#alongside home

[xx-sketchy-xx]

Poor poppy, a three tiered cake is simply not big enough!

[aroaceleovaldez]

my hot pjo take is that Jason isn't a second Percy, Jason is a second Annabeth. Jason is just if Annabeth was a guy and also a Big 3 kid.

[athina-blaine]

I'd like to take a moment to point out to detractors of ships involving Laios who feel that "Laios wouldn't take any interest in people!" that he'd hyperfixated on Shuro so badly it was ruining the man's life lmao

[ruporas]

i killed. i murdered. i'm nothing like these sleepy people here… nevertheless, you can actually be grateful? bastard… i’m saying… thank you. because you spilled blood, you saved all of these people’s lives. i couldn’t have done it without you. (ID in alt)

[operationjetset]

huge mass attack for a ton of phoenixes on art fight :) the fabricator’s office will never recover… nor will this operation, i fear

@stellar-collective , @solobodor , @ladydanger420 , @gr3yyyyy , @ghostplasmas , @lavalampstealer , @icecreampizzer , @robutler (IM SORRY I WAS IN A RUSH I FORGOT TO TAG YOUR PHOENIX ON ART FIGHT. PLEASE PRETEND I DID), @salezmanradioz , @/mctvrdik on af & @the-valiant-valkyrie !!!! all of your phoenixes are so cool and i am so in love with all of the unique designs…. every other phoenix on art fight is just as amazing and cool!!! i would have drawn everyone if i had the motivation too/believed fabricator’s office was big enough to fit Everyone KGSJDHF

[chez-cinnamon]

Ideas ideas ideas.................

After a while I've come to a realisation that I like poly Fionn and Cass......... so introducing a new OC for the Real World AU?? I will make a proper post for him but for now meet Hayden Palmer (or Mr. Palmer as he's most known) !!

He is a big bifailure !!!

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 116

Give Battinson robins but it’s DCxDP style with ghosts. 

His kids are… technically not from his world and technically not alive either, but that doesn’t stop him from adopting them. Even if he wasn’t aware of them being literal ghosts for the first few hours of encountering them. 

How did they get here? Well, you see, sometimes child ghosts will run into each other, and they’ll form their own little friend groups. Or family groups. Especially if they lack a guardian. Who would tell them not to mess with natural portals. 

Or to kidnap a phantom to play with them, but hey he’s enjoying himself too and has a puppy! The bestest boy!

Bruce was not prepared for some sort of energy-thing to open and spit out a good half a dozen children. Nor was he prepared for these children to all have powers, or for another child (thankfully a teen) to fall into the cave a few weeks later. 

[phoenixcatch7]

Reading loz/lu fics and it's just so interesting how wide the spectrum is of their personalities.

Sometimes it's got an in universe reason (different past (usually gender or species change), recent or ongoing traumatic events, a spectacularly bad first meeting), but sometimes (often) the characters are just... Weirdly angsty or peppy, there's no in between!

And I'm beginning to think less people have played more than one game than I thought XD.

Not that it's anyone's fault! One game is more than enough to be part of it all, and loz is exclusive to Nintendo consoles - and all the older stuff is frustratingly hard to get hold of. Heck, I'm still looking for wind waker, and that was really popular! And then you have to play it! They're not small games!!

But could people writing wild please ease off just a tiiiiiny bit so he can be a semi functional member of society pretty please XD? He's just as much a polite boy as any other member of the chain! He won't even run in shops! He can't attack npcs! He talks to every single person he's ever seen and remembers every single name. Yes, he's three quarters woodland creature with a hefty amount of trauma but he's also a fashionista who managed to avoid accidentally taking sides in a mayoral election and that's not easy!

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (24/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~4k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11-20 | ch. 21 - i wouldn't marry me either | ch. 22 - burn all the files, desert all your past lives | ch. 23 - i've still got love for you | ch. 24 - and the girl in your bed has a fine pedigree

It's quite brief and not the focus of this chapter, but just a note that there's some brief discussion of disordered eating/skipped meals.

Read on AO3 or you can find the twenty-fourth chapter below the readmore.

Cassian found me while I was on another one of my aimless walks through Velaris. Though honestly, they weren't completely aimless anymore—the city was full of public art, and I'd taken to walking by as much of it as I could.

Statues were easier to face than paintings. The largest concert hall had several on its roof—lullabies given physical form in the stone, marble creatures from fae bedtime stories, and lithe bodies of hewn dancers. Several streets over, water sprayed from sculpted copper river nymphs at the center of a fountain where children swam during the summer. And in a quieter square, a black granite memorial honored the warriors Amarantha had killed in an attempt to break a then-captive Rhys during the War.

Murals covered so many buildings, even outside the Rainbow. The soaring, multi-story portraits were far beyond the scope of anything I ever imagined painting myself; they didn't remind me of the thorny emotions surrounding my own art. I could let myself just appreciate the colors and shapes.

The mountains and pine forests of the Night Court were all brutal, untamed beauty. But Velaris had been made beautiful by the artists who'd called it home for thousands of years. It was a waste not to appreciate it, even if I could only manage to paint half-hidden decorations in the townhouse myself.

I'd been crossing one of the footbridges that spanned the Sidra when the shadow of a massive wingspan fell over me. Stopping to lean against the railing, I watched as Cassian dropped smoothly into place at my side.

There was a slight gust of wind as he pulled his wings in tight. "Rhys said you have orders for me."

I stilled. There was a deferential note in Cassian's voice that I'd only ever heard when he was speaking with Rhys—not as brothers, but as High Lord and his general.

I was aware, of course, that courts had a hierarchy and that I existed somewhere in it. Amren ranked above Mor who ranked above Cassian and Azriel—that much had been explained to me early on. I'd never thought much about it beyond that.

But if Cassian was taking orders from me, then Rhys was making it clear that he would not interfere in matters involving my father and sisters. My choice—it was always my choice with him.

"He told you about Nesta?" I said.

An expression I couldn't read flashed across Cassian's face. His wings twitched. "Is that her name?"

"Cauldron, what the hell did he say about her?" Whatever had passed between Rhys and Nesta clearly hadn't been friendly, but…I hadn't thought it was bad enough that Cassian would look so stricken at the mere mention of my sister.

