#but just like the sky it's only a facsimile

[mothmouth]

Splatoon 3 hero mode spoilers past this point!

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

Am I the only one who feels really fucked up by like, log four's lore? It's really horrifying how it's described. Like, imagine being the scientists, so desperate to see the sky, that your ambitions end up snuffing out humanity for good. But that's not all! The log goes absolutely out of the way to let us know that anyone who survived the initial disaster died soon after.

Imagine being a child during all this. Perhaps your name is Rhea, and you don't exactly know what the sky is like, but you're excited for the big day of the rocket launch because your parents are. But then everything goes wrong. There's so much screaming and fear, then silence. You emerge from the rubble not knowing what happened or where your family is. And now you can't do anything but wander the ruins of humanity, scared, alone, and soon to be very hungry.

Or maybe you're Marcus - somehow, you got out unscathed say for some scratches when your apartment collapsed. But, you've got a problem; you're trapped. The walls caved in in such a way that you have plenty of air, but no hope of escape. You can only scream for help, struggle, pace and eventual lay down in what you realize is your tomb.

Hell, maybe you're even one of the luckier ones. You're Salem, and you don't really care that much about the launch. You were having a wonderful afternoon nap when you were awoken by a horrible noise - and following soon after it, a cacophony of screaming and crashing. You scramble to your window to be met with the sight of the sky falling in on itself into darkness. As your freeze response hits, you have just enough time to comprehend what's happening and despair over the loss of humanity before your house is hit and you die instantly.

There are theoretically infinite scenarios to describe the last humans of splatoon's earth and their experiences. Those pinned under rubble, realizing everyone they know is dead, or those injured horribly but still struggling to live. Something about the way that they specifically described the disaster really makes it real to me. It's upsetting in a very compelling way. Like - all that was left of humanity died! And given the time span of the event, there were almost certainly children and elders and others who were even more helpless than everyone else. That's fucked up.

[travelingtwentysomething]

Prompt: “Pick a god and pray” they said, and you did, praying to every god you knew. And as you did this a name popped into your mind, one you didn’t recognize, yet you prayed to them all the same. In response the air stood still, like even the world had forgotten their name.

Devotion Tastes So Sweet On Your Lips (AO3)

It was another one of those nights- Steve was running through the dark trees, waking nightmare chasing him down.

He prayed his footing stayed true. He prayed that his breaths didn't falter. He prayed that the hungry darkness falling fast in his shadow didn't catch him.

He prayed to all the gods. Every deity he had ever learned of, all the new gods, and the old. He prayed until the sweat burning his eyes blinded him and he felt a root leap up in front of his foot.

He stumbled but did not fall.

But the sound of a snapping maw was closing around the dust he kicked up.

Suddenly, in his desperation, a name floated from the depths of his erratic heart to the tip of his bitten tongue.

"Eddie the Banished, of the Fallen Forest— Please- Please," Steve huffed, a force behind the name punched through his diaphragm and left him no air to plead with.

No sooner had the name fallen from Steve's lips, than the ground fell away beneath him- an embankment, steep and unforgiving in its angle. He rolled past tree trunks, slid over rough roots, and scraped jagged rocks loose for gravity to bring along for the ride.

His body hit the bottom and bounced.

Steve was dazed, his ears felt muffled as if he had landed underwater. He sat up so fast his vision swam, leaving trails of light where the stars shone down on him under the glare of the full moon.

He tried to stand, but his stomach protested- knees, shaken and unsteady, refused to hold his weight. He fell, once again on his back, trying to catch his bearings.

When his head cleared enough that the moon ceased it's dance in the sky above him, Steve sat up slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. He strained his ears to hear the snap of twigs or the slide of rocks down the slope he had just ridden as his pursuer followed him into the gorge.

It was silent as a ghost.

Steve pressed his palms to his ears and felt no blood, squeezing to try and pressure shock them into working.

He listened again—

Not even a whisper of wind in the trees.

Steve picked up a twig from the soft bed of moss that had saved his limbs from the worst of the abrupt impact and snapped it between his fingers- the sound sharp enough to startle him.

His ears worked just fine, it seemed- it was the forest that was broken.

As Steve got one knee under him, prepared to make another attempt to stand- a shadow fell over him.

Steve kept his head lowered, subdued under the charge in the air- the unmistakable aura of predator.

He slowly raised his eyes, and only his eyes.

There, standing tall above him, was a Wild God.

"It has been... So long-" The voice was grinding stones carried on the wind, "I'd forgotten what it sounded like." The Wild God lowered his body into a facsimile of a bow. A hand that shadows cling to like smoke, finger tips black as the night and ephemeral, ghosted under his chin, raising Steve's eyes to meet the darkness shining in the Wild God's own. "My name on some desperate tongue."

Steve was struck with a lightning heat deep inside his belly that rose like a plume of ashes from the mouth of a volcano, his face burning under the gaze of the most beautiful and terrifying wonder he had ever witnessed.

"Say it again." The Wild God demanded, voice deep enough to shake the ground Steve knelt on.

"Eddie the Banished, of the Fallen Forest." Steve moaned, unabashed.

Eddie's eyes rolled and the whites flickered behind shivering lashes as he savored the taste of devotion.

[spinchip]

Home

“Hello there. You are alright,” A voice whispers, honey-thick and sweet, “Wake up, little one.”

Zane opens his eyes. That’s not quite right, because he doesn’t have eyes anymore. He doesn’t have a body, either. His physicality has been stripped from him here, in this endless space. He doesn’t open his eyes so much as he becomes aware, senses snapping into focus in the space where his spirit might sit.

In front of him is a pillar of light.

In a brilliant flash a woman is floating above him, laid on her side as if they were both swaying in a hammock. He can almost smell crisp, ocean air. She reaches out to cup his face, the action translating perfectly despite how he no longer has a face to be held.

“You’re not mine.” She chides gently, “Silly.”

“I don't understand.” He speaks without a mouth, no sound reverberating in this hollow space. His voice is crystal clear anyway.

“Did you have fun?” She asks in a warm hum, fingers ghosting over his loose edges to tuck his essence back into shape. Zane imagines this is what having a mother is like.

“Fun?” He echoes, confused.

She looks sad for a moment, but the bright golden light she’s made of doesn’t dim with her frown. It burns just as bright, “Your life was hard.” She murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead, “Lonely, right up to the end.”

“No-” He doesn’t shake his head or do anything other than speak. She seems to be the only one in this conversation who is allowed to have hands, “I had my father.” A soft white light pops up in the emptiness surrounding them, “I had my friends.” More lights flickering into existence.

She sweeps all the lights up into the palm of her hand. They’re dark spots against her brilliance, “And yet…” The lights begin to float from her fingertips, drifting slowly into the space above their heads until they’re pinpricks in this facsimile of the night sky, “...Unreachable.”

“I do not like this conversation.” He says. She looks at him like she can see right through him. She probably can.

“What would you like to talk about, little one?”

“Who are you?” He asks finally.

She smiles softly- everything about her is soft, down to the fuzzy edges of her being, “I am everything.”

He tries to process that.

“You don’t understand.” She moves like water as she envelopes him. She wraps her arms around him and draws him close to her heart, “I can show you.”

He can’t comprehend what he sees, what he experiences. It’s pure euphoria, joy, desolation, and hate. It’s war. It’s blood. It’s gingerbread cookies. Little golden threads of light interweave it all, too fine and delicate for the eyes to see. Everything is connected. A vast, endless stream of consciousness.

A thick, bright cord shows him Lloyd.

“Ah,” She murmurs, “He is mine.”

“Yours?”

“Like ice has laid claim to you.” there’s an affectionate warmth in her voice there, “I imagine my friend is not too happy with me.”

He stays quiet, experiencing the eternity that is woven in the golden thread.

“You are not supposed to be mine, Little one. My power was not yours to wield.” Despite her words, her tone remains light and airy.

“I am sorry.”

“No.” She holds him closer, “You’d do it again. For your friends.”

He wishes he could look away, “For my friends.”

“That-” She smiles at him again and he wishes she would always smile at him, “-Is why I allowed it.”

She pauses, thinks for a moment, “I suppose, then, that you are mine. I love you like you are, after all.”

“I love you too.” He’s surprised that he means it. There’s a deep connection between them, like her heart is bleeding into his- or maybe it’s his heart seeping into her. He finally understands, “I am dead.”

“Not quite.” She hugs him again, but doesn’t allow him to become lost in everything.

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” She draws back and taps her chin, thinking. She snaps her fingers like she’s come up with a brilliant plan, “that I am going to break the rules.”

If he had eyes, they’d go wide at that, “What rule?”

“What’s dead must stay that way.” She says lightly, “What’s gone is to stay gone- but don’t worry, little one. I made that rule- it’s okay if I break it a few times.”

“You are…”

“I am sending you back, Zane.”

“Why?” He tries to will himself to hug her back, and he’s not sure how successful he was.

She caresses his cheek, “I want you to have fun. You deserve it.”

“...Thank you.”

She smiles widely for a moment before it dims, “The worst moment of your life has yet to come,” It comes out of her like a condolence, “Do you still wish to return?”

A pit forms in his chest. Losing his father, Dying with the overlord, all alone- there would be something worse? Something worse than a violent, lonely death?

“And the best?”

It’s her turn to furrow her brow, confused. She tilts her head, “The best what?”

“The best moment of my life. Has it passed me by yet?”

She does that motion again with her hands, like she’s catching stray strands of his soul before they float away, “The future is what you make it.” She answers simply.

“The worst moment of my life is unavoidable, but the best is not?”

She looks at him with brilliant, bright eyes, “You would do it again.” She reminds him, “For your friends. In a heartbeat.”

He understands.

“Send me back.”

She kisses him on the forehead again, a deep warmth spreading over his soul, "You will never be alone again. I am with you now, Little one. I am yours just as much as you are mine."

He wakes up.

[sophiacloud28]

Hello! May I ask for #20 "You didn't listen" with Donnie, please!

Thank you!

💜💜💜🫶

-Looks at Bay!Donnie- -Hears rattling- -Checks on Rise!Donnie-

... Hooookay. Bay!Donnie for here and I'll save Rise!Donnie for later. Aged-up Turtles, obviously and this could be considered an addition to something else, although it can very well stand on its own. Mentions of Blurple, but Donnie is the only turtle present.

One-shot, argument, Bayverse Donatello

You have one hell of a nasty habit.

The fact that it's familiar makes it easier to deal with, he supposes as he streaks through the Manhattan sky, jumping from building to building. It definitely makes it simpler to know why he's here instead of his brother despite the latter's insistence on dealing with you. He can see the argument coming from a mile away and both, no, all four of them agree that whatever has sent you skittering back to your apartment isn't worth the blowout Leo might cause.

So that's why Donnie's here. That's why, despite everything screaming at him that he should knock instead of breaking and entering, he steps inside, takes a breath, and listens.

Your apartment is quiet. Only the sound of a ticking clock can be heard, surprisingly soothing even if a bit foreboding. Only after a few seconds does he catch a sigh and the sound of a turning page, a sure tell that he's not alone and of where you are.

Your bedroom. Now he needs to knock. The fact that all he hears is the paperback getting dropped to the ground and a chair scraping across the floor is telling.

He calls your name. Multiple times. He's not surprised at the lack of answer. You're doing the exact same thing his brother does, after all. The only difference is that he has stakes in it, this time. Something, someone he doesn't want to lose.

"Didn't we agree to keep it to messages during the week?"

"You haven't responded."

"Then take a hint, Donatello."

"Donnie. And I have. It's why I'm here."

And it's standing right in front of him, glaring at him before passing him for the kitchen.

Ever the gracious host. Even angry, you're still trying to accommodate him. You are wonderful, and you're failing to see it.

"I'm not having this argument with you, Donnie."

"Then let's make it a debate, then."

"Are you seriously discussing semantics, right now? This is not a philosophical issue!"

"It doesn't have to be one to reside there."

Hell, it's the only reason why he's not stopping you from banging the cupboard door closed as you collect some food for him.

"For — For fuck sake, Donnie! I heard you both just –!"

"You didn't listen."

And it's the only reason he knows his mumble will get you to turn around.

"... What?"

