was saying to Gearhead, “500 flurbos for these? Please tell me that’s a joke and you don’t realize how much you suck at comedy.” She glared distastefully at the set of cybernetic screwdrivers on the counter in front of her.

“Mean! And 500 is more than a fair price for these, lady.” Gearhead argued. “Take it or leave it.”

“It would be a fair price for the newest model, sure. Not these. Granted, they’re a step up from what Dad has now, but this set is not worth 500 flurbos. Yes, he’s paying me back, and no, I don’t particularly care about you trying to rip him off. But I have zero patience for your sleazy sales tactics. So either bring out the better ones, or knock half the price off these.” SB said, picking up the index and middle finger screwdrivers to inspect them more closely. Unimpressed, she tossed them back on the counter.

“Got it. No sale. Try haggling somewhere else, and…” Gearhead said crossly, grabbing the screwdrivers and starting to put them away. Then, something occurred to him.

“Wait, did you say these are for your dad?” Space Beth nodded.

“But, I only have 3 clients who buy these things, and the only one with a kid is…”

“That’s right.”

“That means that you’re?...”

“Sure am.”

“And you’re not the you that mostly just stays on Earth, taking care of donkeys, are you?”

“Horses, actually. And no, I’m not.”

Gearhead gulped audibly, realizing he’d definitely picked the wrong customer to try and swindle. Space Beth’s grin was unsettling him more by the second. She pulled a large, futuristic looking gun from its holster and raised it slightly.

“H-hold on a second! Let’s talk this over! I didn’t do anything that bad! You’re not really gonna kill me just for trying to get a few extra flurbos from you, right?!” Gearhead stammered, shaking in his boots. Beth kept her gun aimed at him for a few more seconds, then placed it on the counter, laughing.

“Nah. Mostly because this thing could use a few replacement parts, too. And I understand you’re the best person for the job. So, let’s make a deal. For 500 flurbos, and me not reporting you to your planet’s Better Business Bureau equivalent, how about you give me the parts I need, plus the better screwdrivers for Dad?”

“Deal! I’ll even do the upgrade on your gun right now!” Gearhead agreed quickly, pulling out supplies for the repair job, as well as a better set of cybernetic screwdrivers.

“That’s what I thought.” With a smug smile, Space Beth handed over the money.

“Tell Rick I said hello. Haven’t heard from him in a while again. Not since that whole ‘intervention turned birthday party turned kidnapping’ thing with the weird little dude. And, ummm, you’re not going to mention that I tried to, uhhh…” Gearhead said nervously as he started to tinker with the weapon in front of him.

“Don’t care enough about either of you for that.”

“I see. Ya know, you say that, but you’re obviously here as a favor to Rick. And you wanted to make sure he got both his money’s worth, and the best parts in my shop.” Gearhead prodded. That hit a nerve, and Space Beth was clearly flustered.

“You do realize I have a fuckton of weapons besides the one you’re fixing, right? I won’t shoot you because I need you to do that, but I can and will make you work at gunpoint if you don’t back off. Understood?” she threatened, quickly hiding her reaction to Gearhead’s words.

“Okay, okay! Message received! I’ll be done fixing this in about 20 minutes.” Gearhead agreed.

“Good. And I guess when I bring these to Dad, it won’t hurt to tell him you said hello.” Space Beth conceded. Gearhead didn’t say anything else to her, and she chose to ignore that what she heard him mutter was almost certainly, “Like father, like daughter. But I think the daughter’s even worse!”

Summer was not faring as well at the Martian cell phone store.

“Look, even if I believed these charges were mistakes on our end and not the results of a drunk dialing spree, which I don’t, it’s been almost a year since Mr. Sanchez’s service plan with us was terminated. The dispute window is 90 days Martian time, or roughly 126 Earth days. No exceptions.” a very annoyed, bright pink alien said, staring distastefully at the old, tattered bill in his hand.

“But…”

“But nothing! ‘No exceptions’ means No. Exceptions.”

“Excuse me, but do you have any idea who my grandfather is?” Summer asked cockily, hands on hips. Instead of being impressed or frightened, the alien just looked more annoyed and bored, which hadn’t seemed possible a moment before.

Rolling all five of his eyes, he answered, “Unfortunately for me, yes. I just said his name, didn’t I? And unfortunately for you, this store is one of the few places in this galaxy where that name doesn’t carry any weight.”

“But what if?...”

“NO. Look, the only reason we’re not pursuing legal action against Rick, or even trying to collect what he owes, is that everyone here, myself included, just doesn’t want to deal with his shit anymore. It’s easier to cut our losses and be done with him. Do I make myself clear?” the annoyed creature stated.

“Okay, but… Ugh. Alright. Fair enough. Grandpa won’t like it, but y’know what? That’s his problem.” Summer reluctantly agreed. Considering she was every bit as annoyed with the situation as the alien man in front of her, she couldn’t really see arguing with him further.

Back on Earth, Morty was carrying a pile of blankets roughly half his height. Some pillows and two more boxes of tissues were perched on top. He was struggling to look at something on his phone and keep from dropping the pile, which he couldn’t see over.