"Nothing, other than that he'd met her. It's your business to handle."

"Nesta can see through glamours."

Realization dawned on his face. "Ah, fuck."

I laughed, partly just because it was a relief to hear Cassian stop speaking to me like I was someone with authority. Being his brother's mate—and his friend—was much more comfortable, familiar territory.

"Would you be able to talk to her about the sentries and ease her mind? She knows they answer to you."

"Of course."

For someone known as the Lord of Bloodshed, Cassian was remarkably reassuring to be around. I'd experienced that firsthand when I'd found him perched on the roof of the townhouse on my first day in Velaris. And there was nothing I could imagine intimidating him.

Well, almost nothing.

"Thank you. Nesta is…." I stopped short as I tried to find the words, eventually settling on, "She's her own creature."

Cassian knocked a wing against my shoulder. "I'm sure. There's no way anyone could have grown up with you and not come out of it unscathed."

I scowled. He barked a laugh, then added, "You're headed to the House of Wind soon, right?"

"Yes."

The world turned on its head as Cassian hoisted me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. There was no chance to wiggle out of his arms before we shot into the sky. I went limp, afraid I'd end up plummeting to the ground if I moved the wrong way.

"What the hell was that for?" I grumbled, resigned to my fate for the next few minutes.

"React faster next time if you want me to hold you more comfortably."

Bastard. But he was right—I still had quite a lot of training to do before being grabbed and winnowed unexpectedly wasn't such a concern when I stepped outside Velaris's wards. The practice was good for me, even if he was being an ass about it.

"Fine. Don't drop me on my head when we get to the House of Wind, then."

"Tuck your chin and roll. If you crack your skull open on the floor, we'll do remedial drills once it heals."

Learning to fall safely had been one of the first things he taught me, so I contented myself with a glare at the back of Cassian's head. "You're worse than Az."

His long hair whipped in the wind, smacking my face as he tipped his head back and barked a laugh that echoed against the townhouses below. I gritted my teeth and wished he'd fly faster.

But before long, we did make it up there, and my training was good enough that I earned a pat on my thankfully uninjured head. Cassian left for some sort of business with a promise that he'd be in the mortal lands as soon as Nesta gave me a date and time.

Brushing my bangs back into place, I retrieved a book from where I'd left it in Mor's office the other day. Now that I could read, she'd given me an open invitation to see any diplomatic correspondence that mentioned me and give input on her responses. I'd forgotten to bring my book back home when we'd finished working through the latest round of letters.

There had been more talk of me than I would have thought. Helion himself—not an underling—had asked about what would be required to ensure a human was comfortable during our eventual visit. There had been blandly polite inquiries about my health from the Autumn Court, though according to Mor, those were Beron's or Eris's attempts at fishing for information about me because I'd been the one to whip Lucien Under the Mountain. Even amid a discussion about fish imports, Cresseida, a Summer Court princess, had written that she was relieved to hear Rhysand was treating me well, though she'd left it unclear whether she meant as an emissary or as a…lover.

"They don't know that I'm immortal, so I don't see why any of them care," I'd told Mor, speaking freely behind the privacy wards that she'd casted to protect her workspace. "As far as they're concerned, I'll be dead in the blink of an eye."

"Why wouldn't they care about the fate of Feyre Cursebreaker, Savior of Prythian, a true living legend?" she'd said, brown eyes twinkling.

I knew Mor didn't mean it like that, but I still squirmed in my seat. It sounded too much like the faeries who occasionally stopped me when I was out in the city and thanked me for going Under the Mountain. They spoke about me as if I'd been a selfless hero, but in truth, I'd only been thinking of Rhys. Everyone else just…happened to also benefit.

"Because I'm not that interesting." And because I mostly just wanted to be left alone.

Mor shrugged. "Immortality gets dull after a century or two."

I wondered if I'd ever be able to speak about being alive for so long with the same nonchalance. It was easy to forget just how old my new family was. They were all ancient, even if none of them looked a day over thirty.

"It must if I'm what passes for interesting around here."

Rolling her eyes, Mor swept her golden hair off her shoulders, twisted it deftly around a finger, then secured it to the back of her head with a spare pen. "It won't kill you to be a little less modest. You're allowed to be proud of yourself."

I wasn't sure exactly when I'd forgotten that, but I had. And I was grateful for the reminder.

Today, however, Mor's office was empty. She was back at the Court of Nightmares, but I wanted company, so once I'd grabbed the book off of her rosewood desk, I made my way to the library downstairs.

Several heads whipped in my direction when I entered, gems on their foreheads glittering. I froze. Evelyn, the priestess who'd taught me to read, waved me over to the table where she was sitting with several others.

I'd studied with them before. Roslin, who sat next to her, was a historian, and she'd been kind enough to make me a list of books about Night Court history that were appropriate for someone who knew nothing about the subject. Many of them were children's books. But still, Roslin, Evelyn, and the others didn't mind answering my occasional questions about what I read, and ever since I'd helped with the aftermath of the attack on Cesere, I'd always been welcomed to work alongside them.

No one had ever been crass enough to voice the silent, shared understanding aloud—that I might not have sworn an oath to the Mother and donned a hood, but I was still like them. Another female who'd been through an ordeal and found solace afterward in quiet study here.

But today…when I didn't move, Evelyn merely waved her webbed hand more frantically. Confused, I slid into the seat between her and Roslin.

"We have news for you," Roslin said. Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial.

"You do?" I said.

"Ianthe returned to the Spring Court."

I blinked. "Who is that?"

"The worst," another priestess at the table, Deirdre, said without looking up from the yellowed pages of the hefty tome she was reading. Roslin brought a hand to her mouth to hide a giggle.

Evelyn rolled her coal-black eyes. "The youngest High Priestess in three centuries. Her father sent her family to Vallahan—that's on the Continent—when Amarantha took over. Apparently, now she's back."

I was only vaguely aware of what the High Priestesses did. There were twelve of them, apparently, and Rhys had conferred with some of them regarding temple security after the attacks. They were as powerful and well-connected as nobility, but I didn't understand the intricacies of it.

Maybe I should have asked Mor for more detail when she'd explained all this to me a while back. "Is that a bad thing?" I said.