"You heard us, but you didn't listen."

Before silence blankets the apartment. Heavy, nasty, and uncomfortable.

He watches you shift. Quietly grab the carafe for the coffee to pour into a mug that you fix up before handing it to him. He doesn't sip at it, just lets it sit in his hands as you shuffle your way to your living room with cookies and an empty look.

"I'm not mad at you, you know."

"You should be."

"And as Leo will tell you, I barely take his orders on my best days."

But he joins you as you sit, your snort a facsimile of your usually joyful one.

"What do you want, Donnie?"

"My brothers would like you home. Leo wants a chance to explain himself. I would like the same."

"I can't stay between you both."

"According to who?"

"It's not fair to either of you."

"And it's not fair of us to impose a choice. Besides, a relationship might be a far-flung thing that we don't have to worry about right now."

And, as your smile returns, if a little strained, he hopes the effort he's about to put in is worth just as much as the exquisite coffee he finally takes a sip of.

taglist: @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos, @thelaundrybitch, @luckycharms1701, @silverwatergalaxy

[flowerflamestars]

Haunted holy and Divine snippet

Nesta woke like the survivor that she was. Utterly still, trying to identify the room before she gave herself away. Death undying, made so very afraid. He’d kill them all, just to see her smile again. First, first and now, he let the paper he was holding make noise, fluttering back into the teeming pile of reports. Didn’t look. Heard in every breath and every whisper, a roar settling in his heart that might have been pride, when Nesta rose up tall to fearlessly cross the room. Came right around the desk and got in his face, her hollowed grey eyes enormous as any sky. “Why,” Nesta hissed, angry only in sound, “Why the hell does it feel better?” Safe safe safe safe, sang the shadows to the thunder in his blood, a hundred too-loud dead voices chiming in with triumphal horror. Azriel looked at her. Bruises and boney wrists, her sharp face distorted by mistreatment, nearer to a facsimile of death for this woman who’d never walk into the grave. She had one hand pressed beneath her collar bone, fingers digging in. It wasn’t his business if she wanted to claw herself open, no matter how much he wished otherwise. “What hurts?” Her ribs and her head and the dry tears locked in her throat, he already knew. “I,” Nesta said, equal parts rage and wonder, face crumpling just to smooth again, “Feel better. Like I don’t- as though”- Like there’s nothing wrong with me, the shadows interpreted. Like I don’t hate this- Like I don’t hate- “Bonds break in death,” Azriel told her, quiet, swallowing hard against how that warring relief made him feel. “Whatever is there is you.”

[shaanks]

I wrote something. Lmfao. It was initially just meant to kind of expand on my text post from earlier, but it turned into a little ficlet so I figured I'd share it. Why not, right?

fem!oc x Eustass Kid. sfw, cw: memory loss, unreality. (everything will be tagged in the actual tags section for blacklisting purposes)

word count - 2392

genres: hurt/comfort, horror if you squint, fluff towards the end, modern AU for the aesthetic lmfao.

**

There was a sound like an explosion, the blare of a car horn wailing over screaming metal, the scent of rubber hot and acrid in the air. In the light of the vending machine, Av jumped, whirling around, air catching in her throat only to find—nothing.

The street behind her was empty, devoid of everything but the blinking yellow of a streetlight, and the gentle pattering of rain. The asphalt was pristine, the clean lines slick with rain shone gold in the intermittent light, the sidewalk empty of trash, of age, of anything that might suggest human interaction.

Av craned her neck, head half-turned away from the bright white glow of the machine, looking up at the apartments around her. Neat, identical rows, 10 across, 10 high. All of the windows were darkened, the curtains drawn; each balcony held one or two suggestions of an occupant—a hanging plant here, a chair there, the peek of a bike seat or a laundry line extended across the space, but it was impersonal. Nondescript. A facsimile of habitation, without any indication of personhood, of decision, of individuality.

She looked down, frowning at her shoes, the light of the vending machine ever-present in her periphery. Her sneakers, at least, looked old. Well-worn, if a little plain, the white soles marked with dirt and use. She could see that the shoelaces were wet from the rain, could feel the water soaking through the threadbare canvas, her fingertips grasping at her jacket sleeves in absent concern. That was real. She felt real. Beneath her the ground felt solid, her face felt cool and damp in the slight breeze.

But what had made that sound? Another glance behind her confirmed the space to be empty still, and she hadn’t heard anything else. No voices raised in alarm, no distant car alarms blared to life, jostled by the impact—or what she had assumed must have been one. The night seemed undisturbed, save for the pounding of her heartbeat, just a little too loud in her ears.

Worrying at her lip, she turned back towards the glass display case, eyes flickering along the rows of drinks for sale. Black coffee with sugar, black coffee with no sugar, coffee with cream, with sweet cream. Six different energy drinks, a glass bottle of 7-UP that looked like it was from 30 years ago, and a solitary bottle of unlabeled water.

Surely that sound had been important, hadn’t it? It had been real enough to make her ears ring, to spike adrenaline through her like a live-wire.

Black coffee with sugar, black coffee with no sugar, coffee with cream—

Av frowned deeper, digging around in her pocket for the soft pack of cigarettes and her lighter. She was forgetting something, she knew she was, something that fluttered infuriatingly around the edges of her mind like a disoriented moth. She slotted the cigarette between her lips, the paper filter sticking slightly from the damp, the flame of the lighter momentarily adding a heat and warmth to the night that felt almost alien.

Smoke filled her lungs, hot and acrid like burnt rubber.

Six different energy drinks, a glass bottle of 7-UP that looked like it was from 30 years ago—

Inhale, exhale, plumes of breath and smoke that rose from her lips towards the dreary, impenetrable darkness of the sky above her, towards clouds that roiled thick and heavy with rain and nothing else. Surely, she thought, nothing else, although part of her knew that even when she’d tilted her head up to examine the apartment building, she’d been careful not to look any higher.

The worn rubber of her sneakers tap tap tapped against the sidewalk, making small wet spattering sounds as the movement displaced a puddle, and still she stood, smoking, making no decisions.

‘I should be cold,’ she thought, exhaling again, flicking ashes onto the street in a move that felt almost spiteful against the unnatural perfection upon which she stood. ‘How long have I been out here? What time is it?’

Her body shook a little, though she felt no colder than she had moments ago. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, her voice stopped in her throat—by disuse, perhaps. Or by fear.

The sound of sizzling brought her attention momentarily to the present, as a fat droplet of water fell, extinguishing her cigarette halfway through. Av took it from between her lips and stared at it. It felt...cruel. Intentional, perhaps. Irrationally, she wondered whether the street itself hadn’t responded to the slight bit of ash by extinguishing its source. Something about that wording made her shiver again, and she glanced around for a trash can, somewhere appropriate to throw it away, but of course, the street was devoid of any such thing.

A desire welled up inside her to simply throw it on the ground, to grind the ash and paper and unused tobacco into the sidewalk just to see what would happen...but in the end she thought better of it, and tucked it into her pocket instead. Her clothes would probably stink, but that was okay, she could just hang them out to dry.

Hang them out to dry. Out to dry.

Black coffee with sugar, black coffee with no sugar—

Did she have a clothes line? A balcony? She couldn’t remember for some reason. Had she even locked the door on her way out?

Av glanced around, the bright blue-white of the vending machine blinding in her periphery. Did she live on this street? Had she walked far to get here?

Was one of these nondescript apartments hers?

—the blare of a car horn wailing over screaming metal, six different energy drinks, a glass bottle of 7-UP that looked like it was from 30 years ago—

The sound was deafening, the smell of coffee like cigarette smoke like burned rubber like asphalt like hot metal stinging her nose and she squeezed her eyes shut, tepid fingertips curling into fists over her ears, she wanted to scream, to run, but she couldn’t remember where she lived, where to go, the sky pressed down on the wet asphalt and the white-blue burned out the gold of the street light and the darkness was bright bright bright through her eyelids and—

“You okay?”

Av yelped, her voice tearing free of a throat that felt like musty old paper, as she whipped around towards the sound. The voice.

There was a man standing about ten feet away from her, the campus buildings behind him looking ghostly and pallid in the blue-white of the vending machine light. Av blinked, the ghosts of a car horn, of a flashing yellow light, of melted rubber and blank apartments and a roiling dark sky fading from her mind like a half-remembered dream.

They were at school, she thought, the words wafting over her mind like a cool breeze, like rain. School. University? He was an adult, at least, and she felt like she must be one.

The man had retreated several steps at her startled sound, and he raised his hands slightly in placation before tugging at the straps of his backpack, pulling them tight in a motion that seemed too absent to have been intentional. He was nervous?

‘Most people get nervous when strange women linger by vending machines and scream when you address them, I’d wager,’ she thought, sighing with something between exasperation and relief.

The sound was normal enough to lower the man’s hackles. He was awfully tall, and seemed aware of it, ducking his head slightly and squinting into the light of the vending machines to see her better. Golden-orange eyes flickered in the light like traffic lights, on and off, on and off as he took a tentative step towards her. Calculating, like he was trying to make himself seem less threatening, like he didn’t want to spook her further.

It had been too long since he’d spoken to her, too long that she’d just been staring at him with distant, distracted eyes, but the startled noise had done little to awaken her actual voice. It was an effort, like raising an anchor from the bottom of the sea, to answer him, the words sounding willowy and thin in her ears.

“Ah yeah—sorry. Long day,” Av rasped softly, gesturing around. The big guy grinned a little, droplets of water falling from thick, red hair, and she found herself frowning again.

“Figured,” He said, tilting his head slightly, watching her expression carefully before continuing, “stopped by chem to bring you lunch and they said you didn’t show. S’not like you,” He paused, tilting his head the other way, and she felt her heart begin to race.

She knew him. They had classes together, he was bringing her lunch. Friend? Brother? Boyfriend? She felt her cheeks heat up at that last, glancing over him, and decided perhaps that must be the case. He’d closed the distance at some point when she’d been digging through her memory for clues, and she almost jumped when he smudged a thumb over her cheek, running a raindrop across the blush. Would have jumped, in fact, if the motion hadn’t seemed so tender, so intimately familiar.

“I don’t remember why I’m out here, Kid,” his name fell from her lips without thinking, more muscle memory than conscious thought, that willowy quality of her voice accompanied by embarrassment, by a fear that made her feel small.

He didn’t answer her for a long moment, those strange golden-hued eyes flickering intently over her expression. If he felt anything beyond concern, he gave no indication of it, instead lifting his hand from her cheek to ruffle it through her hair. Eustass Kid was warm. She sighed into the contact. Maybe she had been cold before. Maybe there just hadn’t been enough contrast to notice.

Eustass Kid. Black coffee no sugar. Black coffee with sugar. Black coffee with c—

“Hey hey,” he finally said, pushing her hair back from her forehead, tipping her head up to look at him in the process. The sky behind him loomed, too dark, too thick with clouds, wrong in a way that she couldn’t settle upon.

They were at university. She was taking a chemistry class. This was her boyfriend.

Six different energy drinks, a 7-UP b—

Her eyes settled back on his, her hand moving to grasp at his shirt and she breathed. Breathed.

Kid seemed to mull over his words, rolling them around in his mouth as he tried to find the right order, the right tone. He opened his mouth, thought better of it, closed it again, and then sighed softly, running his thumb over her forehead now, in an arc up into her hair.

“Doc said this was gonna be a shitty day. This time of year’s probably gonna suck for a while.” His voice sounded rough too, she noted, his expression pinching into a grimace around the words he seemed reluctant to say.

A scar, still angry and red and new, dipped jagged over his eye, down onto his cheek, spilling like red paint into her vision. How had she not seen that before? Had it always been there? She raised her hand from his shirt, fingertips ghosting up towards his face. He made no move to stop her, just watched until her hand was close enough to lean into, his skin warm against her palm.

There was a sound like an explosion, the blare of a car horn wailing over screaming metal—

Av’s face crumpled as she stroked her thumb over the scar.

“Because of the accident.” she whispered, her voice soft and wet like pattering rain.

“Yeah,” he kissed her palm. She nodded.

She still couldn’t remember much about the street, about the car that had swerved into them, about the hours and days in the hospital. Just the sound of the car horn, the way the tires had screeched and bled acrid smoke into the night air, the way not one light had turned on in the balconies overhead.