“I’m back, Rick. I figured this was enough to start with, plus I didn’t trust you alone any longer. You are still here, right?” he said as he walked back into the living room.

“*Cough!* Yes, Morty. You won, remember? I’m not going to try any more experiments to get rid of this stupid cold – uh, I mean alien virus that I definitely caught far away from Earth.”

“Huh? Why are you back to your dumb lie about that?” Morty was understandably confused. After dropping the new supplies onto the couch, he was able to see again, and immediately noticed Jerry was there.

“Oh. Hi, Dad. Yeah, now that makes sense.” he said wearily. Jerry ignored him, staring intently at Rick.

“Well? I explained my entire plan to you, and you haven’t said a word. What do you think, Rick?”

“You explained your ‘brilliant’ idea to Rick? The one where you’re going to magically know how to cure his mysterious alien virus after you watch an episode of Sailor Moon a few times? Oh, this is gonna be good. Yeah, Rick. What do you think about that?” Morty said with a chuckle, fully expecting Rick to start mocking Jerry relentlessly. At first, all he got for an answer was Rick gesturing for him to give him more of the blankets.

As Morty wrapped two more around him, Rick cleared his throat and finally said, “There’s definitely some flaws in your logic, Jer. A few things I’d do differently. But overall, your plan’s solid. I *COUGH!* I get what you’re trying to do.”

“Go on.” Jerry said, while the only word completely dumbfounded Morty could manage was “WHAT?”

“There’s just one thing I can’t get past, Jerry. Sure, Sailor Venus tries her best to help the other girls, and she means well and crap, but isn’t the premise of the entire episode her being terrible at it? Correct me if I’m *Sniff!* wrong, since this is literally the one thing in the universe you might know more about than me. But it is, right? Doesn’t the 90’s dub call this episode “No Thanks, Nurse Venus!” specifically for that reason? Because the others don’t want her taking care of them because she sucks at it?” Rick continued, eagerly grabbing one of the tissue boxes.

“Well, yes, but…” Jerry said hesitantly. He had a feeling he knew where Rick was going with this and he didn’t like it.

“So, if you’re trying to learn how to deal with this sickness from watching her, won’t everything you’ll learn be well, wrong?” Rick pointed out.

“I, I hadn’t thought about that.” Jerry admitted, the realization slowly washing over him.

“That’s the biggest flaw you see in this plan, Rick?! Really? And Dad, you said yourself that she was bad at taking care of the other girls – why are you acting like this is news to you?!” Morty asked, disappointed by Rick’s reaction.

Rick sshshhed him, while Jerry said, “I did know that, but I guess I hadn’t really thought about how it would affect the outcome of my plan. Everyone does get better in the end, but that’s just because they defeat the monster, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, sounds like it. *Cough!* *Cough!* There’s also the fact that, while the illness was caused by some sort of magic spell, for most of the episode, don’t they all think they’re dealing with an ordinary flu? I mean, how’s that at all *ACHOO!* relevant to us?” Rick replied.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” exasperated Morty sighed. His father and grandfather both ignored him.

“I guess it’s not. Not even a little.” Jerry said sadly, looking more and more defeated. He held onto the tape tightly but let the rest of his supplies fall to the floor.

“Okay, Rick. I’m not going to be able to help you beat this weird sci-fi sickness you have, but I can still make your day a little better. Go ahead and make fun of me. Another stupid, useless idea from stupid, useless Jerry. Let me have it.” he sighed.

“I could, but you meant well, Jer. You’re way outta your league with this thing, but you tried to help me out anyway. Even if this was never going to work – and it wasn’t - , I *COUGH!* appreciate the effort. *COUGH!* *COUGH!* Ow.” Rick answered, his voice growing hoarser.

“That’s awfully nice of you. Too nice. Either you’re making fun of me in a much more subtle way than usual, or you must really feel terrible, Rick.” Jerry commented, watching his father-in-law closely. It was hard to be sure with all the blankets wrapped around him, but he seemed to still be shivering in spite of them. His nose was red and irritated, and he looked considerably more unwell than just a short time ago.

“Dad’s actually got a point. Are you getting worse?” Morty worried, feeling Rick’s forehead again. Still a little too warm, but not alarmingly so. And there was no noticeable change from earlier.

“Morty, stop that. If you insist on fussing over me, there’s better ways to do it. For starters, I’m still cold.” Rick complained, pulling away from Morty’s hand.

“Better?” Morty asked, wrapping another two blankets around him. Rick nodded.

Then, forcing a laugh, he said, “To answer your question, Jerry, eh, maybe a little of both. Mostly the second one, though. I’ll be okay, and let me repeat again, this thing isn’t dangerous. But I *SNIFF!* guess it’s pretty obvious I’m having a bad time right now, huh?”

“Well, yeah. If this is what it just mimicking an ordinary cold does to you, I’d hate to see what happens when it moves onto something worse. Does Mimicking Disease also act as a Magnifying Disease? Like, the version of whatever it’s copying is magnified to be x amount of times worse than the real thing?” Jerry replied. Rick glared at him, at first angry over the implication, then miserable over the fact he could easily see where Jerry got that idea from.