The look Roslin gave me was….sympathetic. "Clotho mentioned the news came in a letter with other updates this morning. We thought you should hear it first, considering your history with Spring."

It seemed as if she'd done me the courtesy of making sure I wasn't blindsided by something important and possibly upsetting. I just wasn't sure what. But still, I appreciated the gesture, even if I didn't quite understand.

"Thank you," I said, though the words came out as a question.

Deirdre flipped to the next page of her book. "Ianthe is unofficially banned from the Night Court because she tried baby-trapping the High Lord."

My immediate, instinctual rage was so strong that my vision went white for a moment. If anyone said something, I didn't hear it over the roaring in my head. My breathing nearly went ragged.

If any other female even considered bearing my mate's offspring, I'd feed her her own intestines.

A gentle hand on my arm snapped me out of it. I took a breath, hoping my reaction wasn't too insane. And before Rhys could hear anything, I clamped down harder on my mental shields. We'd never discussed the possibility of children, but this certainly wasn't how I wanted to broach the subject.

But perhaps I didn't have as much self-control as I would have liked, because the words that slipped out of my mouth were, "She can live if it means she's making Tamlin miserable."

Roslin laughed. "No wonder Rhysand loves you so much."

The tight feeling in my chest loosened. She'd said the only thing that could have made me feel better when the feral instincts of the mating bond were riding me hard—a casual observation that Rhys loved me. Not that he cared about me as merely as an interesting human playing or a useful emissary doing his bidding.

Knowing that an outsider had noticed was…comforting.

But still, I was curious. The Spring Court had been quiet since our return—no signs of interest in either a misguided attempt at saving me from the wicked Night Court or killing me in revenge for a perceived betrayal. Azriel's spies had reported that Tamlin still kept the boarders with Summer and Autumn sealed shut. We knew very little.

"Do you think Ianthe wants to be Lady of Spring?" I asked.

Deirdre's face darkened, and the scars criss-crossing her cheeks, a reminder of whatever she'd survived before coming to the library, seemed to deepen. "Despite our vows to serve the Mother, some of the sisters are more interested in serving their own ends."

Rhys had said I was the only one he'd ever sent after the ring tucked under my tunic, but there must have been plenty of others who'd wanted it, as dangerous as being Lady of Night could be. It worried me that one of them had now set her sights on my kidnapper.

Maybe it was for the best that Night had no diplomatic relations with Spring—I wouldn't have face Ianthe at some dull courtly function.

And perhaps it was all the talk of sisters, but I couldn't help but think that Nesta would know precisely how to politely eviscerate her if that ever changed.

I'd gone quiet, and the conversation had petered out. We returned to our books, and I flipped to the page I'd marked because there had been a word I didn't recognize and needed to ask about.

"By the way," I said, "What does def— defenes—"

Unable to pronounce it, I gave up and pointed to the word as Evelyn peered over my shoulder. "Defenestrate. It means to throw someone out a window," she said.

"Does that really happen enough that there's a word for it?"

"It was a favored method of execution in the Court of Nightmares a few millennia ago," Roslin said. Her smile turned into something a bit ghoulish as she rested her chin on a fist. "Isn't history just fascinating?"

I laughed, not sure I agreed, but enjoying myself all the same. This was certainly better than Tamlin's war-camp limericks fashioned out of the list of words I didn't know.

It was a good way to pass an afternoon. And it hadn't been a waste, exactly, but by the time when priestesses left for their evening prayers and Rhys had slipped into my mind to let me know he might be late for dinner, I had to admit to myself that I was procrastinating. I still needed to send that letter to Nesta.

It wasn't the wording that I hesitated on. Nesta would feel more comfortable if she knew what Cassian looked like ahead of time—to be sure that the meeting wasn't more faerie trickery. So I intended to enclose a sketch.

I'd set myself up on the roof of the townhouse, paper and pencil in hand, and wrote the letter. That much had been easy enough. But when it came time to draw…I froze.

After the painting I'd done all over the townhouse, I'd thought I could manage it. But this was different. Those designs had been impersonal—flowers, birds, flames, that sort of thing. A portrait, however, was a statement by the artist about the subject.

I couldn't hide. But I also needed to get this done, and all I could do was sit and stare at the empty paper. I'd faced actual danger much more fearlessly, but somehow….a blank page left me paralyzed.

That was how Rhys found me when he landed some time later. Before he could say hello or ask how my day had been, I said, "Could you help me with something?"

He went preternaturally still. Better than anyone, Rhys knew how difficult I found it to ask for things, especially help. I might as well have just declared a crisis.

"Whatever you need," he said, violet eyes roving over me as if he were looking for injuries.

"I'm sending a sketch of Cassian to Nesta so she knows who to look for when he meets with her. Since you're a daemati, could you help me…er…hold a picture of him in my mind while I draw? It'll be more accurate that way."

I actually didn't need that—I knew perfectly well what Cassian looked like. But I couldn't do this alone, and it felt a little pathetic to admit that I wanted the comfort of Rhys's mind curling around mine.

He understood anyway. With a wave of his hand, the chair I was sitting in became a bench wide enough for us both. He sat, draping his wings over the back, and pulled me against his side.

He hadn't even touched my mind, but I'd already relaxed just from having him near. Getting closer to Rhys always felt like straightening out something that had just been askew.

Mate.

A talon rapped politely against my shields, and I let him in. The picture formed, sharper than I would have been able to manage with just my own mind's eye—Cassian, with his rough-hewn features, shoulder-length hair, and easy smile. Not so obtrusive that I couldn't concentrate on anything else, but clear and easily reachable. A perfect, helpful reference.

Rhys's mind encircled mine just as surely as his arms did. For anyone else, that might have been terrifying, but I was held—not fenced in. Cradled. Rhys was there with me, every step of the way. Even the darkness settled around my shoulders.

I managed it. The sketch was hardly my best work, but it didn't have to be. It was accurate enough, and I folded the paper and let it disappear before I had too much of a chance to nitpick my own creation. Rhys, who must have known I didn't want an audience, kept his face buried in my hair and scented me instead of peeking over my shoulder.