The doctors had said that memory loss was common in cases like this, with head injuries, with sudden traumatic events. The symptoms would fade, she’d been assured. Routines would help. Familiar scenery. A return to normalcy. All these things would speed her recovery. And yet, as with everything else, she still couldn’t quite remember how long they said it would take.

Her therapist had suggested grounding exercises for when she got lost, or her mind began to race, but the only thing she seemed capable of remembering with any consistency was the stupid vending machine outside of the dorms.

Kid followed her gaze to the faded offerings behind the glass, expression twisting into something half amused as he knocked against it with his knuckle, releasing her head to do so.

“S’funny, you’d think they’d restock the fucking thing eventually,” he said, the gravel of his voice low, thoughtful. “Hasn’t had anything in it since we’ve been here except—”

“A solitary bottle of unlabeled water,” Av supplied, grimacing a little at how practiced and robotic it sounded, but Kid just laughed.

“Yeah, that. Couldn’t even spring for some fuckin Dasani,” he muttered, fumbling in his pocket for a second before retrieving his wallet. He fished out a crumpled dollar bill and fed it into the old machine, fighting with it for a moment before it finally accepted the offering. The sound it made when he hit the button was like grinding metal and she tensed at the sound; wordlessly, he pulled her against his large frame, and this time when she breathed there was no hint of burning rubber or wet asphalt. He plucked the water bottle from the basin when the thing finally decided to relinquish it, and pressed it into her hands with a flourish.

“Bone apple teeth,” Kid intoned, grinning as if to show off his, and it was so absurd in that moment that she laughed, breath pluming up towards the sky. His grinned widened, clearly pleased that the joke had landed—relieved to hear the warmth in that sound.

“C’mon,” he squeezed her, turning her away from the blue-white light of the vending machine, towards the comforting darkness of the night. “Let’s go, it’s fuckin freezing out.”

Av, fingers blissfully cool around the water bottle, smiled back. “Yeah.”

**

[littleplasticrat]

Fic: Rugan x Dammon x Tav

The Orchid and the Honeyeaters

Explicit: Rugan x Dammon x Tav

Following on from this chapter

Warning tags below the cut

Tags: fantasy roleplay, consensual non-consent, fucking on top of a corpse but actually it's just the old man and he won't stop giggling, witch-hunting

-

Considering how unlikely it was that the cage would be used again, Tav was impressed at the effort Dammon had put into its construction. The wheels rolled relatively smoothly and it hardly rattled as it went over the flagstones outside his forge. She’d been expecting to have her teeth juddered half out of her head as she was pushed around in it, but it was — not comfortable, because it was narrow enough that she had to remain with her legs folded beneath her, but not unpleasant. After Rugan had helped her climb in, her artfully ragged skirts getting caught on the latch, he’d wrapped a chain through the fastening so that she was trapped inside; his willing prisoner.

Twilight was falling across the city, and the lamplighters were going about their duties as people slowly returned home. Tav looked across the rooftops to where the colour was fading from the sky, then looked back at her lover.

“What name are you calling yourself?”

“Shepley.”

“And what are you calling me?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, giving her a hard look. Good, he was getting into character – but he was making a vital error. She opened her mouth to remind him but he had already pushed past the cage and shouldered the door of the workshop open. “Silence, witch,” he barked over his shoulder. “That’s enough trickery from you.”

Tav tried to suppress the warm feeling of familiarity upon being wheeled into Dammon’s room; the scent of his sweat mingled with freshly-worked leather and metal, the sight of his beloved tools and the sturdy old furniture (many items of which she had already been bent over since the tiefling had begun renting the space). Although her heart was thumping with happiness and excitement, she forced her eyes to dart around the room like a creature hunted, her hands curled around the bars. Dammon was standing at a bench with a hammer in his hand. When her eyes alit on him, he looked away quickly, grabbing a corner of his apron and almost wringing it in a facsimile of nervousness. He was good.

“Inkeep says I can keep her in here for the night. I’ll tuck the cage up somewhere out of your way,” said Rugan, his voice gruff.

“Wh– Who are you?” asked Dammon, taking a faltering step towards them. “And why have you got this woman in a cage?”

“I am Shepley the witchfinder, this fae witch was my quarry, and you’ll do well to stay away from her,” said Rugan.

Tav schooled her face to look as the woman in the illustration in this chapter of The Orchid and the Honeyeaters had looked; wild, sultry and yet somehow piteous. The dress she wore had a tight bodice in a thin fabric that showed off the shape of her torso; she pressed her breasts to the bars and gave a little sigh to attract Dammon’s attention over Rugan’s — no, Shepley’s — shoulder. Dammon’s blue gaze darted to her before Rugan stepped in the way, blocking his view.

“Fae whores like this one, you’ve got to be careful with them,” he said. “Don’t look her in t’eyes, or she’ll bewitch you. But I can see you’re curious, blacksmith. If it means you’ll leave her be once I’ve got the cover on her cage, I’ll show you something. Come ‘ere. Mind her gaze.”

Rugan beckoned. Dammon took one step forward, then another one, until he was almost beside them. His face seemed almost slack, his eyes glazed. The hammer was loose in one hand, and he still had his apron in the other. If Tav was any judge, he was as hard as a rock within his leathers. The thought made her wet - well, that and the anticipation of what was about to happen.

“Witches, see, they don’t only have one source of power, no. It’s not only the eyes,” said Rugan. “She could pop a lock of her hair in a barrel of water and turn it to wine. Not that humble men like us would be recommended to drink it. And –” At this, Rugan leaned forwards, his voice conspiratorial. Dammon leaned closer too, almost hypnotised by the witchfinder’s performance. “The juices of a wench like this can increase your strength and vigour a thousandfold.”

“What do you mean?” whispered Dammon, playing innocent. Tav steeled herself. But gods, she was wet.

“I’ll show ye, lad.”

Rugan’s big hands snapped forwards, faster than striking snakes, and through the bars of the cage. Tav was caught by the neck, with his thumb pressing lightly into her jugular. The other hand found its way quickly through her skirts and up to where she was already so hot for him. He cupped her there, finger brushing the delicate lips before sliding inside her, its passage smooth with her arousal. She felt a moan threaten to burst from her lips and was able to turn it into an angry keening noise that roughened when he slipped a second finger in without resistance. Her eyes fluttered shut, and the fingers withdrew.

There was a soft gasp from Dammon and she knew that Rugan had licked the sharp honey from one of his fingers. Tav opened her eyes in time to see him proffer the other finger to the blacksmith, who hesitantly bent forwards and sucked on it, hollowing his cheeks and making a deep noise in his chest. Rugan’s mouth had fallen open slightly. His hand was still resting on her throat, more a performance of violence than any kind of discomfort.

“Do you feel it?” asked the witchfinder. “That fae strength.”

Dammon nodded. “Yes, but… This is a cruelty. It’s not freely given.” If Tav hadn’t known he was acting, she would have really believed the pity that clouded his eyes when he looked at the broad hand on her neck.

“No matter. It’s mine anyway,” said Rugan, then turned away from the tiefling and put his hand back through the cage. Tav began making noises of protest and trying to wriggle away, but he tightened his grip slightly and tugged her forwards. As Dammon watched, outrage written across his face, Rugan pushed into her again. The room was silent but for the wet noises of her cunt as he began to fingerfuck her, pulling her harder against the bars of the cage. She panted, tried and failed not to moan, half-choked out a curse as she stared daggers at him. To avoid looking at her, he kept his eyes fixed on the way her tits were crushed against the cage. He pulled his hand away from between her legs, lifted it to his mouth to suck away her juices, then plunged it back down again. A cry of fury spilled from her lips.

The two of them were locked into it now, and Tav genuinely didn’t notice when Dammon stepped away from the cage and behind the man fingering her to within an inch of her life. Then there was a sudden dull thud, and Rugan’s eyes widened in shock. He started to say something garbled, then crumpled dramatically to the floor before the cage. The blacksmith stood behind him, hammer raised. There was a moment of silence. Tav thought she saw the corner of Rugan’s mouth twitch, but he was able to keep his face neutral. Now it’s my time, she thought to herself.

“Quickly, release me from the cage, I beseech thee,” she begged, reaching through the cage towards Dammon, who was doing a good impression of a man in shock. “Good blacksmith, let me go and I swear I will not bewitch you, only give you my blessing.”

“Y–Your blessing?” he asked, suddenly looking up from the witchfinder’s corpse. The hammer fell from his grip.

“Yes, my blessing, saer. I will let you drink deeply from my core, and bathe yourself within me. The strength that is your reward will never fade. Please release me.”

Dammon shakily nodded, then went to fetch a pair of large shears that he used to cut through the chain on the door of the cage. As he helped Tav down onto her feet, she wobbled slightly and he caught her against his chest. Tilting her chin up, he kissed her with a groan of pleasure. They began to pull at each others’ clothes, Tav’s dress tearing off easily and Dammon’s outfit hitting the floor soon after. She imagined a pool of blood growing beneath the witchfinder’s head, following the lines of the flagstones.

“Here, take me on the body of mine enemy which you have slain,” she said, taking his hand and pulling him to the floor. As he dropped to his knees, his eyes raked over her body as if he were trying to memorise every freckle and scar. Laying her back against the firmness of Rugan’s torso, Dammon ran his hands over her, squeezing her breasts, gripping her haunches. 

Tav tipped her head back and moaned when his lips found her nipples. Often, when they had sex, Dammon would be gallant and slow, taking his time to reduce her to a mess before he even touched her between the legs. But something about this game had set him alight; finishing with her tits, he bit the meat of her stomach and then dove his face between her thighs, lifting her up fully by the hips so he could begin to hungrily tongue-fuck her. She howled under the onslaught, her back arched and her fingers gripping the witchfinder’s leathers as she held on for dear life.

Fastening his lips around her clit and sucking desperately, Dammon pushed her forwards further so her hips were now balanced on Rugan’s stomach and the back of her head was touching the floor. With his hands free, he slid two fingers inside her and crooked them, making her sob with the intensity of feeling. He was putting his whole arm into the thrusts, and she found herself being jolted with every push against that spot inside her. In the maelstrom of pleasure, all she could do was throw her head back and wail as she came, spilling wetness across his palm and onto the floor.

Before she had time to catch her breath, Dammon was back on her, grasping at her hips to flip her over so she was lying face down over Rugan. She let out an outraged squeal as he manhandled her so her arse was raised in the air. When a ringing slap landed on her cheek she twisted around, ready to scold Dammon, and saw Rugan’s hand resting where it had struck her. Suddenly, she realised the man beneath her was shaking with laughter.

“Oi,” she said. “You’re supposed to be a corpse.”

Dammon let out a snort and Rugan opened one eye as Tav crawled up his body so they were almost nose to nose.

“How am I supposed to stay dead when I’ve got a hot little vixen wriggling around on top of me?” he asked.

“You’re not taking this seriously,” Tav chided. “We’re supposed to be following Dammon’s dirty story.”

“It’s alright,” came a gentle voice from behind her. “I don’t mind if he’s alive – but I really, really need to fuck you.”

Tav looked back at him over her shoulder and smiled. Dammon’s expression turned from sweet to focused when she spread her thighs and arched her back in invitation. He moved forwards and took her haunch in one hand, then she felt him pushing the tip of his cock against her slit. As the pressure grew, she looked back at Rugan. Dammon pushed himself inside, and the Zhent beneath her smirked at her widened eyes and the way her mouth fell open into a pout. The thick, heavy cock stretched and filled her until the tiefling had fully sheathed it inside her body. A groan began to leave her, then Rugan stole it with a kiss.

Dammon’s patient thrusts started slowly at first; he’d regained some modicum of his usual self-control. Beneath her body, Rugan’s clever fingers found her swinging breast and he began tweaking at the nipple as she was jostled against him by the strength in Dammon’s hips, making her shudder and bite at his neck. His other hand was busy somewhere out of her eye line, but when he uttered his own groan of satisfaction, she realised he had begun touching himself to the rhythm of the fucking. 