“No, it doesn’t. And I’m done talking about this now.” Rick groaned, flopping down on the couch in his blanket cocoon.

“Right. You should get some rest, Rick. Especially since I’m certainly not going to be curing your illness today.” Jerry sighed, getting up to leave. He gathered up the notebook and writing utensils he’d dropped.

“Dad, wait. Yes, you should let Rick sleep, but now that you’ve finally realized your dumb plan is dumb, I could still use your help with some stuff.” Morty said, following Jerry as he started to leave the room.“*SIGH!* Not now, Morty. I have a lot to go think about. How could I have been so sure about something, and been so wrong?” Jerry mumbled, heading back towards his man cave. Morty followed him a few more steps, then gave up and went back to Rick.

[tomatette]

Written for dailykyluxprompts over on bluesky. I figured, I just post it here too, because why not?

When Hux comes to, he's covered by a thin blanket of snow. It takes a moment for his brain to boot up again, but then he remembers. Engine failure. Smoke billowing, the stench of shuttle fuel, the rocky ground of this god-forsaken planet coming closer and closer and ... darkness.

Groaning he rolls over, so he lies on his back. Everything that isn’t numb from the cold, hurts. He can’t feel his toes and his fingers, which … probably a bad sign. He should pick himself up, seek shelter. He tries, but he collapses back into the snow when his arms give out under him.

“Hux!” It’s Ren. He doesn’t sound to be all too far away, but Hux is physically incapable for answering him. He tries, but all he can manage is a pitiable croak. “Hux?!”

Well, seems like he’s lucky for once in this whole shitshow of a situation, because suddenly Ren is there. He’s kneeling in the icy sludge, uncaring of the fact that his pants are soaking through, scanning Hux for obvious injuries with his eyes.

He looks a little worse for wear. His face is ashen and streaked with dirt, the scar a bright red slash on his greyish skin. The robe is ripped apart at the right shoulder, baring a pale strip of flesh, and he’s only wearing one glove. Idly, Hux wonders what might have happened to the other one, but that might be the hypothermia messing with his mind.

“Hux.” He gathers him from the ground, pulls him closer, and Hux would be appalled at being manhandled like a ragdoll if it wasn’t for the blissful heat, Ren’s body is emanating. It’s only now that his teeth start to chatter so violently, it makes him fear he might sustain a concussion from the way it rattles his brain.

“Y-you … are stup-pi-pidly hot, R-Ren,” he grinds out. It doesn’t sound like the insult he intended it to be.

Ren arranges Hux’s body so he is straddling him, before pulling his cape so they are both covered by it, which gives them at least a flimsy protection from the snow.

When he looks down at Hux, he grins. “Why, General, I’m flattered. I had no idea you found me that attractive.”

“You’re a p-p-piece of ban-bantha shit, Ren.”

Ren just laughs at that and Hux is, surprisingly – irritatingly – alright with that.

At least for now.

[emyn-arnens]

west, west away

written for the Three Sentence Ficathon on Dreamwidth, also crossposted to AO3

prompt: Tolkien, any, it is strange, living, to journey west

Sam stood on the deck of the Elven ship, feeling small and out of place in the presence of so many great Elves; greatest of all was the Elvenking of Bilbo’s tales, who stood several feet away, gazing at the disappearing haven and the hills encircling it with a strange, sorrowful expression upon his face, as if he felt the same uncomfortable tug of uprooting that Sam did, feeling as if he had been removed from his familiar soil and planted somewhere he didn’t belong—though he wanted with all his heart to sail West and to see Frodo again.

It was strange to think that a king of the Elves might feel as displaced as Sam did, but Sam felt in that moment that he understood the Elvenking, high and lordly though he was: Legolas had spoken at times, in the early days of the quest, of his people’s history and how they had never known any home other than Middle-earth; they did not know the country that lay over the sea that beckoned to the likes of Lady Galadriel, and the longing for it was slow to waken in their hearts.

And Sam guessed that it was for Legolas, too, that sorrow cloaked the Elvenking’s face; his son did not stand at his side on the ship, but dwelt still in Ithilien; with a pang, Sam thought again of his children, who had been the hardest part of leaving the Shire, and with a sudden flush of bravery, he moved to stand at the Elvenking’s side, and looking up into the Elf’s fair, mournful face, he said, “Begging your pardon, sir, but you look a bit down in the mouth, as we say in the Shire, and I thought I might come and share a few words with you, being out of place myself here among all your fine folk”—a blush crept over his face as he realized he was rambling, and he crumpled the band of his hat in his hands as the Elvenking watched him with curiosity—“and what I mean to say is, I understand this sailing West not being what you expect and leaving behind everything you love for something you’ve never clapped eyes on, sir,” he finished, crushing his hat harder between his hands, and a trace of a smile curved the corners of the Elvenking’s mouth.

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

"I didn't know you were there," says Lucy, hesitant but curious. Quill stops what he's doing, sets down a box. He frowns, moves to check an item off of Holly's neatly written list.

"I've been here all morning," he replies bemusedly. "Would have thought you'd notice, with how the lot of you tend to gripe about my very breathing."  He says it complainingly, but with the slightest air of a smile.