Once the letter was gone, I swung my legs to the side, crossing my thighs over his and letting my head fall against his chest as his hand rubbed soothing circles on my back. I could hear his heartbeat through the fine embroidered fabric of his jacket, slow and steady. We sat like that for a while, until the first few stars appeared in the sky.

"You haven't eaten anything, have you?" Rhys said eventually.

Right. Dinner. I'd told myself I'd eat once I'd sent the letter, then gotten so caught up in not being able to sketch that I'd forgotten about food entirely. But now that I thought about it…I was starving.

"No, but I need to," I said, standing up.

Rhys was looking at me curiously, with an expression I couldn't quite name. He'd once told me he could feel my hunger pangs through the bond, but I wasn't quite sure if that was what this was about.

"You could have told me sooner that this was a bad day," he said gently.

"It wasn't. Not until I tried to draw. And then…" It had felt like everything came crashing down.

"Come," he said, taking my hand. "Let's not let an empty stomach make it worse."

Cerridwen had long since left for the day, and the meal she'd left us had gone cold. Rhys set about heating it up again, shooing me away from the oven when I tried to help.

Instead, he reached into a pocket dimension and pulled out a wine bottle. "You can open this and pour if you really feel the need to make yourself useful."

"There's a cellar downstairs," I said, hopping down from my perch on the countertop to take the bottle.

There was wine down there, and whatever magic protected the townhouse had kept the bottles pristine—not a single speck of dust had touched them during his fifty years away. Because I'd refused to snoop, I hadn't known they were even there until Mor had insisted on opening one that first dinner after we'd returned.

Rhys flashed me a wicked smile. "The good wine is downstairs, where Cassian can steal it and think he's put one over on me. But I don't tell him about the best bottles, and they stay where he can't get to them."

I couldn't help but feel a warm rush of affection. Even in something as small as this, Rhys couldn't help but be a sneaky, conniving bastard—who also trusted that I'd keep his secrets.

We sat down, and it was hardly the first time we'd eaten a meal together. I was still acutely aware this was the sort of evening I'd dreamed about Under the Mountain—idle chitchat about how our days had been, enough food, weather mild enough to leave the windows open and let the salt-tinged night breeze inside. Everything we'd fought for, really.

We'd just been finishing up when Nesta's response arrived, the note appearing out of thin air next to my plate. Rhys hovered in the doorway, far enough to make it obvious he wasn't trying to read it, but concern for me evident on his face.

Nesta had given me a date and time, then written, Send an accurate portrait, not cover art from a cheap romance novel. No one actually looks like that.

I hadn't embellished anything. The sketch might not have been my best work, but it was true to life. And if it had truly been bad, Nesta would have said something far more scathing.

With a small smile, I picked up the pen that had appeared and wrote, I haven't been able to read long enough to take inspiration from novels. You can trust it's a good likeness.

I thought that would be the end of it. But the dishes were in the sink, and I was halfway up the stairs and intent on drawing a bath when the paper appeared again.

Was Rhysand angry? An illiterate wife would have difficulties running his household.

I was tempted to scoff or roll my eyes, but those words had a certain weight to them when they came from the woman who'd nearly married Tomas Mandray. Instead, I considered what to say while I brought the note to my room.

There's not much of a household to run. The palace is for business only. Rhys and I are the only ones in the townhouse where we reside. He wasn't angry, though. Just concerned and horrified on my behalf.

Her last note of the evening arrived as I stepped into my bedroom. Your husband is quite strange, but send him my regards. Please ensure General Cassian arrives on time for our meeting. Goodnight.

No pen accompanied the note; Nesta clearly intended the conversation to end there. I tried to let it go, though I wished I'd asked about Elain and my father while I'd still had the chance. But still, it was one of the most civil conversations I'd had with Nesta in recent memory.

Perhaps it was easier to be kind when we weren't looking each other in the face.

Though we could now sometimes manage without it, out of an abundance of caution, Rhys and I took the sleeping draught that night. We'd taken to knocking it back together, then kissing goodnight.

We weren't quite fine yet, but we were getting closer.

[bunnieswithknives]

sorry if idk this but what do you think about Wordgirl now in 2024 do you still like it do you still want to make art or talk about it or are you just done with all of it forever and plus i seen that you haven't made art of it since 2022 so you just done with all of it oh yeah and what about The Magnus Archives + Wordgirl ao3 fic too like is that just going to be and i know that your working on 2 au's now just wanting to know that's all

My interests tend to come in intense bursts and then fade. Unless something like, big happens like it gets a reboot its unlikely I'll be coming back to it anytime soon. As for the fic I don't have any current plans to finish it unfortunately.

[jankwritten]

Jasico Bingo Challenge: sharing a bed

It took all of ten minutes for Jason to cave and climb into Nico’s too-big bed. His weight dips the mattress to one side, and as he slides under the blankets, Nico gets hit with his fan’s frigid breeze. 

“Told you,” he mutters, flipping over onto his left side. He sticks his hand under his pillow. 

Jason makes a face, wrinkling his nose and giving Nico a sort of side-glare, before he settles fully down, hugging Nico’s spare pillow. “I don’t like disobeying Miss Sally.” 

Two months ago, Nico would’ve been right there with him. He’s lived under her roof long enough to know which rules they can nudge, though. “Percy constantly lets Grover share his bed.” 

“Percy and Grover are different,” Jason says, his voice just a shade above a whisper. “You know it’s different.” 

Nico shrugs. “Sally doesn’t know that.” 

Jason looks far less amused than he should. “I’m serious,” he says. 

This is what Nico gets for dating a serial rule-follower, he supposes. Rules are rigid and unbending, in Jason’s mind, no matter how insignificant. He approaches “entrance” and “exit” signs like he’ll get arrested for mixing them up. 

It’s something they’re working on, together. It’s something Nico can help with. It’s always tricky, with Jason, working around the thorny patches of his logic, but Nico knows firsthand that once Jason can tame that anxiety, he’ll feel so much better. 

Nico is also aware it took him almost half a year to even start changing his own habits regarding rules, or moreso his perception of them, and that was only after a few years of built up trauma around it. Jason has his whole life to unwind. 

But, there is still progress, which Nico makes sure Jason knows he’s proud of. It’s easy to start with things Jason wants that he sees as outside the rule-boundary, things like sneaking dessert out of the pavilion at camp so they can eat it somewhere peaceful, or sharing Nico’s oversized princess bed so he doesn’t have to sleep on the floor.