Fingers dug into her hips as Dammon adjusted his position, and then he was pulling her back onto his cock, harder and harder. He was grunting with the effort, chanting her name, groaning at the pleasure he was creating with her body. Tav could feel him beginning to thicken even more and knew he was nearing the precipice; she snaked a hand between her legs and began rubbing herself with desperate fervour. She was so hot, so close to the edge herself. When Rugan plunged his tongue into her panting mouth, she shuddered and came. It was a little blip of an orgasm at first, but the pulsing of Dammon’s cock as he spilled inside her synchronised with her own muscle spasms, and she found herself on top of a wave that just kept going, white-hot wetness that sent her nearly mad. She arched her back and clawed at Rugan as he shot a thick spool of spend onto her goosebumped skin.

Giving a final half-pump and then withdrawing, Dammon flopped down onto the floor next to them, the colour high in his cheeks. Tav let out a satisfied sigh, and the tiefling shot her a blissful smile.

“Thank you,” he said to both of them, after a few moments where they all just lay there, taking each other in. “That was amazing.”

“Even the talking corpse?” asked Tav. Rugan pinched her and she squealed.

“Even the talking corpse.”

“I have a question,” said Rugan. “What was that you hit me with?”

“I made a special prop hammer,” said Dammon, laughing. “It’s a thin, hollow metal shell. I’m surprised it didn’t crumple actually.”

“That’s pretty impressive,” said Tav. “Very authentic. What are you going to make for next time?”

Dammon glanced quickly at her, then his face broke into a wide grin. It was impossible for Tav not to return the smile as Rugan wound an arm over her waist. “We’ll have to pick another story first.”

[satashiiwrites]

wip whenever

working on Welcome to the Jungle now that RT is over on this lovely saturday.

Tagging whoever wants to play along with no pressure. Cut put in for explicit content. Graphics by me.

Title: Welcome to the Jungle: Chapter 2

Fandom: 911 Jumanji semi-fusion

Fic Summary:  From the concrete jungle to the actual jungle, five players will be summoned to Jumanji to save it from the wicked Van Pelt.

Rating: Explicit (sex, stereotyped villain) 

Tags/warnings: explicit sex, canon-typical violence, Jumanji AU, time travel fix it, slow burn, long fic, pod fic welcome, deviating from canon where it suits the story, canon timeline is a mess and we’re just not going to stress about it, author doesn’t do straight up adaptations, eventual happy ending, mention of divorce and canon character deaths, aged up Robbie and Brook, mentions of child neglect/abuse from the Buckley parents

In the sticky heat of midafternoon, the threat of a thunderstorm lingering on the horizon and heat lightning cracking overhead, their bodies are sweat slick in the humidity as gravity does its work, and Robbie sinks onto Danny’s thick cock with a moan. The stretching burn is familiar as he spends as much time on his lover’s cock as possible—at least twice a day if he can. 

Brook can take her talk about him being addicted to Danny’s cock and shove it.  

Danny’s hands support Robbie’s hips as he wiggles to seat himself fully, allowing the head of Danny’s cock to nudge up against his sweet spot, making stars burst behind Robbie’s eyelids which have closed as he struggles for control, biting his lip. The muscles underneath him are quivering like a caught animal, ready to buck and twist underneath him and take him for a ride that will leave them both breathless. 

“Move, Babe,” he orders as their eyes connect, sky blue to amber brown, and the hips underneath his give a rolling buck that almost unseats him as he’s nailed right where it’s so good it almost hurts. Using the momentum, he lifts up to unseat himself and then rockets back down to take Danny’s cock to the root in one smooth, practiced stroke.

Danny grunts underneath him as the bed jumps and the posts make a satisfying groan as they slide across the stone floor. “Always so fucking tight.”

“Only for you, Babe,” Robbie assures his lover as he playfully clenches down which gets him a playful swat to his right ass cheek that stings and sensitizes the skin before Danny’s fingers dig in to help lift him up until only the tip remains inside Robbie before allowing Robbie to swoop down again. 

The bed bangs against the wall as Robbie sets a punishing rhythm. Up and down, clench, then up again. Danny has him at just the right angle, fills him up until Robbie is almost too full as his nerves light up with liquid fire as his orgasm builds within him. His gorilla marking on the left side of his chest, stirs underneath his skin, growling and roaring for his mate to add to the overload of sensation clawing through Robbie, making the hair on the back of his neck standing on edge and urging him to howl as he peaks and sink his teeth into the thick muscle of his mate’s neck.

Danny spares not a second, flipping their positions to put Robbie underneath him, fingers curling into facsimiles of an eagle’s talons as he grips Robbie’s hips and pistons in and out, punching little spurts of come to dribble out of Robbie’s untouched cock as his orgasm is prolonged by the direct stimulation to his sweet spot.  The bond between them hums and Robbie’s ears ring with the phantom cry of an eagle swooping in a steep dive as Danny’s orgasm rips through them both and his mate joins him in the bliss of orgasm. 

Robbie wallows in the warm haze that envelops them, unwilling to let Danny shift away when he attempts to reposition them so they’re not laying in the wet spot. 

“Babe,” Danny growls and Robbie allows his mate to roll them to the side.  He misses the anchoring weight immediately and scratches his nails down Danny’s spine, making the spread wings of his mate’s tattoo flap as if tickled.  

It’d taken them years and the equivalent of an individual spirit quest to finally master their avatars. The restless power that resides under Robbie’s skin is usually momentarily appeased by their coupling, but today it is not. 

“You feel that?” He whispers to Danny, feeling as if he should be pacing. 

He feels rather than sees Danny frown into his shoulder, the air in the room stirring as the eagle underneath Danny’s hands flaps it’s wings in irritation. “I feel it.”

The uneasiness isn’t coming from one of them and infecting the other… it’s coming from outside their bond. 

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Danny says, shifting to sit upright and making Robbie grumble at the cool air hitting his nipples and making him shiver. “Feels like something is coming.”

“Coming?” Robbie asks even as he agrees with the accurate label.  He feels… something is coming.  His gorilla is waiting for whatever, or whoever, it is with anticipation… that isn’t hostile. 

[zoruascanbetrainerstoo]

[A video is attached. Watch it?]

[Illanero emerges from the Warped Parfum Palace, onto the balcony. The sky is exploding, filled with constant bursts of color from fireworks.

Xyr ears immediately flatten against xyr head, and xey whimper...only to yelp in surprise as a figure emerges into view.

It's the owner of Parfum Palace, but just like his palace, he's wrong. A smile that goes beyond his face, into thin air, and his eyes are replaced with gold coins.

"I see you've returned, thief," Mr. Parfum says, golden eyes narrowed. "Now, I believe you have something of mine? A certain Furfrou, that you stole from me?"

"I..." Illanero tries to back away, but there was nowhere to run. The balcony had closed itself off, the rest of Parfum Palace inaccessible.

"Give Furfrou to me, and I'll let you leave without turning your fur into a blanket," Mr. Parfum. "Rest assured, she'll be much happier with me, though I must punish her for her treason."

"No!" Illanero yells, and tries to get one of xyr pokeballs...only to find that xey only have three with xem. Mulbo the Delphox's, Lurolin the Lucario's, and Cossupa the Furfrou's.

"Time is ticking! Time is money, after all, and I hate losing money," Mr. Parfum says, closing in on Illanero.

Illanero hesitates, then throws out Mulbo's pokeball, and yells, "Mulbo! Psybeam!"

As the Delphox tries to attack Mr. Parfum, he simply chuckles. Bits of...something shadowy splash off of him, but he quickly reforms his body.

"That's too bad. Oh well, I always wanted a blanket made of Zorua fur," Mr. Parfum says. "Guards! Execute the intruder!"

From the mass of explosions above, shadowy drops start to drip down. They pool around Illanero and co, forming into humanoid beings. Guards like the one outside the gate...and facsimiles of the Team Flare scientists, visors now made of solid gold.

Illanero looks terrified, but determined. Xey send out Lurolin as well, nod at xyr teammates, and together, they begin to battle.

All the while, the sky remains alight with the explosions of fireworks.

The video ends.]

[bestworstcase]

hello its irregularly scheduled SONGS TIME once again. have you ever thought about how weird ‘all things must die’ is i have i think about it all the time it’s really weird except no it isn’t it’s about summer

(<- sound of me succumbing to the eldritch vapors i am going to try so hard to be coherent wish me luck)

anyway the confounding the maddening thing about ATMD is it very directly calls back to, inexplicably, ‘this will be the day’ and: why. why! what? summer it’s about summer

specifically.

fourteen years ago raven and summer fought in the vault under haven academy and, listen to me because this is the important part, summer did not die. but raven thinks she should have. this is what ATMD is about. raven is fighting cinder but also no she isn’t, it’s fourteen years ago and she’s back here again and she is so angry. because summer rose is not the one who died that night.

ok? ok. ok ok ok

this will be the day: a story will be told. red like roses ii: this bedtime story ends with misery ever after/the pages are torn and there’s no final chapter. all things must die: all tales conclude.

grabs you by the shoulders. shakes you. DO YOU SEE

this will be the day:

beware that the light is fading beware, as the dark returns this world’s unforgiving even brilliant lights will cease to burn legends scatter day and night will sever hope and peace are lost forever

divide (now we’re cooking with gas!):

legends and fairytales scattered in time maidens and kingdoms wrapped up in a lie

all things must die:

this is the end here’s where you’ll die legends should scatter so just say goodbye no one will miss you when you’re fin’lly gone at your conclusion sing your swan song

folds hands. a bird is known by its song, a man by his words. the truth is that ‘truth’ is hard to come by; a story of victory for one person is a story of defeat for someone else. by now, i’m sure your uncle has told ruby and her friends plenty of stories.

(and which “her” is raven referring to?)

summer was the best of us, qrow says.

raven knows the truth. she’s also the one who told the story—or at least, she told a story. or maybe she didn’t, but silence tells its own kind of story. the point is this: summer rose, the person, chose to walk away and left raven branwen to decide how the story ended.

summer rose, the idea, is dead because raven slit her throat in front of that vault fourteen years ago. this is the end: here’s where you’ll die. legends should scatter, so just say goodbye. no one will miss you, when you’re finally gone; at your conclusion, sing your swan song.

does she regret that choice? letting summer rose die a hero so that summer rose could be free? did she do it for spite? for love? was she afraid? did she just want it to be done?

fourteen years later, she’s back here and there’s blood on the floor again.

murder, unkindness, conspiracy embers extinguished in effigy

to burn something in effigy: to destroy a figure, a facsimile, a symbol of someone hated. cinder fall is not summer rose, but summer rose isn’t here and the past is alive and howling all around them; and whatever raven may have felt then the only thing she feels now is it’s happening again.