Lucy shakes her head and quirks her lips, as if thinking. "That's not what I mean. Lockwood said something the other day, that you were here the night... when Jessica died." She looks away, hiding her questioning gaze. Even now, Lockwood can be cagey about his past, and she tries not to press him too much.

Kipps makes a noncommittal sound and shrugs stiffly. "I wasn't here when it happened," he says slowly. "I was... too late."

In the golden early-afternoon sunshine of the hall, his face almost looks soft, wistful. Lucy moves closer, sensing a shift in the mood. She knows vaguely that he'd known Jessica before her death, but she's not sure how well.

"I could tell you about it, if you wanted," he continues softly. "It's... there are many things I wish I could change."

"Mmhmm," Lucy hums reassuringly. She leans over to check Holly's list herself, picks up a box of her own. "Would you maybe write it down for me?" She asks, then grimaces at her own insensitivity. "For the casebooks, I mean, the history."

Quill gives her a look. "Me?" He asks, brow furrowed.

Lucy nods. "Everyone's written something," she says, "Even Hol. But even Lockwood hasn't written much about Jessica. If you wanted, that could be your entry."

He stares at her, unsure, for a long moment. Before he can say anything, George comes stomping through with a heavy-laden garbage bag, grumbling all the way and followed by a particularly chipper Holly, who asks how the tidying is going on her way past. In between the movement and bustle, Kipps catches Lucy's eye past Holly's neatly braided hair.