Sometimes it feels a little bit like treat-training a dog. Nico did something similar with Mrs. O’Leary and Cerberus, after all. It’s a guilty thought to have. Jason isn’t a dog, and Nico isn’t his owner, isn’t trying to train him. He’s just…he wants Jason to feel free. He hates when Jason mentally butts up against one of the walls of his cage and physically recoils from something that would make him feel better. Make him feel good, and human, and normal. 

“I want you up here,” Nico says. He matches the gravity of Jason’s tone, watches Jason’s eyes dart around, lit by the dimmed string of star-shaped lights over the bed. Nico reaches out, slowly, and pokes Jason’s wrist. “I know I’ll sleep better if you’re here.” 

Jason swallows. He shifts his weight on the mattress, his foot kicking out just barely into Nico’s space. “What if Miss Sally comes to check on us, and she sees-? Will she get mad?” 

“Maybe.” He wants to temper Jason’s fears, not lie to them. He hasn’t seen Sally get mad at anything other than when the dogs chew on shoes, or when he and Percy fight too loud in the backyard. This, something easy enough to explain, he doesn’t think she’d mind. “But she would never punish me, or you, over it. Over anything. The worst she’d do is give us a stern talking to, and maybe make us sleep on the couch next time.” 

“The couch is an option?” 

Ugh, no, the couch is not an option. Nico taps his fingers against Jason’s wrist bone and wrinkles up his nose, tucking himself up more in his comfortable blankets and pillows. 

Jason, finally, breaks into a little smile. “You’re spoiled now.” 

“Hush. I’m allowed to like having a bed, and I’m allowed to want to share it with my b..with my boyfriend.” 

The room hushes over, the sound of the fan hiding how hard Nico’s heart thumps. 

It’s still new, that part of this. It’s still hard to say it out loud. Pushing out of his comfort zone is something Nico is working on himself, though. 

Jason beams. He’s probably blushing, though it’s too dark to see and Nico’s half buried his face in the pillow to hide his own face.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. 

Jason turns his hand around and laces their fingers together. He finally lets go of the tension in his arms, lets himself sink into the bed. Nico feels how the blanket moves with it. 

“You’ve convinced me,” Jason whispers. “But if we do get caught, you’re doing the talking.” 

“Deal,” Nico says, and squeezes Jason’s hand. He peeks, just to see another glimpse of that smile. He likes Jason’s smile. It doesn’t even ache to admit it anymore. “Go to sleep, now.” 

“Can do.” 

(Sally pokes her head in at eight AM, after Nico and Jason miss breakfast. She blinks, at first confused to see the empty pallet at Nico’s bedside, then understanding when she sees the bed itself. 

Jason is fast asleep at the edge of the bed, peaceful and relaxed, hugging a pillow to his chest, the blankets tangled around him. Just over the slope of his shoulder, she sees Nico’s curly head of hair nestled close. 

She’s careful not to let the door squeak as she leaves them in peace.) 

[astrolavas]

it's sound weird, but i have headcanon that Hunter didn't go hexside, because he too old to shool(according to my feelings, at the end of the he is 16-17 y.o (except for the post-credits scene), and at that age it is already too late to go to school):p

i mean, well- in my opinion he rather certainly did go to hexside, since one of the things he'd said during his TTT monologue was "i'd like to attend hexside like a normal student and play flyer derby with my friends" and all of his "wishes" were supposed to sort of foreshadow his goals and his future (carving palismen, studying wild magic, etc etc) so i feel like it's safe to say he succeeded in becoming a hexside student as well. we also know he attended grom with the rest of his friend group, and like- since he's 16 before the timeskip (no canon certainty whether he's recently turned 16 or is going on 17 already though, but like... around 16 canonically) that means he'd get at least 1 year of school, but most likely 2+.

my personal headcanon is that he went to hexside for around 2 years (full or not quite, depending on when the school year starts in the boiling isles and how long it lasts; possibly even 3), and during that time he picked up a mentorship/apprenticeship at del's palisman carving shop, and after he graduated from hexside he started carving palismen professionally with the clawthornes (i like to think that he also takes some courses at eda's wild magic university in his spare time, simply cuz . funny uni hexsquad shenanigans)

[radioroxx]

hmmmm mal du pays thoughts tonight

[comchan]

[anonymouscreampuff]

if you don't think they can still work, that honestly sounds like a you problem

[puhpandas]

You Stress Me Out

(4,135 words)

Gregory shows up at Evan's house during a storm with a wood carving knife stuck in his stomach. It may not be that bad of a wound, but that doesn't mean having a knife sticking out of you is any less scary. Or that Evan will freak out any less.

warnings: blood, mentions of a fistfight, an unsafe home environment, stitches, and of course, a blade being stuck inside flesh

Evans incredibly on edge right now. Which, nothing new here. But this time, it's less of his normal state and more of a genuine, rational kind of edge.

First off; a storm is on it's way. Not only does a storm mean that outside is a no-go, meaning that Evan is trapped inside his house with no way to leave, but hes absolutely terrified of thunder.

Which is why as soon as he'd heard about the bad weather, when his fathers back was turned and Michael had been focusing on something other than messing with him, he'd snuck to the kitchen, grabbed all the snacks and water he could need, and took them to his hidden stash in his bedroom.

This way, he didnt have to leave his room. And he could do his old trick of blocking the door leading from the shortest route to his room with his dresser, which could give him enough time to shut Michael out if he decides to persist on the other side.

Unlockable doors. The bane of Evan's existence.

The other reason hes on edge isnt because of himself, even though his body is locked up and sense, waiting for the thunder to start booming outside and send him flying off of his bed from how hard he flinches. Its because of Gregory.

Evan's brows furrow from his place on his bed, curtains drawn, but just open enough to see the rain start so he can brace himself. He takes one look at the gray clouds and white sky and frowns deeply.