(an unkindness of ravens—a conspiracy of ravens—but it’s a murder of crows. or, as it might be, just a murder.)

anyways.

sacrifice:

close your eyes now, time for dreams death is never what it seems […] show them gods and deities blind and keep the people on their knees pierce the sky, escape your fate the more you try, the more you’ll just breed hate and lies truth will rise revealed by mirrored eyes

when it falls:

swallowed by the darkness soon the moon is bathed in black the light of hope is taken and discontent is the contagion the blinding eyes that burn a yellow flame the embers that remain will light the fuse of condemnation mirrors will shatter crushed by the weight of the world

all things must die:

just close your eyes don’t fear demise black out the sky all things must die

ok. ok . can you see it?

this will be the day:

we are lightning straying from the thunder miracles of ancient wonder this will be the day we’ve waited for this will be the day we open up the door i don’t wanna hear your absolution hope you’re ready for a revolution welcome to a world of new solutions welcome to a world of bloody evolution

all things must die:

life is just a journey yours is near its end bloody evolution this world transcend

can you—

all things must die:

all tales conclude all bonds dissolve infinite matter will always evolve just pray for mercy at your time of death be glad you existed enjoy your last breath

rising:

the sky is turning black light is fading fast but we don’t surrender radiant and bright shattering the night armored in splendor shining forever we are paragons of virtue and glory death can’t stop our endless story infinite and unbound

—see it?

just pray for mercy.

don’t wanna hear your absolution (hope you’re ready for a revolution!)

welcome to a world of new solutions: the blinding eyes that burn a yellow flame, the embers that remain will light the fuse of condemnation—mirrors will shatter, crushed by the weight of the world. truth will rise, revealed by mirrored eyes. welcome to a world of bloody evolution.

life is just a journey; yours is near its end. bloody evolution: this world transcend.

black out the sky; all things must die. swallowed by the darkness, soon the moon is bathed in black; the light of hope is taken and discontent is the contagion. the sky is turning black, the light is fading fast, but we don’t surrender. radiant and bright, shattering the night, shining forever. we are paragons of virtue and glory; death can’t bind our endless story, infinite and unbound.

for it is in passing we achieve immortality; through this we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all, infinite in distance and unbound by death. i release your soul, and by my shoulder protect thee.

all things must die.

our souls transcend death.

it’s—ok. ok! this will be the day? salem. when it falls? salem and cinder. rising? summer and salem. for every life? salem. rising is the only one of these that is remotely ambiguous but trust me. (“farran it seems unlikely that half the opening numbers are secretly—” salem is literally the narrator)

so what is happening here, with ‘all things must die,’ is it’s in dialogue with the whole triumvirate of cinder + summer + salem

(<- maiden mother crone. hi)

—as i said, ATMD fundamentally is about the death of summer rose, the idea, and the not-death of summer rose, the person, and the feelings raven has about both of those things as drawn out by the echo the reflection the effigy that is cinder fall.

banging pots and pans. salem drowns in the fountain of life and reawakens immortal. she drowns in the pool of grimm and creates herself anew. raven kills summer rose, the idea (this is the end, here’s where you’ll die) and summer rose, the person, rips herself free (the pages are torn and there’s no final chapter). cinder gets electrocuted in the face frozen solid dropped hundreds of feet into a subterranean lake and just. Survives That.

like mother, like—

anyway.

grips your shoulders listen to me very carefully. raven branwen turns into a raven. she leads a warlike group of bandits. she is the spring maiden, the maiden of knowledge. her weapon is called omen. her semblance allows her to know when her loved ones are in mortal danger and appear to them to turn the tide of battle. she wears a grimm mask. she “tore her team apart.” thought and memory though she and her brother may be, huginn is only what she was to ozpin.

day by day it’s nearer step by step you go closer to your ruin soon your time to go life is just a journey yours is near its end […] this is the end here’s where you’ll die […] it’s time to accept to abide admit that the hour’s arrived resign, comply it’s time to be one with the sky surrender your pride let death be your guide all things must die

i told you beacon would fall, and it did. i told you ozpin would fail, and he has.

she can’t be stopped, she can’t be reasoned with, and she will not rest until humanity crumbles at her feet.

her weapon is named omen.

her song is spoken in future tense!!! hello!!!

She also prophesied the end of the world, foretelling every evil that would occur then, and every disease and every vengeance; and she chanted the following poem: ‘I shall not see a world Which will be dear to me: Summer without blossoms, Cattle will be without milk, Women without modesty, Men without valour. Conquests without a king […] False judgements of old men…’ ( 167 )

the morrígan.

wheeze ok. all things must die is prophetic but all that is already was; raven sees, in cinder fall, the end and the beginning of summer rose, That Is What The Song Is About. nothing new under the sun. fourteen years ago all of this happened before, differently. here’s where you’ll die. she writes the ending of summer rose. she flings cinder to her (SYMBOLIC SYMBOLIC IT IS A METAPHOR) death and resurrection from the roots of the tree.

she’s the spring maiden. she is death’s herald. she’s stared death in the face over and over again and every time she spat back in its face and survived. she knows people who can come back from the dead. without the spring maiden, we’re all going to die.

death and the maiden.

i only know the raven dad told me about; she was troubled and complicated, but she fought for what she believed in—whether it was her family or her tribe. did you kill her too?

no, but summer rose did.

gleefully voicing this eulogy spawn of the tenets of treachery

cinder’s heard so many stories about raven; that she’s a cunning leader, strong, clever. (it’s a shame they’re wrong.) truth is hard to come by; i’m sure your uncle has told ruby and her friends plenty of stories. summer rose telling lies! she was the best of us. she would have pressed on, if she found out the truth.

burning summer rose in effigy, gleefully voicing this eulogy. no one will miss you when you’re finally gone.

…how did salem know the maidens are vulnerable to silver eyes. much to think about

[sixteen-sugars]

predestined to fall - a satosugu fic

aux: just the way it is, baby - the rembrandts

credit: @soarnd

Satoru was callous on the best days, he just didn't seem to grasp the problems of others. He lived in his own little bubble, literally.

Infinity wasn't the only thing that separated him from others, it was his attitude, smirks, and being good at everything he had ever tried his hand at. 

A ‘Suguru, look!” as he beat a world record in something he just started.

All Geto could do was smile and treasure his position so close to the god’s heart. Gojo's smile summer-warm in his palm as he held it to his chest.

Every touch they shared he held close to his heart, comfortable in the knowledge that infinity didn't apply to them. 

Suguru liked to believe he was better than Satoru, having a shred of empathy for others.

He didn't, all of it was a facsimile to soothe others' jackhammer hearts. A stevia-sweet mask to cover the decay of himself.

He used proper addresses when talking to his superiors, he made sure to tip when he went to restaurants.

Maybe to balance his deeds? 

-

To be The Strongest you don't have to be good people.

Everybody should have realized that.

Gojo was fighting and starving for approval hidden under a sugar-sweet sticky smile.

Geto held a bone-deep shivering contempt for the weak, opening up his palms with the patience and smile of a saint.

Yet no closer to god, but chosen nonetheless. 

So when Satoru opened up his arms Suguru always ran into them, as they were destined to fall.

The sun peeling away their self-appointed godhood, falling onto the land of rejection and contempt.

They were doomed, Achilles and Patroclus style.

Every kiss a rush, the sultry rotten-strawberry sweetness of Satoru’s cursed energy worming into his mouth, returned with his tobacco-favored smile.

Doomed promises in dim kitchens sealed with nothing but youthful faith that everything will turn out okay.

- 

Love does not come all at once, it comes in slow realizations over shared too-sweet taro boba. It comes from; 

Midnight Waltzes in the kitchen fueled by convenience store candy, lit by dim fluorescent lights; Calloused hands through moon-pale hair;

Sparring all out and getting yelled at for property damage;

Favorite foods clumsily made by inexperienced hands, presented in the ugliest bento Geto had ever laid his eyes on. 

-

'Weak' he spat at himself, love made people complacent.

It makes so much sense when your whole world is shrunk down to one person. 

The binary of your hearts beating speak to each other in a language lost to the gods. Syncing up for that beautiful few seconds where you ceased to be each other and the edges blurred into someone new.

He knew at that moment if Suguru so much as asked Satoru would rip the stars out of the sky and present them with bleeding and broken hands, and Suguru would fall to his knees to bandage his wounds, chapped lips pressed to trust-fund soft wrists.

-

If they only knew what would befall The Strongest.

So much ahead of them, predestined to fall from grace.

Fallen angels are always the most powerful, revenge painting a powerful picture. Rage curling in parched throats.

He knew that he would fall out of the grace of god, just never so soon.

Summers still present in his mind, youth and a heady dose of power.

You only live once, why not fall in love? 

-

Why, why, why.

Why did Geto fall in love as he did? Thinking this he tore at his hair, not as soft as the years before.

Long pale fingers weaving through silky strands, massaging whatever product caught his fancy,

"I'm like your guinea pig at this point Satoru,"

But, now as he tore through tangled hair, matted by stress. Geto ached for his other like he was missing a limb.

The phantom pains still hurt when it was sunny years later. This sky a vivid blue like his Satoru.

-

Why, why, why.

Why did Gojo fall in love as he did? Maybe it was the scoffing his 'Satoru's dumb idea of the week #102,' But, they all knew it wasn't just a means to his end.

He was trying to a get a side-eye and a exasperated kiss on the cheek from his beloved.

To him Suguru was a saint, if he had a altar he would pray at it everyday. Of course he had his collection of broken hair-ties and used convenience-store chopsticks.

Later, he would open that shoebox, and be hit with all the smiles and days he tried to push down. But like how a dam wears down, watery summers of youth pooled down to his fingertips that grasped for hands that will never reach back for him.

He made sure of that,

That they would never have another moment of sync of those heartbeats. Because Satoru is a weak pious man, and his saint is a vision of loveliness and beauty.

-

They had fallen hard and fast, colliding like a supernova. Pulled into a around each other but leaving years and destruction in the wake of The Strongest.

[imtryingmybeskar]

Come Home Chapter Fourteen

Joel Miller x F! Reader.

Word count - 4,002.

More spoilers for Ellie’s sixteenth birthday celebration. I always wondered how Joel got that recording of a liftoff, so I wrote it!

Some soft! Joel incoming, but there are storm clouds on the horizon...

Come Home

Chapter Fourteen - Every Sky Is Blue...

The space exhibition you emerge into is small but comprehensive and very interactive, especially since you can now reach out and touch stuff you weren’t supposed to before - the model of a lunar rover, the facsimile of the moon, the reproductions of the rockets. You accidentally knock a couple of these off their perches and they won’t reattach afterward despite your best efforts, so you leave them in disarray and scurry away hurriedly even though there is no one to berate you for your clumsiness except Joel who just laughs at you.

“You ruinin’ Ellie’s present already?” he teases as you walk to the other side of the room.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you reply airily. “Ohhh look, spacesuits!”

The spacesuits decorate the sides of a rounded room, the star of which is a space capsule, overgrown with ivy and vines that have forced their way through the glass ceiling above and twined their way around the object. You run your hand over the riveted metal and a thought suddenly strikes you.

“Yeesh. Imagine being up there when everything happened. Fuck…you’d see…you’d hear everything. The news reports before they stopped. Updates from mission control. The bombs…And then just…nothing. And you’d know that no one was coming. Ever. Christ. Those poor bastards.”

“Now, I was havin’ a real nice day before you said that,” Joel replies, grumpily.

“Sorry,” you apologise, turning to grimace at him. “I’ll shut up. You’re right. Ellie’s going to love this.”

Joel smiles toothily before he reaches to grasp the handle of the capsule on the floor.

“Gimmie a hand with this will ya?”

Between you, you manage to pull the heavy metal door open and the dry, stale, twenty year old air whooshes out from inside as you do.

“Wowww, this is so cool!” you say as you stick your head inside to look at the controls. It seems like there are a thousand buttons and switches spread over several consoles, all just begging to be pressed and fiddled with, as well as a joystick between the two empty seats that the capsule has to offer. “Joel, come look at this!”

“Yeah, just a sec,” he says. His voice is absent minded and far away and you pop your head back out to look at him. He’s staring at the spacesuits, and then his eyes flick back to the capsule.

“What you thinking?” you ask.

“What if…I could make this like a proper mission?” he says, slowly. “Get the helmet, get in the capsule, pretend to take off…But I’d need…I mean they gotta have a copy here somewhere…” He trails off again and you look at him in puzzlement, letting him work it out silently. He tips his head up, looking at the sky that can be seen through the glass dome of the ceiling above and hums thoughtfully.

“I think we got time,” he mutters to himself, then looks at you, a purposeful gleam in his eye. “How would you feel about explorin' a little more? Lookin’ around some of the stuff behind the scenes here?”

He leads you back downstairs to one of the smaller dinosaur exhibits where a set of double doors leads to a long, dark corridor that has precisely zero light, natural or otherwise and as such looks extremely uninviting to your eyes. You take a breath and follow Joel through, sticking very close to him as the combined light of your torches sweeps over the walls and floors. Still no fungus, still no spores, for which you are grateful, but you can feel the insidious blackness begin in your mind. The projector of your nightmares begins to whir as your brain makes connections between what is and what was and you feel only a little shame as you clutch on to Joel’s arm with a shaking hand. He stops immediately.

“You alright?” comes his deep voice from the darkness.

“Yeah, can just we get out of this corridor please?” Your voice is more terse than you had intended, but he seems to understand.

“We’ll step it up,” he promises. He takes your hand in his and holds it tight. A development which you had not been expecting but weren’t inclined to argue against given that it was actively helping in this situation.