He nods just once, but with certainty. Lucy nods back and smiles a hesitantly sad smile.

~~~~~

In a world where the dead can walk and must be staved off by children with swords, timing is everything. Back then, I didn't know that the way I do now. Timing was for prompt attacks on a Spectre, planning an evening to catch a Phantom by surprise. Nor did I even truly know that I was a child, and only now do i truly feel such. Funny, how as a child I felt like a grown-up, but as a man I feel like a child.

My name, for this record, is Quill Kipps. I've been asked to write this down as it may matter later on as a historical record, though why this tale is of import I don't know. Perhaps it's a cautionary tale. Much of my later exploits have already been taken down by my colleague, Lucy Carlyle of the now-esteemed Lockwood and Co. psychic agency. However, difficult as it is, Ms. Carlyle has requested that I tell my own perspective of the events preceding my days as a supervisor of the Fittes agency and later in solving the most pivotal case of most people's lives alongside Lockwood & Co. It is the story of how I, a child at the time, learned something of timing.

I was seven minutes too late. That was all it took for my life — and, I'm sorry, that sounds selfish now I've written it down, but this is in ink, so shall we say — how two lives, one of which was mine, were irrevocably changed. Back then, both of us would have said they were ruined. But we both survived, as most people do, and I think have both finally come to be glad of that fact.

Only agents walk freely after dark. Curfews take affect, and fear even before that, meaning most adults take to their homes, iron-fortified and scented of lavender, at the first sign of sunset. Most of them likely haven't even seen a sunset in years. That's particularly sad, I think. There's so much beauty after light, and so few can ever see it.

Adults, who cannot detect Visitors, live in more fear even than those who can see, or in some cases, such as that of the esteemed Ms. Carlyle, hear them. Funny how the lack of knowing makes things so much more terrifying. After dark the only living human forms to be seen are those who a century ago would have been considered small and vulnerable, but who now protect their elders from horrors they're blind to. I know what it's like to be blind. I have walked both sides. But that isn't what this is about.

I didn't have a case that night. My team had the night off after a serious domestic case the previous evening, one including a feral Poltergeist with a penchant for throwing kitchen knives willy-nilly. Our Listener had taken a deep cut in the process of sealing the Source, and as such our team had been told to take a respite for a weekend, rest and recover with extra time that we often didn't have as part of the largest psychic agency in London. And, amidst the desperate rush of the previous night's haunting, I had realized precisely what I wished to do with that time.

It's difficult for a child, even a teenager as I was, to conceptualize the passage of time. When you're fourteen, you can't think of what your life will be like in a decade. When you are a fourteen year old psychic agent, you can't think of it due to doubts that you will even reach that age. It's a job with a high mortality rate. Any benefits or honor you may receive don't change the fact that you can die, possibly quite alone, at any time in the line of work. This particular night, I wasn't thinking about that, however. I was thinking of a future, vague and hypothetical, clearly far too hopeful, in which I married the girl of my dreams.

Jessica Lockwood was lithe, dark-haired, and had the sweetest smile that I have ever seen to this day — and for the record and for irony's sake, it has indeed been nearly a decade since then. She and her brother, Anthony, who has since made quite the name for himself, were the inheritors of their late parents' house at 35 Portland Row. The late Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood had been researchers and collectors of rare and potentially psychic items from around the globe. Their research had led to an untimely death and orphaning of their children, but it had also led to a connection with the Fittes agency and thus my meeting Jessica, back in those days when I could See Visitors unaided and she was alive.

She was so, so alive. I don't quite know how to describe it. There was a determination about her that gave her a kind of almost glow, a vibrancy that surrounded her and lit up even the most depressing of rooms, even the DEPRAC waiting room I had met her in shortly after her parents lost their lives. Anthony, Tony as Jessica called him, was only nine years old and well on his way to becoming a fully-fledged agent with Sight better than most, possibly even my adolescent self. Jessica, if she had been gifted in Talent, had never made mention of it and thus had not taken up a rapier in the fight against the Problem. Her efforts were focused on her family's home, and the one other person remaining in it.

She was tidying up, as she called it, making a project of her parent's research and the items collected throughout it. I had peeked in on this organization a few times over the past few months that Jessica and I had been seeing each other, but none of the items held any significance to my eyes. A few carried a slight psychic residue, but Tony could have told her that much, and likely did. He never hesitated to speak his mind, albeit often in a roundabout way even then. He certainly spoke his mind about me.

It was understood that Tony and I did not particularly get along. He was somewhat possessive of his sister, which was understandable, and I found him to be pretentious and annoying. Still do, for that matter. However back then we mutually endeavored to keep the peace, for Jessica's sake if nothing else. I would have been honored to be allowed into the family eventually. I think in that moment I was so assured in my love for Jessica that I would have readily given up my work as an agent if she'd asked it, and a part of me knew she would. I would have given up the world for her.

I whistled quietly to myself as I walked down the streets that night. I'd taken a Night Cab to a corner nearby and was just rounding the corner, where a small shop sat for as long as most could remember, to continue down the Row when a wailing came speeding up behind me, preceded and followed by blindingly bright lights. An iron-lined ambulance and two DEPRAC cruisers tore down the road I was headed down, and before the realization had even sunk in I was jogging to catch up out of sheer curiosity. It didn't occur to me until I had already watched them pull to a stop that they could even potentially be going to number 35.

But they did, and even with my own cocksure refusal to understand mortality on a personal level, a chill sank through me even harsher than a ghost-chill or miasma. It made my hands numb; even though I had my rapier, I couldn't have handled it in that moment if I had had to. I sprinted through the gate, past the already rushing medics preparing borderline-overdoses of adrenaline, and when the DEPRAC officers called out ordering me to stop, asking me what I was doing here, I growled that I was a Fittes operative, let me through, I had to get to the scene.

Because I knew even then that there was a scene in the Lockwood house. Adrenaline is the only treatment for ghost-touch and either way this night could go, it was not going to go well. I had been coming to tell the girl of my dreams that I loved her, and now, the realization was hitting me smack in the face that I might instead be either comforting her at her precious little brother's bedside, or telling her goodbye instead.

I was the first to her room, then, closely followed by the DEPRAC people who were then followed by the medics. And all of us were too late. Something, I'm not quite sure what, was cracked on the floor, a dark tear in solid silver that told me a Seal had been broken, and the small dark-haired form of Tony was standing stock-still holding a rapier, but this isn't what any of us was focusing on.

Jessica Lockwood, or by this time, the body of Jessica Lockwood, lay silently on her own bed. There was no blood, no signs of physical struggle, but there never was in cases like this. She should never have been a case, not like this. If it weren't for the fear and pain on her face, a twisting that my heart easily matched upon seeing it, she could have been safely asleep. The ghost-touch must have been acute, a wrap of faintly glowing arms, and Jessica's death near immediate, because the telltale bloating and bruising of her flesh had only barely begun. They should have brought a hearse truck, not an ambulance.

And the death-glow hovering over her, suffusing the dim room with light to those of us who could see it, was brighter than any I had or to this day have ever seen. It was like a small bit of sunshine, or a star itself, lit up Jessica's bloating body from the inside out, and not simply because I was in love with her, which was true. The light was overwhelming.