Evan knows all about his friends... situation. Honestly, after being friends for almost a year, you'd think he would have known sooner, but nope. Evan had just been giving Gregory the benefit of the doubt too much. when Gregory'd refuse to let Evan go to his house, he'd assume he had parents like his, who he didnt want Gregory to have to see either, which was why he had been asking. When Gregory would have new bruises and cuts and rips in his clothing the next time Evan would see him, he would deliberately choose not to pry, or wonder, because he would think maybe it was worse than he thought.

But Evan had figured it out eventually, and he'd understood why Gregory kept it from him so long. Evan wouldnt want Gregory to see him differently for being a certain way.

But like Gregory, Evan had made it clear he didnt. He understands, really. Like he understands that with the knowledge comes the worry.

Evan knows Gregory doesnt always have stable shelter. The city and it's people arent so kind to homeless people like Gregory, even when hes outside and theres about to be a hurricane. Which is why Evan is hoping, wishing, praying that Gregory will come to Evan, this time.

It's why he's reading a book, sitting on his bed next to his window instead of on his phone like usual. Evan's on edge because he cant stop thinking about what would happen to Gregory if he didn't come, and if he does, will Evan hear him to let him in.

Evans room is on the ground floor, which makes it very easy for Gregory to come and go as he pleases (also for Evan to make an escape when he needs to. It's not rare for Evan to ditch his room to flee to the city with Cassidy, sometimes).

Evan's eyes trail over the words on the pages, but he isnt taking them in. He huffs, letting the book drop to his lap, and tries to ignore how cold-but-on-fire his stomach feels. He can't focus. Not when Gregory's supposed to trust Evan enough to come to him when he needs help and he hasnt yet.

Evan only waits a while longer, foot tapping on the side of his comforter and fingers drumming. When the first few thick drops of water land on his window, he goes for his phone.

Gregory said to never call him unless it's important. But right now, with how much Evan's stomach swims with nausea over uncertainty about Gregory's safety, Evan thinks this is important enough.

Evan only has enough time to enter his fifteen digit pin and tap the phone app before the sound hes been waiting for rings out by his window.

Evan can feel his shoulders drop when the familiar jingle of a Fazbear song is knocked on his window. He smiles, hurrying over to his window and almost ripping the curtains off the wall with how fast he opens them.

When Evan reaches to open the window, Gregory's there, if not a bit weary, if his half lidded eyes and the cut on his cheekbone are any indication, but Evan doesnt worry too much. Just unclicking the locks on his window and helping Gregory step inside when its apparent he needs help.

He has a hand clutching at his stomach, which is worrying, but Gregory looks like hes okay. Not about to die, which is what Evan's thoughts always end up going to, so he thinks that's a good thing.

Evan shuts the window and locks it just as the rain starts to drop harder, and he shuts the curtains, sending a glance at his door (the one not covered up with a dresser) out of paranoia. When his father doesnt burst in and send Gregory away like Evan's imagining, he turns his attention back to Gregory.

Hes huffing, like he cant catch his breath, which makes Evan furrow his brows. Gregory's bent over, like when you have a stomach cramp and try to curl in on yourself as much as possible. If Evan looks hard enough, he can see the inklings of bruises on Gregory's knuckles.

Evan frowns. Okay, probably a fight, but it wouldnt be the first time he would have to pull out the first aid kit.

"Gregory." Evan catches his attention. Gregory's eyes dart up to him, and he offers a shaky smile. "Hey. You had me worried sick."

"Me too." Gregory says, but it sounds strained. He still has that hand pressed firmly over a spot on his stomach, and when he looks pained, Evan guides him over to his bed, letting him sit down. "I know you don't like thunder and stuff. A-And you'd be stuck with Michael.

Evan crosses his arms, trying to look stern but coming off as incredibly worried instead. "Gregory. You're acting weird." He points out. "Listen, I know you're hurt. You know I've seen you get into fights before. Can you just tell me what's wrong?"

Gregory, suspiciously, looks away, focused on one of Evan's toys hes had since he was younger that he never bothered to put away. "Um. I-I dont think this is like those times, though."

Well. If Gregory can be this difficult, he cant be feeling too bad. Doesnt do anything for the anxiety digging a hole in Evan's stomach, though. "No matter what it is, you need help, okay? I wont judge. Just let me patch you up."

Gregory doesnt respond for a moment, then, "Promise not to freak out."

"What?"

"Promise not to wig out." Gregory meets his eyes, looking pained. "This is gonna make you freak. I know it. Just... try to stay calm. It's not that bad, I swear."

"Just show me already!" Evan presses, getting jittery from nerves. "You saying that is already making me freak out!"

"Okay! Jeez." Gregory huffs, and takes a deep breath. "Just dont look at it too hard."

"Gregory!" Evan yells.

"Okay, okay!" Gregory says placatingly. He doesnt say anything else, just takes his hand off of his stomach like ripping off a bandaid.

Evan's eyes blow wide, and his legs turn cold. "Oh my god."

"There it is." Gregory sighs.

"Gregory." Evan says, just above a whisper, because he cant manage anything louder at that moment. He stares at Gregory's stomach, feeling a pit in his own stomach when he cant tear his eyes away. "Gregory!"

"I told you you'd freak out." Gregory mutters, like he doesnt have a literal knife sticking out of his flesh.

"Why would I not freak out?!" Evan whisper yells, because wow he does not need his father or Michael to walk in right now. He gestures wildly, trying to put all of his emotions I into the single movement. "You have a knife in you!"

Despite what Gregory said not to do, Evan looks hard at it anyway. It isnt super deep; it's one of those really tiny pocket knives, like what you would use to carve wood with. He can still see some of the blade sticking out, which means the inch and a half long blade isnt plundged very deep.

"I know." Gregory says. "Can you help me get it out?"

Evan gapes. "Help you--" He giggles maniacally. "Gregory, if I pull it out, I'll have no clue how to make it so you wont bleed out."

"Well," Gregory glances away. "I cant really go to the hospital, and I cant just leave it in." He says. "You're my best bet. Besides, I promise it isnt that bad. It could have been way worse. I dont need a hospital."

Wow. No pressure, or anything. Evan implodes, shaking his hands out and doing laps around the room. "I'm gonna have to pull a knife out of you."

"Okay. Stay calm, remember?" Gregory repeats, and when Evan's facing Gregory's direction again after another lap, he can see him wincing. "Look, I know you're wigging out, but I really dont want this knife to me stuck inside me anymore."