The torchlight picks out plesiosaur bones, underwater fossils and information about them lining the walls, and additional small exhibits that you have no intention to stop and look at are displayed underneath. After what feels like twenty minutes of walking you come to another set of double doors, these ones with an ornately carved wooden sign above them proclaiming that you are about to enter The Hall of Minerals, and when you push open the door you give an audible sigh of relief. Tall windows on one side allow the fading light in, and it’s enough for you to be able to command your stomach to unclench. You give Joel’s hand a companionable squeeze before you let him go.

“Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

This place has been modelled to appear more old fashioned than the other parts of the museum that you’ve seen – polished wood panelled walls cocoon the room, towering decorative ionic pillars of crumbling plaster do almost nothing to support the ceiling, and spindly, Victorian looking display cases lie in dusty clustered rows, their treasures gleaming dully within. You pass through slowly, taking in the beauty of the gems, geodes and meteorites. Toward the centre of the room some large pieces of plaster have fallen from the ceiling and glass and jewels both glitter on the ground together, spilling out from the smashed case above. The shine of them catches your eye and you crouch down to take a better look.

“You think it would be bad if I took some of these?” you ask Joel as he comes to see what’s captured your attention.

“Well…I don’t think anyone’s comin’ back for ‘em,” he points out. “What, you want a diamond?”

“Nah, not my thing. But this-“ You pull up a shining pearlescent blue opal, veins of pink and orange and purple fire running through it. “-this is gorgeous.”

“Probably better to have someone appreciatin' ‘em. And its not like you smashed the case.”

“Thank you for supporting my life of thievery, Joel.”

“Long as you ain’t stealin’ my rations, I do not care.”

“So…what are we looking for, anyway?” you ask as you continue to pick through the rocks on the floor, pocketing small bits of lapis lazuli, fire agate and bismuth and feeling distinctly corvid-like at your desire to possess the useless, shiny things.

“A recordin'. Of a rocket launch. I’m gonna give it to her to listen to on her Walkman while we’re in the capsule. I can’t train her to be an astronaut. But I can at least try to help her live it.”

You look up at him, both impressed by the originality of the idea and touched by the sentiment of it. “That’s such a wonderful idea! She’s going to have the best birthday."

“Well, I don’t think she’s had too many she cares to remember. I want this one to be good.”

“She’ll be happy whatever you do,” you smile, resuming your sifting of the stones and glass. “As long as she’s with you. Dinosaurs and going in to space definitely can’t hurt though.”

Once you’ve collected up all of your ill-gotten gains, Joel heads toward the back corner, where you can see a door of the same polished wood, the sign proclaiming that the area is for Staff Only ruining the original intention of having it blend in with the rest of the wall.

Another long corridor lies beyond, this one thankfully with some more windows to light your way. The sky outside is now distinctly angry looking – dark grey clouds totally blotting out the sun, tree branches whipping violently in the wind and tiny patters of rain beginning to drum against the window panes and roof.

“We need to get back to the horses soon,” you mutter to Joel.

He nods his agreement and you each take a side of the corridor, looking at the descriptive plaques on each to determine what lies inside, and listening carefully to check if there are any lurking visitors aside from yourselves. Nothing grabs your attention except the administration office, where you both search through the drawers and come away with pens, notebooks, scissors, twine, a box cutter, and some duct tape. On your last sweep of the room you find a drawer locked at the bottom of one of the desks and manage to pry the cheap wooden front off with brute strength. A cup with a family portrait printed on it, papers and files that were no doubt once important and confidential, some sort of snack that now coated the inside of a Ziploc bag with black goo…and a voice recorder. You take the bag to wash out and reuse and then hand Joel the recorder.

“Ohhh you’re smart,” he smiles, and your heart gives a warm little tremble in your chest at his praise. He reduces the volume and presses the play button whereupon a low, garbled hissing stream of speech begins to emanate from the device, some sort of letter being dictated by the sounds of it. Satisfied that it works, Joel begins to put it in his pocket and then hesitates.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I just...well it's kinda stupid but I feel bad about recordin' over this. It's like...it's like erasin' the person."

"Well, they could still be kickin' out there," you reassure him with a shrug. "Besides, it would only have sat in that drawer until it became unusable. Better that we take it and use it for something to make Ellie's day special. And it's definitely more useful than these rocks that are probably going to weigh me down and drown me on the swim back."

He laughs at that, the previous small frown of doubt cleared from his handsome face.

"Well, I ain't helpin' you if you get in trouble. You live by the rock, you die by the rock."

"Joel, that is quite possibly the worst saying I've ever heard. I'm just gonna let myself drown after that!"

"Might catch on," he sniffs prissily, then he smiles and winks and you continue on your search for Ellie's birthday surprise.

The corridor leads to a stairwell and you descend into the depths of the museum, now relying fully on your torches again. Joel doesn’t wait this time and instead seeks your hand immediately, the warm press of his palm against yours a lifeline to the reality in front of you. Still no spores, still no infected, and by this time you’re starting to relax a little. You couldn’t be sure, but if anyone had been left in here, or come here to shelter you’re pretty sure you would have seen evidence of them by now. It helps, the idea that at least you probably won’t be fighting off the dead today, and your brain is able to sharpen into better focus without the distraction of that particular worry. The enclosed space of the corridor and its dry, ancient air is stifling though, and you briefly let go of Joel’s hand to unbutton your top shirt and roll up your sleeves to release some of the warmth that is starting to make itself known in prickles on your hairline.

“This looks like the place,” Joel mutters quietly a few moments later. Your torchlight joins his as the light picks out a nondescript door marked “Archives.”

The door deposits you on to a platform and twisting staircases with beautifully carved wooden bannisters lead down into the cavernous room inside. It’s lit by long, rectangular windows set horizontally high up into the walls and is packed floor to ceiling with…stuff. So much of it that your brain has difficulty processing what’s what initially. In-built wooden bookcases line the walls, more information held within than one person could possibly ever absorb. Small workspaces are interspersed with them, long dead computers showing their permanently blank faces to the room. Rows upon rows of large metal shelves and filing cabinets are spread out below, random labelled objects and heavy looking box files sitting forgotten and dusty upon them while smaller, older wooden catalogue drawers with yellowing identifying labels attached stretch away toward the back of the room. Large, semi-opaque plastic sheeting cover erratic piles and you catch glimpses of what lies beneath - plaster cast bones and cardboard boxes and enormous preserving jars, their innards hidden by the yellowish tinge of the embalming fluid that cocoons them. There’s even an old recording desk with tape reels off to one side, the process of digitisation halted forever.

The sheer scale of information to sort through is overwhelming, but you press on into the darkening room and begin to search separately, the feeble yellowish light from outside now being assisted by your torches. Joel takes the filing cabinets, you start with the older indexes. You find plenty to take your interest, but nothing like what Joel needs and even as you wish you had more time to stop and enjoy this peek into a world you had never known, your mind is itching with the knowledge that you have been at the museum for quite a while, your skin starting to buzz with the desire to move on, the ingrained habit of never staying too long in one spot hard to ignore. You stray briefly to the books, not expecting to find what you need, but with a desire to take some additional reading material while you can. Next to one of the workstations lies a copy of “An Idiot’s Guide To Space”, the page open to a section about quasars. Thinking of Joel’s reaction to being presented with it, you smile and put it into your backpack along with a couple of other tomes that you think Ellie might enjoy.

“I think this is it.”

Joel’s voice is low and excited, and you rush to join him in front of one of the filing cabinets. The CD cases he holds all bear handwritten notes – ‘Audio Gemini ‘65’, ‘Audio Apollo ‘69’, ‘Audio ISS ‘96’ – and he looks gleeful as he begins to shove them into his backpack.

“Hold up.” He’s instantly alert, hand moving automatically toward his gun and you shake your head to calm his fears. “No, it's okay. I just had a thought. We need to make sure all of this doesn’t get wet when we’re swimming back.” You cast about for a solution better than the Ziploc bag and light upon the plastic sheeting, tilting your chin toward it. He grins and you begin the process of extracting them from where they are twined around their contents, coughing as the dust they also contain twirls into the air.

Cargo successfully protected, you make your way back toward the entrance. You’ve never seen Joel quite like this before. His eyes are animated and sparkle with excitement, his gait lighter than usual and he literally has a little bounce in his step. The sight makes your heart hurt in the best way. It’s a glimpse into his life before, of the father that he was. Would have been. Could have been. It’s also very infectious and you find yourself grinning widely at both his glee and the prospect of Ellie's as you bid a final farewell to your Triceratops steed.

There is one final stop – the gift shop. The light is minimal in here too, the large windows having been overgrown with moss and vines that block out most of what light remains of the day, but since you’re not too worried about infected anymore you take your time to see what treasures you can find. It’s a pretty good haul. Several packs of unopened, unspoilt colouring pencils, stationary sets with cartoon dinisaurs decorating them, educational books for children that you intend to donate to the daycare and school, some items of clothing that have endured due to their plastic wrappings, a couple of umbrellas. Then, on to the more frivolous things.

“Hey Joel,” you call him over. “What do you think? I didn’t get Ellie anything for her birthday yet.”

He examines the collection in your hands. A few dinosaur pin badges that you thought would look nice on her bag, some glow in the dark stars to decorate her ceiling and two self-assembly kits - one of the solar system and one of a dinosaur skeleton.

“I’d wait to give them to her until you get back to Jackson, obviously. Wouldn’t be much of a surprise for her to come here otherwise!”

“I think you’re spoilin’ that girl,” he smiles, his tone indulgent.

“Says the man who’s risked life and limb and spent an entire week making sure she would get here without encountering any infected,” you retort, also with a smile.

“We ain’t exactly been overrun,” he chuckles.

“Hey, you didn’t know what was out here when you started this. Could have been far worse.”

“Well, that’s true. She’ll love them. The dinosaur kit’s for you though, right?”

“Dammit, you got me! How did you know?”

“I’m psychic, didn’t you know? I know everything that goes on in that head of yours.”

Though he’s clearly teasing, you still can’t stop the flustered feeling that flutters in your chest at his words, and you try very hard not to allow some of the more explicit daydreams that you’ve had about him float to the surface of your mind.

“It’s a Triceratops,” he clarifies, and you hope you’ve gotten away with your embarrassment once again.

As you exit the museum, you're perturbed to see that the sky is looking steadily more menacing. The grey clouds above are heavy and brooding, and you resign yourself to the possibility of staying in the tent all night. Though was it really resigning yourself if you were looking forward to it? To talking to Joel, listening to him strum softly on his guitar, to falling asleep next to him under the soothing hiss of the rain pattering on your tent?

“Urgh, my boots were so nearly dryyyy,” you whinge as you step back into the pool of water. “If you come across any next time you’re on a run, please get them for me. These are never going to recover!”

“Get in line,” he calls back as he swims ahead. “I’ll be lookin’ for my own!”

You make it about halfway back before the heavens open. Fat droplets splash into the water around you and even though you’re half submerged and wet from the neck down already, somehow the rain makes you feel even more soaked through. God only knew how you were going to dry off-

A wave of water suddenly tips over your head and you splutter, swiping at your eyes so your vision clears. When it does, you’re met with the sight of Joel grinning at you as if he had just told an amazing joke.

“What the fuck! What was that for?!”

“What? You can’t get much wetter!” he laughs as he gestures to the sky.

You swim closer toward him with exaggerated movements, launching wave after wave of water over him and when you reach him you take him by surprise when you grab on to his broad shoulders and push him down to dunk him under the agitated surface of the once-peaceful stream.

“Neither can you, now,” you cry triumphantly as you swim away from him.

“I’ll get you for that!” you hear him splutter behind you.

“Gotta catch me first, Miller,” you shout back gleefully as you race to shore, the hissing splash of rain surrounding you.

In fact, you reach the shore at the same time and you kick water at each other as you exit the stream, both still trying to get the upper hand in your silly game.

“Hey! Not fair, your legs are bigger than mine,” you protest as a particularly large wave reaches you.

You make a break for the trees and stand under their relative shelter, chuckling softly as you start to try to wring out the bottom of your shirt and barely noticing the droplets of water that slide off the leaves above and trail down the nape of your neck.