Tony was staring at it as well, as the medics began to take protective measures for handling the body. There were ectoplasm stains on the floor near the bed, and near where the boy stood. A thin film coated the edge of his rapier. He was in jeans and a white shirt, half-tucked in but slightly dirty as if he'd been playing outside in the back garden. I forced myself to close my gaping mouth, took a step towards him and forced my heart to untwist.

"Tony," I said, reminding myself how to speak and in particular how to speak to someone in a volatile state, and put a hand on his shoulder.

Tony jerked back away from me. "Don't touch me!" He cried out, and I backed off with my hands in the air. His rapier had swung wildly about when I touched him, coming to rest tremulously near my ribcage.

"Tony, you have to come with me," I said, nervousness and slowly settling grief making it sound far more bossy than I think I really intended. I wanted to get him out of there, away from the body of his sister which was becoming more and more grotesque by the minute, and away from the site where her spirit might return if given a moment's chance. "It's me, Quill."

"I'm not going anywhere with you," he hissed. His eyes were fixed mostly on Jessica's bed, mouth twitching as if he wanted to shout at the medics and officers working to take care of her body, but he glanced at me with such vitriol that it took me aback. "You were too late," he spat, and I flinched at the truthfulness of it.

I cleared my throat, which had suddenly started to close. "I wasn't with them," I told him. "I was coming here to-" and there i stopped, because what use was it telling Tony now? I had missed my chance, and it didn't matter if I had loved her, or how much her little brother had, because those things did not change that she was dead now.

"To what?" The question was asked in such a low tone that it would have frightened me to hear it come from someone so young, if I hadn't been in some kind of shock and struggling just to make it through this conversation and get the boy away from the scene.

I stared at him. In that moment I had never felt more defeated or useless. "I was coming to tell her I loved her," I admitted, helplessly.

"Lot of good that did her," Tony hissed at me after only a second's hesitation, then with one last, lingering look at his sister's death-glow, ran out of the room. I later found out that he ran all the way out of the house, and had to be restrained by a DEPRAC agent in order to be taken to Scotland Yard to give a statement.

I was taken in as well, as I had been on the scene so immediately, and as the long night passed in a sort of numb turmoil, the next I saw of Tony was in a waiting room just like the one where I'd first met Jessica. It was dull and gray and certainly didn't help with the sudden numbness that had come after the shock. I approached the boy slowly, hoping he could see me and wouldn't be startled. I was trying, very hard, to be friendly, but I've never been much good at that.

"I'm-"

"Sorry?" Anthony finished for me, more than a little bitterly. "I knew you'd say that, Quill." He glared at his hands resting on his knees, hands which a couple hours before had had a death grip on a rapier and now were painfully empty.

It struck me that this was a boy with nothing left to hold onto at all, no family left to speak of. He could have been a vengeful spirit himself, for as pale and hollow as he looked in that fluorescent-lit room deep inside Scotland Yard. It was evening now. They couldn't just send him away into the dark, rapier or no rapier. Not back to a house that could be haunted, even as we sat and stood in uncomfortable silence in an all-gray room, by the spirit of the girl we had both loved.

"She loved you too, you know," Tony said quietly, startling me from my numbish reverie. His tone was low and dangerous, something I was then unaccustomed to. Sarcasm, certainly, and taunts, but the delicate anger in his voice that night was something entirely new to me. I would come to know it much better over the years. When he turned to fix his gaze on me, locking me in place just as well as a Visitor's trance, there was a hollow look in his eyes that looked almost dead and nearly made me flinch.

"Why couldn't you have gotten there sooner?" He accused, standing from the cheaply built waiting room chair and coming toe to toe with me despite being then significantly shorter. "It was seven minutes, I counted! You were seven minutes late! Why weren't you there sooner?" The danger in his voice turned ragged toward the end, high-pitched and boyish. I didn't know what to do with that.

I had no reply. I'd had no case that night, no reason to dawdle. I hadn't thought I had dawdled, really, until it was too late. I couldn't let myself think that I had, refused to acknowledge the implication that Jessica's death could have been prevented if I had only picked up my pace by a bit. If I did, the regret, already threatening just beyond the numbness I was slowly emerging from, would overwhelm me. I was only a child, only fourteen. I was equipped to handle Visitors of all kinds, even the dangerous Poltergeist my team had faced earlier in the week, but I was not equipped to handle this any better than nine year old Anthony Lockwood.

I stood my ground against his dark, sad eyes and bitter trembling. This time there was no sword to stab into me if I took a step too close. We were caught, in a standoff, stock-still in that dingy, timeless waiting room with the ghost of Jessica hanging over us, if not literally then very present figuratively speaking. Both of us, I know now, were children. This shouldn't have been our lot; but it was, and despite the grief and the pain, we stood firm in it.

"I'm sorry, Tony," I said stiffly, though genuine. I couldn't force my mouth to form the words any more gently while shouting and fighting inside and knowing that he wouldn't accept it either way. I was always going to take his sister from him, one way or another. None of us ever thought it would be like this, though.

He glared harder, tipped up his chin at me. Even then a bit of hair flopped over his eyes. "Don't call me Tony," he snapped, then whirled away, arms crossed. "It's just Lockwood, now."

"Is it?" I sniped back, as if on autopilot. I nearly didn't realize the snide words had come out of my mouth until he replied.

"Only one of my name," he said. He only faltered a little, but the similarities to Jessica were enough that I could see it. I didn't acknowledge it, though. That would be something too close, too painful, and there was no safe way to let this scene turn into that from where we were just then. "I dealt with it, even DEPRAC agrees. The Visitor-" and here, his voice definitely shook. The Visitor that killed Jessica. "The Visitor is well gone. I could start my own agency, if I wanted." He tightened his arms around himself, another tell that I refused to see.

I was horribly selfish then, and for a long while afterwards. Sometimes I still am. Sometimes, I regret that. I have a lot of things I regret.

"Good luck," I told him, after a long, suddenly chilly silence. A DEPRAC inspector, Barnes, was coming down the hall. My self-imposed responsibility, to not let Tony be alone on this night, was ended. I would go home and curl onto my bed, fully clothed, and tremble until the dawn came. I would make tea and pretend that I could taste what kind it was. I would not concern myself with a boy who was not my responsibility, even if I'd come very close to having him for a brother once upon a time. Those hypotheticals were out of reach now, and the fact of that was all too quickly sinking in. I didn't want to be around people when the lingering shock fully faded.

I turned at the door, passing by Barnes as he entered the room and cleared his throat for Tony's attention. I looked over my shoulder and made a momentary eye contact with Jessica's little brother, the only connection to her still alive in this world. I thought of her just a few hours before, alive and well and glowing with life, now nothing but a death-glow in her own bedroom. I swallowed hard, gave Tony a firm nod. "I'm sorry," I said once more, and didn't stay long enough to hear any reply he may have made.

I cried it again, later, staring into the dark of the night unable to sleep. "I'm sorry," I whispered, as if Jessica could still hear me. Her room was being filled with lavender and reinforced with iron and silver at that very moment. There was no chance, or at least very little, that she would return. To this day I don't think I knew if I wished she would or wouldn't. For my sake and for Tony's, now I'm glad that she didn't. I'm not sure either of us would have survived that.

I'm not sure of the purpose of this record, except that I hope I can give a warning to those who may one day read it. Life does not last forever the way we think it does as kids. As an adult now, I feel both older and younger than I've ever been. I was seven minutes too late for the girl that I loved more than I believe I really knew how to love. It isn't all that much. Just seven minutes for a life to be lost and two more to nearly follow. Timing is everything, and I missed mine. I hope that others will not make the same mistake.