"I would assume so!" Evan hisses, coming to a stop in the middle of his room and wringing his hands through his sweater sleeves. "Gregory--"

"Okay, listen." Gregory sounds strained, and Evan takes a moment to pause, worry taking ahold of his stomach like a giant hand and squeezing. "You have a phone, don't you? I need you to Google what to do, and pull this stupid knife out of my stomach."

Evan gets queasy just thinking about it. "Gregory."

"I know." He says. "But, look. I'm not gonna be awake much longer, since I pretty much ran from the city to here while I was bleeding, and the guy who attacked me had already beat me up a bit before stabbing me."

Evan's heart seizes at that. He returns to Gregory's side, sitting down with him. "But, isnt it not good if you're unconscious--"

"I dont know." He interrupts, eyes squeezed shut. "Look, I'm feeling kinda woozy, so I dont know how much longer I have left, but I'll try to stay awake."

Evan frowns. "You're acting like you're gonna die or something." He jokes, but his hand shake at the thought. "...Okay. Come here."

Gregory perks up, sitting up with great effort and putting an arm around Evan's neck when he gestures to. "We're doing this?"

"Yeah." Evan says shakily. He supports Gregory as he leads him lay down, pressed up against the wall, where if the door opened, hed be hidden behind it. Evan grabs a few of the towels he hides in his room to always have a clean one, -since he can never rely on laundry being done in his house-, and lays them under Gregory to soak up any blood. His father would kill Evan if he got the carpet stained with blood.

Evan grabs the first aid kit he always has hidden under his bed, and clicks it open, settling on his knees in front of Gregory's slack form on the floor with hovering hands as he glances at each of the kits contends uncertainly.

He grabs his phone, fingers trembling and pressing all the wrong buttons. Gregorys harsh breathing doesnt help.

"How did this even happen?" Evan asks as he desperately types in 'how to pull a wood carving knife out of your stomach at home' into the search bar. "Like-- I know you get into fights sometimes, but this?"

"Okay okay." Gregory coughs a bit. "Ill tell you. So, you know how it's about to storm?"

Evan glances at the crack through the curtains just enough to see the dark gray clouds swirling. "Yeah."

"So, I wasnt at my usual spot, but it was really close to starting to pour. And getting sick is like, the worst case scenario." Gregory says while Evan reads the random article he found at the speed of light. "So, I had to find some other place closer to where I was to wait out the storm, because I couldnt travel that far in the rain."

Evan pauses in reading, frowning and looking at Gregory's face. "You know you can always come here, right?"

Gregory frowns, looking away. "Yeah, but..." He trails off. "Its not fair to dump my problems on you like that."

Evan scoffs, breathing out a light chuckle. "Like you didnt dump your problems on me right now. And even then, I dont mind. I would much rather you come to me then be in pain somewhere else. Okay?"

Evan doesnt look at Gregory's face, too busy looking down at the article he has pulled up on his phone in his trembling hand, but he can tell hes smiling.

"Also, don't act like you don't make my problems your own, too. Im allowed to do the same as well, you know."

"Okay, okay." Gregory huffs. "I get it. I'll come to you right away next time. Happy?"

"Yes." Evan says, and he really is. Knowing that Gregory is sure to come to Evan when the weather gets bad, or something happens that makes the city unsafe, Evan will be able to sleep soundly knowing Gregory will either be safe with him, or he will be if need be. "You never finished telling me how you ended up with a pocket knife stuck in you, though."

"Right." Gregory chuckles. "So, I find this kind of hidden away spot, right? And I'm thinking I got really lucky, and set my stuff down. But then this other older kid shows up, and its obvious hes like me. But he gets really mad that I'm in his spot and starts yelling at me to get out."

"Jerk." Evan says, pulling the things he needs out of the first aid kit. "You should help eachother out, not fight. I'm sure he could have lended you some space."

"I'm sure you would have." Gregory chuckles. "But anyway, I'm packing up my stuff to leave, because this guy hurting me is a bigger concern than the weather at this point, and I dont want to mess with him."

Evan nods along, and goes to begin, but pauses when the first step is to take out the knife. Nausea curls in his gut, and he winces, glancing at Gregory.

"Hey." He cuts Gregory off in his story, and tries to look as apologetic as possible. "I, um. Have to take the knife out."

Gregory's eyes blow wide, and he frowns. "Oh."

Evan fidgets, having no idea how to make this better for Gregory. "Do you want me to count to three, or...?"

"Just do it." Gregory puts that steely exterior on. "I can handle it. Just do what you need to do."

Evan feels awful; this must suck for Gregory. Even if the knife is small and not very deep, having something sharp ripped out of your flesh cant be fun. "If you're sure."

He props himself on his knees, getting as close to Gregory as possible, and wraps a hand firmly around the small handle of the wood carving knife.

He can see it in Gregory's eyes. Neither of them want to do this.

"Keep telling your story." Evan says softly. Maybe itll distract Gregory from it, even a little bit. And Evan, as well. He can already feel bile working it's way up his throat at the thought.

Gregory nods minutely, jaw locked and tense. He breathes out a bit. "...Kay. So, I'm trying to tell him that I'll leave if he let's me get my stuff, but hes really impatient, and when I dont leave right away, he tries to scare me away faster by beating me."

Evan winces, pointedly twisting his neck away from the knife, as he tightens his grip, anticipation sending lightning through his veins. "That explains the bruises." He says shakily.

Gregory pauses, waiting for something that doesn't come. "...Yeah. He uh, he got me pretty good... but he didnt leave unscathed either. But, I think I got it worse."

"Definitely." Evan agrees ghastily, his stomach rolling when he feels the cold handle of the knife pressing idents in his skin. "Keep going."

Gregory gives him a look, but continues. "...So when I start fighting back, even though I'm smaller, he took that as a bad thing, apparently, and wanted me gone so he didnt get hurt. So what does he do?"

Evan doesn't respond, just squeezing his eyes shut, biting his tongue, and ripping off the bandaid.

Evan rips the knife out with a quick flick of his shoulder, and gags when it makes a fleeting metal-on-flesh sound as its removed. Gregory lurches lightly next to him, making a garbled, suprised sound, and when it's over, just lays flat on the floor.