“Aw man, I think I might as well just throw these in there and be done with it!” you say as you shake your arms violently, trying in vain to make yourself even a little bit drier. “At least now I don’t need to try to wash in-“

Your words are stolen from you as you look up at Joel. Instead of following your futile efforts to dry off, he’s rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and is now running his hands through his hair to push it back from his face. Time seems to slow as you stare, taking in the way his fingers run smoothly through the mix of slicked back silver and black, veins prominent on the back of his hands, his brow furrowed a little and eyes closed as he concentrates on his task. One stubborn curl won’t stay. It pops forward over his forehead and deposits a droplet of water that runs down the bold curve of his nose to combine with another and another as they join together and run in rivulets over his neck, the hollow of his throat, until they melt into the rest of the moisture on his skin.

The air in your lungs feels trapped. You can’t take a breath in, you don’t even want to because if you do it means the moment will have passed and you will have to tear your eyes away from the divine sight you have been presented with. And it’s already too late, far too late. He must have seen you. You’ve been staring at him for way too long for him not to have noticed.

But no, he hasn’t. Because he’s staring at you too, and it's as if time has now simply ceased to be altogether. A shiver passes through you at the look in his eyes. The most tender hunger you’ve ever seen lies within those dark and fathomless depths. They linger on your lips, they rove slowly downward, and suddenly you realise that you forgot to do your shirt up before swimming back. Your chest moves more rapidly at the revelation, and he allows his eyes to rake down your body before he too seems to remember himself. He drags his eyes back to your face and there is a thickening in the air that has nothing to do with the storm clouds.

He steps forward confidently, once, twice, and you do not step back. His hand comes up, steady as anything. This close he’s still so calm, but you feel like you’re trembling so hard that you’re practically vibrating. The pad of his finger is calloused under your jaw as he tilts your chin and you go with it willingly. He cradles your jaw in one large hand as his thumb softly traces a water droplet from your lower lip, dragging it slightly with the movement, and you can’t take your eyes from the endless abyss of his as he bends to you, as he moves himself impossibly near. His lips are so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath brush against you and now you can’t take your eyes off of that perfect mouth, can almost taste the sweetness of him-

BOOM

He leaps backward, the thunder startling you apart and you’re so dizzied by what has happened and what has not happened that you can’t even translate the words that are now falling from those beautiful lips.

“Shit! The horses!”

Your brain finally catches up with your ears and your eyes grow wide. Shit. The horses.

Taglist - @thisshipwillsail316 @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @elegantduckturtle @dihra-vesa @midwesternwitchery @just-here-for-the-moment @eri16 @readsalot73 @littlemisspascal @princessxkenobi @harriedandharassed @pagannightwitch @tentacruels @kirsteng42 @shirks-all-responsibilities @deadhumourist @pedrostories @abbyhaslongshorts @celebrtyskinz @majahu @sanscas @myloveistoolittle @ohthemisssery

Next chapter

[banannabethchase]

4E with danny/zay OR danny/yuta (your choice!)

Above Everything We Think We Know - also on AO3

~

Yuta's used to bitching back and forth with Danny and letting him get the last word, just out of convenience. He never thought there was more to it.

~

Dialogue 4: "Honestly, you could go deeper," and Scenario E: Texted something sensitive to the wrong number. Oh, Vera. I took this and ran with it. Sprinted, even. Title from Castle in the Sky by Kim Petras. Thank you, V @scissormedaddyass, for running the Three Count Exchange! I hope you enjoy this token of my gratitude <3

~

“Would you stop yawning?”

Yuta snaps out of his daze to see Danny Garcia glaring at him from the other side of the table.

“Jesus Christ, welcome back to earth,” Danny says, grinning. He shoves what appears to be a metric fuck ton of leaves into his mouth. “The fuck were you thinking about, counting sheep?”

“Fuck off, Danny,” Yuta replies. “I was up late last night.”

Danny snorts. “Jerking off to videos of your BCC boys kicking your ass?”

“Studying tape of every time I’ve beaten someone for this belt,” Yuta fires back. “I seem to remember you’re on there, right?”

“I’ve beaten you for the belt, too, dumbass,” Danny snaps, rolling his eyes. He shoves more leaves in his face and turns away, effectively nuking the conversation.

Yuta’s not willing to fight Danny on this right now – he always wants to have the last word and will fight God to get it, and Yuta learned a while ago that shutting up is easier.

But god does Danny chew his lettuce loudly.

~

He beats the shit out of his opponent for the Pure title, smiling the whole time, and crashes into Danny as he makes his ways backstage.

“Watch it, dumbass,” Danny snipes, glaring at him. “You hit me with your belt.”

Yuta levels him with his best facsimile of Danny’s trademark pout. “Oh, I’m sorry, did the special shiny belt I have that you don’t hurt you?” He turns it into a frown. “Does it remind you that you don’t have a belt at all?”

Danny reaches out and grabs the belt from Yuta, a move so sudden and brazen that Yuta doesn’t have the wherewithal to stop him. “Fuck,” Danny says. “Maybe I should talk this away from you again. Get your dumb bitchy ass back to normal.”

“I’m bitchy?!” Yuta exclaims. “Take a look in the mirror, princess.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Danny spits back. “Oh, or better, have Mox or Bryan or whatever fuck you so you get this energy out.”

Yuta scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. We make each other even worse.”

“Oh, so the frequent dicking down is what’s got you this sucky,” Danny says. “Whatever. Every day I’m glad I never got stuck with whatever sex dungeon shit you guys do.”

“Love how you’re stealing bits now,” Yuta says. “You tell Hangman you were using that line, or is plagiarism your new thing?”

“Considering you cheated to get your belt, I thought you’d be all about it.” Danny walks away, throwing a smile over his shoulder.

Last word. Again.

Yuta’ll figure out how to beat him at his own game someday.

~

He pauses in the hallway, seeing Danny and Zay talking into a camera. He steps backward, trying to avoid getting in the way of filming, trying not to set Danny off on one of his bitch fests, but then Danny notices him.

“Oh, hey,” he says, looking Yuta up and down. “You looking to get on camera?”

“I’m looking,” Yuta says, frowning at the way he can feel Danny scrutinize every part of him, “to get to my locker room.”

“Nope,” Danny says, grinning. “Gotta be on camera. This is vlog only territory.”

“Would – just let me walk through!” Yuta resists the urge to hit Danny with his belt. Especially with Isiah right there, it feels like a two on one is a bad move right now. “I have to get to the rooms.” He shoots Isiah a look of mild panic, but Zay just smiles at him an shrugs. Yuta can read it in his eyes: it’d be easier if you just did it.

Danny grins. “All you gotta do is say hi to the camera.”

“I don’t want to say hi so you can make fun of me afterwards,” Yuta grumbles. “Whatever. I’ll just go another direction.”

He’s braced for it when Danny yells, “I’ll get you on one of these eventually!”

Yuta rolls his eyes. Last word again.

~

“Can you stop yelling?” Yuta asks, and he’s man enough to admit that it’s more of a whine than words. “It’s a hotel lobby, not a bar.”

“You’d be a lot less annoying if you’d come with us to a bar,” Danny says, flashing white teeth over at Yuta. “What are you even doing?”

“I’m leaving the gym, like a responsible adult,” Yuta retorts. “Where are you two going?”

“Bar. Clubs.” Danny does his stupid little hip thrust while Isiah laughs in the background, eyes locked on the way Danny’s hips move. “Gonna get everybody worked up with these hips.”

“Yeah, you are,” Zay murmurs.

“Oh, god,” Yuta sighs. “I’m leaving. This is hell.”

“You’re a killjoy, Yuta!” Danny yells after him. “Have some fun for once.”

Yuta convinces himself it’s not worth it. Whether he’s talking about the club or firing back at Danny, he’s not sure.

~

He frowns at the photo. The lighting still isn’t at the level he wants it, and all the pumping he’d done before the shot didn’t do as much as he’d hoped.

“Damn it,” he grumbles.

It takes fifteen attempts. None of the angles make his relatively flat ass pop, his abs aren’t doing exactly what he wants them to do. He sighs. “Damn it,” he grumbles.

He shoots a text off to Mox for quality control.

This pic ok? I hate it.

In the back of his mind as he pulls on sweatpants, he muses on the weirdness of his life that he can text one of his childhood heroes a nude for quality control. And how much weirder it is that that person may also show two other wrestling legends the photo for their opinion. And he’s okay with it.

He shakes his head and flops onto his hotel room bed. His life is truly more than he could have expected, in all directions.

When he hears the ring for a FaceTime call, he answers it without thinking.

“You know you have, like, no ass, right?”

Yuta stares at the phone. “What the fuck?”

“That nude you just sent me,” Danny replies. “You have no ass. It’s sad, really.”

Yuta doesn’t know how long it takes him to process what Danny’s said. “What?”

Danny grins. “The full body nude in the mirror? I’d call it tasteful, but you look like a whore.” He shrugs. Yuta hates when he looks this full of himself. “So I guess it’s slutty. Congratulations. You’ve developed a personality.”

Yuta doesn’t answer – he’s too busy staring, horrified, at where he’d sent the photo to Danny instead of Mox. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Danny says. “Wasn’t meant for me, was it?”

“Meant for Mox,” Yuta mutters. He looks at Danny, trying to level him with the best glare he can manage. “Delete it.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t meant for you!” Yuta’s shrieking now. God, only fucking Garcia. “Get rid of it?”

“What if I want to look at it?” Danny asks.

“Why,” Yuta asks, trying to keep himself from jumping through the screen and throttling Danny, “would you want to look at it?”

Danny shrugs. “Sorry for being into hot guys or whatever.” He grins. “Can I show Zay? He’s got a thing for your abs.”

Yuta watches himself go from pissed to interested in the little window of his phone. “He does?”

Danny nods. “Zay! Come here!”

“Don’t – leave him out of this!”

“Zay, come look at this.”

“What?” Isiah’s face pops into frame. “Oh, hey, Yuta.” Then he focuses in on the screen. “Oh shit. That’s full dick right there.”

“Oh my god,” Yuta says, dropping his head into his hands. “Please delete it, Danny.”

“I will,” Danny says, “but you should know, it’s a good shot. You can’t do anything about a medical case of pancake ass, but the cum gutters make up for it.”

“Your chest looks wild,” Isiah comments. “Gonna have to give me some of those pec workouts.”

“This is the worst phone call of my life,” Yuta mutters. He should hang up. He should shut the phone down. “It’s really not bad?”

“Pancake ass is completely forgivable when you got your arms like that so I can see your torso,” Zay says. “Also.” He lets out a low whistle. “Packing some serious heat, Yuta. Damn.”

“Shut up,” Yuta says, rolling his eyes.

“It’s probably warm in the hotel room,” Danny muses. “I’ve seen him in colder locker rooms and his dick is way less impressive.”

“Why are we talking about my dick?!”

“Because you sent me a nude and I’m going to look,” Danny says. He looks directly at the camera and Yuta has to fight himself not to look away. Danny breaks the digital eye contact first and looks up at Isiah, with an interesting little smile on his lips. “Hey, Zay?” He flutters his eyelashes. Kind of. Kind of like…

Yuta’s brain can’t finish the sentence.

“I’m way ahead of you, baby,” Isiah says.

Yuta blinks. He’s a few steps behind. He knows he is.

“Earth to Yuta,” Isiah says. “You having a crisis or something?”

“No?” Yuta says. “What? Are you two together?”

Danny snorts. “Jesus. Yeah. Duh? Have you seen Zay’s vlog?”

Yuta has. Specifically to see Danny, which is something he will absolutely not admit. “Yeah, but I thought – I figured that was for views or something.”

Danny snorts. “I do a lot of shit for views, but sexually frustrating Zay is all for me.” He grins.

Yuta licks his lips before he can stop himself. “Cool.” That’s his choice of word to respond. Cool. He’s going to go throw himself into the hotel pool and hope to turn into a fish. Fish don’t have to deal with awkward situations.

“You’re still here, aren’t you,” Danny says. His eyes flicker up to Zay, who nods. “You should come to our room.”

The words slowly sink in and settle. “Are you hitting on me?”

Danny shrugs and leans back in the chair. He’s shirtless. Yuta hadn’t realized he was shirtless.

He notices, also, Zay is too.