~~~~~

Lucy reads through the story slower than she usually would for anyone or anything else and only looks at Kipps again once she's gotten to the end. He won't look at her, staring staunchly at some teasing doodle on the Thinking Cloth. There's a heaviness in the air. Holly appears at the threshold of the kitchen for a moment, seems to take stock, and moves on without hardly a noise. If Lucy hadn't been facing her, she wouldn't have even known Holly had been there.

She holds the pages carefully in her hands for a moment longer before handing them back to Quill. "The last paragraph," she begins quietly.

It's fading afternoon again, golden hour a few days after she first brought up the question of Jessica to him. He'd knocked at the front door earlier in the day even though Lockwood had faux-reluctantly given an open invitation, and a spare key, over a snacking smorgasbord during the few days they'd spent organizing and painting Jessica's room and a few others. With Lockwood and George out, presumably to chat with Flo or scrape up some research, 35 Portland Row is quietly peaceful.

Lucy and Kipps both have cups of tea in front of them; Kipps has mostly drained his, possibly just for something to do, and Lucy's has started to go cold. She stares into the liquid, tapping the side of her cup with a quiet ringing tick noise. The silence, once awkward and anxious, sits with them and they let it. Eventually, Lucy looks at Kipps and he automatically looks back at her.

"The last paragraph," she repeats quietly. "Is that for him?" She means Lockwood, of course. Of course Quill would notice the closeness between the two of them, that Lockwood seems sure to continue as he is without addressing it.

Quill shrugs. "Maybe," he says. "I wrote it down because you asked," he tells her, with more earnestness than she had honestly expected. Kipps is a dear friend these days. He's also still often abrasive and detached by habit. "But maybe the whole thing is for him, really," he admits.

Lucy thinks of his own words: very close to a brother, once upon a time. She nods solemnly. "Thank you," she says softly. Quill nods back, and manages a hesitant, sad smile in return.

[bitegore]

surgeonnotmedic Follow Feb 10, 2023 - 12:55 PM • 2 days ago

Stop making me repair this loser's array. What the fuck. Who thought sticking a gun up there was a good idea?

One more day of this and I am going to quit my job. I swear to god.

W1LDR1D3R Follow Feb 12, 2023 - 1:17 PM • 3 hours ago

12353534362524325344 Follow Feb 12, 2023 - 1:22 PM • 3 hours ago

Isn't this post a HIPPO violation?

xXKingOfTheRoadXx Follow Feb 12, 2023 - 1:55 PM • 2 hours ago

I'M GOING TO FUCKING FLATTEN YOU HOOK

pitch-black-peace-remade Follow Feb 12, 2023 - 1:59 PM • 2 hours ago

@12353534362524325344 It's HIPAA. Legally it doesn't apply to us anyway.

@xXKingOfTheRoadXx what about Wildrider?

xXKingOfTheRoadXx Follow Feb 12, 2023 - 2:13 PM • 2 hours ago

His was funny. He gets a pass.

[harrowharkwife]

do you take this babe to be your babe?

buck/eddie | explicit | 15.8k words

"You like that?" Buck asks. "Like hearing about how gone I am for you, how hard it was keeping my dick in my pants on our goddamn wedding day, how you read me your vows and all I could think about, right there in front of everyone, was how much I love you and how many times I was gonna make you come for me tonight?"

It hits him like a fucking meteor. Eddie throws his head back, feels it collide with the glass of a framed painting, doesn't hear any glass break but even if he did, he couldn't give a shit if he tried. "What the fuck," he pants into the air, "why is that so hot."

A fucking- wedding kink, or whatever this is, was not anywhere on Eddie's bingo card for today, which in retrospect seems like a massive, massive oversight on his part. Buck could be reciting his times tables backwards from memory while wearing scuba flippers and cleaning a microwave, and Eddie's pretty sure he could still find some way to get at least a little horny over it. It's ridiculous. Buck makes him ridiculous. He loves it.

"Oh, this is gonna be fun," Buck says.

or: buck and eddie are getting hitched. what are they supposed to do, exactly, not make nasty, nasty, newlywed love to each other about it? yeah, alright- good luck with that.

read on ao3

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

if someone asked me at the end (I'll tell them put me back in it) (Merthur)

Title is from “Francesca” by Hozier. Canon-divergent Merthur where Merlin and Arthur were together pre-Camlann and then Merlin spends 1500 years building up his magic to rewind time and get Arthur back. Crossposted on ao3.