"G-God." Gregory coughs, stuttering. "Okay, that wasnt that bad. I guess."

"I'm sorry." Evan frets, flinching and dropping the knife on the towel when some of Gregory's blood drips down his fingers. "I'm sorry, Gregory."

"You didnt do it." Gregory chuckles, his face white as a sheet. He brings up an arm to clutch at a spot just above the wound on his chest. "Jesus."

"I'll fix you up." Evan says softly, setting a hand on Gregory's own and taking it away just as quickly when he rushes to go wash his hands. "Okay? It might hurt, but you'll be okay. I'll make sure of it."

"...Kay." Is all Gregory says, and Evan rushes faster when he just let's his head fall against the floor.

When Evan comes back, he all but dives onto the floor, grabbing the things he layed out on the carpet and beginning. "Gregory, hey!"

"What?" Gregory asks, and Evan sinks in relief when hes still awake. He rolls up Gregory's shirt, inspecting the wound, and he finds it looks more like just a deep cut than anything. "I know you're trying to stay awake, but I'm probably gonna have to find a way to close this cut, so you might want to go ahead and go to sleep."

Gregory pales. "Like, stitches?"

"Probably." Evan shudders. A wave of sickness washes over his body when he realizes hes probably gonna have to find a needle and thread, and stitch Gregory's flesh closed, even if the cut is only an inch or so long. "Better safe than sorry. And I really dont think having a wood carving knife stabbed into you, even if it wasnt that deep, is okay to just put a bandaid over."

"...Alright." Gregory sighs, and his head rolls against the floor, his body relaxing. "I don't want to be awake for that."

"Me neither." Evan huffs, and Gregory breathes the air of a laugh through his nose. "But I think you'll be okay. Just sleep, and you'll be patched up when you wake up."

Gregory sighs a deep sigh, and Evan thinks it sounds like deep relief just settled. "Okay. Thank you, Evan."

"Of course." Evan replies, and when Gregory shuts his eyes and no doubt falls asleep pretty quick, Evan glances around his room, and realizes hes gonna have to go on a scavenger hunt for a needle and thread.

He sighs, hoping and wishing that he wont run into his father or Michael when he has to venture out of the safety of his room, but he relaxes at the moment, taking in a deep breath and reaching for some supplies.

First, he has to clean the wound.

🐻

When Gregory creaks his eyes open, it's not to Evan's carpeted floor like he had expected. Well, he is on the floor, he finds when he finally takes in his surroundings. But he isnt laying down completely. Some pillows and blankets have been posed and laid around him, like a nest, and Evan is sitting next to him in the middle, scrolling and watching something on his phone.

Gregory twists his neck and puts pressure in his arm, trying to prop himself up. He yawns, and Evan startles, taking out the crappy Walmart earbuds he'd bought. "Gregory!"

"Hi." Gregory groans, feeling the effects of his fistfight and intense sprint take hold, his body groaning and aching with soreness at his movement. He feels warm; which is something he wasnt expecting when he'd initially thought he'd spend the span of the storm outside in it. "Ugh."

Evan shuts his phone off lays it and his earbuds on the blanket, twisting his torso and shimmying in his spot laying against a pillow against the wall and legs covered with a throw blanket to face him. "You probably dont feel too good."

"Like crap." Gregory agrees. When he shifts again, back and head cushioned against two pillows without cases on them, he can feel the sore sort of throbbing pain of whatever stitches Evan had sewn in him. He wrinkles his nose at the thought, feeling guilty on Evan's behalf. "But... the stitches feel secure. I'm sorry you had to do that, it must have sucked really hard."

"It did." Evan shudders, but chuckles at the same time. "You know, I had to go in my Moms room to get the needle and thread and steal the pills from my Dad."

Gregory quirks a brow. "What pills?" He asks at the same time Evan hands him a small bottle of Advil. "Oh."

Evan hands him some snacks, too. A water bottle and some crackers. He smiles softly and takes them, taking two Advil with a swig of the water bottle. "You did all that for me?" Gregory asks, voice small. "...I know you hate your Dad, and your parents would get mad at you if they saw you snooping."

"I know." Evan says, fidgeting with one of the blankets and laying his head on the pillow propped against the wall. "But I wanted you to feel better more than I was scared of my parents."

Theres a short stretch of silence after that, only the harsh rain and wind against the house being heard. Gregory stays silent, turning over Evan's words in his head.

His eyes burn slightly, but he pushes it down with precise practice. "Thank you" Is all he can find in him to say. Theres too many feelings, too many emotions he has to put them into words.

But Evan knows him, and Gregory knows he understands when he nods, and smiles that small, kind smile that just screams 'and I'd do it again'. "Of course." Evan insists, and looks away for a moment. "I want you to trust me, okay? I want to show you that if you come to me because you need help, I'll be here, and I wont discount you, or-- or shrug you off."

Gregory doesn't smile, but he feels warmth spread through his chest at that. Gregory knows Evan, so he knows exactly why he would want Gregory to feel that way. He knows exactly why Evan holds himself to that, even though Gregorys confident a lot of it has to do with just the kindness in Evan's own heart.

"I-I know." Gregory whispers. "I came here because I do trust you. I came here because I know that."

It's really hard for Gregory to say that, and he knows Evan understands, because he doesnt comment, just nods, relief sagging his shoulders.

Theres a short burst of silence for a moment, the two of them just soaking up the atmosphere of being warm and comfortable, despite the circumstances.

"You're staying here, by the way." Evan's voice rips him out of his thoughts suddenly, and Gregory snaps to attention to see Evan looking at him sternly, but worriedly. "I know you're gonna try to say something stupid about how you're fine to go back into the rain. You arent going anywhere near the city, alright? I don't care if the storm lasts a week. I'll find a way to hide you so Michael or my father dont find you, okay?"

Gregory snorts at Evan's intense voice, but his heart bursts all the same. "Okay, Evan. I promise."

"Good." Evan sounds appeased. He twists his body, reaching for something, and grabs his phone, putting one earbud in and giving Gregory the other. He opens YouTube, handing the phone to Gregory. "You can pick. Honor of the patient."

Gregory grins, giggling. "Thanks, Doctor Evan."

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