-

There is something about unwinding that nature hates. Spiralling, yes. Curving, yes.

But unwinding itself? Unmaking itself?

That is against nature's goals. Nature is about growth. It is about expansion. It is about continuation.

Nature cycles. It becomes new; it does not undo to old.

That is where magic comes in.

That is where Merlin comes in.

Arthur is dead. He is long gone. He has been submerged under the waters of Avalon for 1500 years. Empires have risen and fallen; kingdoms have crashed and burned and been remade. Magic has seeped out of the world, what few remnants remaining have retreated to their hideaways and corners.

It has taken Merlin this long to craft his cycle. To build his magic into every inch of the earth. To travel to every possible place on the planet, to weave his golden threads beneath the soil and into the bedrock and the water and the air.

But he has done it. He has woven himself into the world. He is not just using his own magic for this act; he is using the planet. He is using every creature, every stone, every drop of water, every breath of air.

Resurrection is not what Merlin is looking for. He does not want a zombie. He does not want a wight. He does not want an imperfect copy. He wants Arthur, in his glorious humanity, his soul intact, his humor twinkling in his eyes, his annoyed "Mer-lin!" echoing through the halls.

1500 years. Dozens of lifetimes. Millions of miles.

And at the end of it all, Merlin returns to the shores of Avalon. He sinks to his knees on the white-pebbled beach and places his handfasting bracelet- the only thing he has not once lost in fifteen centuries- on the white stones in front of him.

It does not take much to summon the tears asked of him. In fact, it takes nothing. No pain could compare to the weight he has carried in his heart for so long.

Merlin knew Arthur for twenty years before his death- he has lived that small window over seventy five times over since.

And yet the memories burn gold every time he closes his eyes. Every time he encounters a blacksmith at a Renaissance Faire and smells iron being forged, every time he summons a dragon of sparks to dance in his hand, every time he hears a child laugh, every time he feels mud on his skin, every time the sun rises, Arthur is there. He is everywhere. How could he not be?

The tear falls. Merlin takes a breath.

And the world stops. Freezes. Holds his breath along with him.

And then rewinds.

Canals fall to rock. Empires fall and rise. Dams crumble, allowing rivers to spring free from their graves. Atlantis sinks.

The very course of human history unmakes itself through a sheen of gold.

Nature screams at Merlin, tearing at his skin, dissolving him into nothingness. His flesh melts away. His organs unravel. His magical anchors tear, ripped from his soul.

Any other man would disappear under the onslaught. Any other Merlin would as well. How could anyone cling to the world in the face of a dozen nuclear bombs tearing apart one's very atoms, seeking to disperse them to their proper place?

But through all of this, Merlin's fingers remain on the handfasting bracelet. On the golden thread that holds him to the man who promised him the world and his heart, knowing Merlin valued the latter far more.

After an infinity, the roar finally ceases. The world settles. Merlin's flesh weaves itself back together.

The bracelet holds. The bracelet has always held.

Merlin opens his eyes to Arthur standing in front of him, blue eyes fond, smile cocky, hair burnished gold, his breath and his blood and his sweat and his soul easily felt by the magic binding their souls together.

And Merlin knows down to his bones, his veins, the very core of his being, that he is looking at Arthur three months before his death. Before he was cut down in Camlann by King Cenred and his forces.

And Merlin will be doing anything he can do prevent it from happening again. He has had a millennium to plan how to alter the course of destiny; he will not let the heavens nor the earth tear this asunder once again.

Arthur's immortality can be as guaranteed as Merlin's, as long as he does this correctly. And Merlin will not allow any mistakes. Not on this most precious thing.

"Welcome back, Mer-lin," Arthur says, voice heady, and later Merlin will ask how he knows. Did Kilgharrah tell Arthur what Merlin was capable of? Did some druid have an inkling of the impossibilities that Merlin was willing to accomplish, the laws of physics and biology he was willing to break, to have Arthur back?

Later, he will ask. Later, he will question and joke and puzzle and prank and plan.

But for now, Arthur pulls Merlin into his arms and kisses him like a man dying (and Merlin knows what Arthur kisses like when he's dying, and he's never letting him get to that point again, fuck anything that tries to get in his way), and Merlin sucks up every moment. He grips onto Arthur's arm and if he never lets go, well, he doesn't think a single soul could blame him. He breathes in Arthur's scent, bites his lips, clutches tight to the warmth of Arthur's arm through his sleeve, listens to his breathless laughter, devours everything he's craved for enough lifetimes to break any other man.

Merlin finally has his husband back, and he plans on keeping it that way as long as magic breathes in his body.

Forever and ever, amen.

[siderealscribblings]

OHOHOHOHO Furina going about her daily activities with her body full of hickeys under her clothes, please Neuvillette do it soon, what are you waiting for? 😼😼 Oh and when you update will you notify here? Ao3 sometimes doesnt warn me 😭

That's not the only thing she's going to have under her clothes 😏