“You sent me a nude,” Danny says. “I figured if anything that would be considered the first move.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Yuta says, but there’s less insistence in his voice. “Fuck it. Are you two seriously hitting on me, or is this a joke?”

“It’s serious,” Zay says, popping his head into the screen. “I’ve seen how you and Danny wrestle. Tell me you haven’t thought about fucking him.”

Yuta rolls his eyes. “I think about fucking everybody I wrestle, practically.” It’s apparently a weird thing to say based on Zay’s eyebrows. “What? You don’t?”

“I do,” Danny jumps in. “But most of those people don’t, you know. Send me pictures of their dick and cum gutters on a random Saturday night, so.” His eyes go just the tiniest bit soft. “Are you, like, on the way over here or…?” The suggestion, then anticipation, hang in the air.

“Goddamnit,” Yuta says, sighing. “What’s your room number? This is a terrible idea.”

“Love how you’re already regretting it,” Danny says with an eye roll. But a text pops through to Yuta with the room number in it.

With a glance toward where his intended pajamas rest on the hotel chair, he sighs. “Yeah. Uh. I’ll see you two in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, big boy.”

Yuta really is regretting it now that he’s seen Danny try to wink.

After dressing in what he hopes are appropriate booty call clothes, Yuta checks himself in the mirror before he leaves. His hair’s a mess, still wet from the shower. It was a good idea, at the time – a dripping wet shot, muscles still pumped from the matches. Now it feels like a lot.

He rubs his hand through his hair and walks toward the door, trying to force himself to reconsider this. It’s a bad idea. A really bad idea. Zay vlogs everything and Danny doesn’t know how to shut up.

Then again, he realizes as he slides on his shoes, he hadn’t known Zay and Danny were actually together until they told him.

Maybe they can be discrete.

He looks up and down the hallway as he gets to the elevator. He’s not sure who else is on his floor other than Bryan, who yelled at him for taking the elevator earlier that day, and he doesn’t want to be caught. Luckily, the coast is clear.

He presses the button for Danny and Zay’s floor and begins thinking up excuses for if someone he knows spots him. He’s going to the gym. He’s getting a drink from the hotel bar. It’s none of your business, Trent, go fuck yourself.

He thinks he’s got plenty in his arsenal as the doors open, but he’s in front of the room without interference before he knows it.

He knocks. He waits. He freaks out a little.

And then the door opens.

“Hey,” Zay says, effortlessly cool. Yuta may be willing to admit he’s had a crush for quite some time. But not to anyone but himself, and not until this moment.

Yuta steps in and sees Danny stretched out on the bed. It feels almost too real now, like everything up until this second was a game and now he’s all in.

He swallows. Danny looks up.

“Oh, you showed up!” Danny looks genuinely excited. He throws his phone somewhere among the pillows in the king sized bed and sits up. “Alright. Show us the goods.”

“Fuck,” Yuta says, barking out a laugh before he can stop himself, “no romance about it?”

Danny shrugs. He shuffles down the bed, legs splayed, arms behind his head. Yuta’s eyes lock on the grin. “Do I need romance to get you over here?”

Yuta stares at him. And stares. “Hold on,” he says, “before we go into this, I thought you hated me.”

Danny shakes his head. “Nah. You’re just easy to rile up, is all. And you look hot when you’re angry.”

Yuta rolls his eyes. ���Jesus Christ. You’re awful.”

“Yeah, but you love it.”

This is usually, Yuta realizes, where Danny would walk away with the last word. It’s usually where he himself gives up and walks away because he knows the argument will go on for hours if he doesn’t.

But Danny’s in front of him, grinning up at him from the mussed sheets of the bed.

He startles a little when he feels a hand rest on his waist. Zay pulls back.

“Sorry,” Zay says, and Yuta hadn’t known his voice could get that gentle. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Yuta says, willing himself to relax. “Yeah, just – didn’t expect to be here tonight, you know?”

Danny’s still smiling. It’s unfair, how comfortable he looks. How at peace in his body as he looks up at Yuta. “That’s okay, if you’re nervous,” Danny says. “We can take care of you.”

Zay snorts.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Danny grumbles.

“I’m – look, it’s just funny with you saying you’ll take care of somebody when you’re already all spread out in front of us.” Zay walks around Yuta, trailing his fingers along Yuta’s waist, and he sits on the bed. “You wanna take care of Danny, Yuta?”

This – it’s not uncharted territory, exactly. He and Mox and Claudio and Bryan have done…similar things in different permutations of each other, but he’s not usually the leader there. Usually, he gets a little more guidance.

He’s not used to having the reins. He kind of likes it.

“Depends,” Yuta says, his voice barely a murmur. “What do you want, Danny?”

Danny sits up, and there’s that insufferable, pretty little pout. “What do you think?”

“I mean,” Yuta says, “I figured, since you invited me over, you’d have an idea.”

Danny shrugs.

Frustration flares the anxiety building in Yuta’s chest, a catalyst for something a little unkind. “Jesus – you usually never shut up, and now you’re making me talk?”

“I don’t – what is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” Yuta asks. He notices Danny’s – he’s crawling toward him, sort of, on the bed. “You hit on me and tell me to come over and you don’t even know what you want from me?”

Danny groans. “You are terrible at picking up vibes.” He leans in and, before Yuta can process it, Danny’s kissing him. He yanks him down and falls to the bed, bracing himself with an arm, and then Danny’s in his lap and his hands are in Yuta’s hair and they’re kissing.

It’s almost automatic. Yuta’s hands go to Danny’s ass and haul him in closer, well aware of Zay’s eyes on them, and decides to do what he does best: perform.

Danny’s easy to get moaning, hands on his hips, grabbing his ass, licking into his mouth. Eventually, he turns his head, panting against Yuta’s neck. “Zay,” he manages, “Zay, Yuta’s really good at kissing.”

Yuta glances over to see Zay grinning. “I can see that.”

“I hate it,” Danny whines. He turns back to Yuta. “Why the fuck do you have to be good at everything?”

Yuta levels Danny with what Bryan calls his little shit smile. “Don’t you like it, though?”

Danny groans and leans in, crushing his mouth to Yuta’s, knocking the two of them over. Danny’s maddening with how quickly he goes after Yuta’s clothes.

“Easy, baby,” Zay chuckles. “Let me have a chance, damn.”

Yuta manages to pull his mouth away from Danny’s, but he just locks his mouth on Yuta’s neck instead of leaning back. “Is he always like this?”

Zay shrugs. “Kind of.” He leans in and kisses Yuta, and it’s so different from Danny that it’s almost whiplash. There’s a lot going on all at once – Yuta’s brain is turning to mush before long – and at some point they’re all naked and Zay’s hand is on his dick and Yuta’s mouth is on Danny’s dick.

“God, why are you good at this, too?” Danny whimpers, slowly stroking Zay. It’s almost lazy. Yuta’s kind of disappointed because he himself is going all out. He swirls his tongue around Danny’s dick and Danny’s hips twitch. “Zay, I hate him.”

Yuta pulls off with a pop. “It’s weird you insult me this much,” Yuta says. “Especially since I’m pretty sure you’re about to beg me to fuck you.”

“I wasn’t!” Danny says. Yuta glances at Zay, who is clearly fighting a laugh as he stares at Danny. “Shut up, Zay, you’re making this worse.”

Yuta gets to watch as Zay works Danny open. He’s respectful of all of them – keeps his hand off of his dick other than the occasional stroke while Zay fucks Danny into oblivion with his fingers.

“Usually,” Isiah says casually, “I don’t take this much time, because Danny’s a glutton for punishment, but I figure since you’re a new dick I should be a little more careful with him.” He leans down and kisses Danny’s spine, so gently it makes Yuta’s heart hurt a little bit. “Right, baby? We’re gonna be sweet to you tonight.”

Danny nods and turns his face, beaming at Yuta. “You’re not as big as Zay,” he says, and the tone makes it feel less like an insult, “but I think you’re thicker, right?”

“I think so too, baby,” Zay says. “Gotta take care of you.”

“Can I?” Yuta asks. He presses his lips together, unsure of how to ask. “Are you sure I – you want me to?”

“Hell yeah,” Danny says. “We practically hate fuck in the ring every time we wrestle. I can only guess this is gonna be fucking amazing.”

Yuta watches Zay gently pull his fingers from Danny, stroking one pad of the finger over his hole to see Danny push backward against him. “You ready?”

Yuta nods as he rolls on the condom. “I’m ready. Do you want me to…?” He looks down at Zay’s dick.

Zay grins. “Well, I got some ideas for what we can do, but not right now.” He nods to Danny. “He wants your dick, doesn’t he.”

Danny nods. “Get to it, Yuta.”

“I can’t believe you’re being such a bitch when I’m about to fuck you,” Yuta grumbles. But he lines himself up and waits. “Are you sure –”

“Will you stop acting like I haven’t been planning this for months?” Danny interrupts. He spreads his legs and lays down on his stomach, ass in the air. “Fuck me.”

Yuta’s entire brain blanks when he slides into Danny. He’d be lying if he said he’s never had this idea in his head before, if he said that he didn’t imagine the way Danny’s body would feel under him when they weren’t wrestling. He glances over to Zay who nods.

“Give it to him,” he says, voice low. “He wants it. I swear.” His eyes flicker to Danny.

“We’ve talked about it,” Danny says, rolling his hips to take more of Yuta inside of him. “A lot. It – it gets me off every time.”

“I can’t believe you decided to insult me all this time instead of asking me to fuck you,” Yuta says through gritted teeth. “You’re impossible.”

He moves, slowly, carefully, until Danny’s pulling his hips back and meeting Yuta’s thrusts, encouraging him to speed up. It’s too fucking good.

“Shit,” Zay says. Yuta spares a second to glance next to him, where Zay is standing next to the bed, naked with his hand on his dick. He strokes slowly, eyes locked on Danny’s face. “You look so good, Danny. Never gotten to see you from this angle before.”

Danny grins over at him. “Can I – can I…” He trails off and drops his head to look down at Zay’s dick, then slowly drags his gaze back up to Zay’s face.

Yuta pulls out of Danny for the quickest of moments to let Danny adjust on his hands and knees, and then Danny shifts his hips back so Yuta can sink into his heat again.

“There you go, baby,” Zay murmurs. Yuta stills as he watches as Zay slowly feeds Danny his dick. He wishes he could get a good look at Danny’s face. He thinks it would be incredible. “That okay?”

Danny nods and, to Yuta’s amused horror, starts speaking around Zay’s cock. He laughs in spite of himself with a hand on Danny’s hip.

“What?” Zay asks, pulling back.

“I said, ‘honestly, you could go deeper’,” Danny says.

“And you thought it made sense to talk with my dick in your mouth?” Zay asks. He meets Yuta’s bewildered look with one of his own.

Danny shrugs. “I’m getting a fantasy fulfilled. Let me live.”

“I – whatever.”

“Good to know he’s like that with everybody,” Yuta says, circling his hips.

“Goes for you, too.”

“What does?” Yuta asks.

“You can go deeper,” Danny says. He throws a look over his shoulder that kind of makes Yuta want to strangle him. “Gimme all of what I saw in that sext, Yoots.”

“It wasn’t a sext,” Yuta says, but he does push all the way into Danny’s willing body. Danny sighs as he opens up for him, shifting his hips to adjust again, and it’s a lot. “It – it was an accidental text or whatever.”

Something about the moment resonates. The three of them lose the ability to speak.

“Fuck,” Yuta says, after a day or an hour or a minute. He’s struggling enough to keep it together as it is, but when he locks eyes with Zay he can feel his resolve failing. “Fuck, Danny, how close are you?”

Danny reaches up a hand to flip him off.

“Oh. Right. Dick in your mouth.”

“He’s close,” Zay says. “I can tell – he’s not taking me as deep anymore but he’s going wild on your dick.” He nods. “Grab his. He’ll like it.”

“You want to come?” Yuta asks. “You can.”

Danny makes a muffled sound through a mouthful of Zay’s cock, and Yuta has to force some of the control Bryan and Mox have taught him to not lose it right there. He leans forward, shifting the angle in a way that gets Danny moaning around Zay, and wraps a hand around his cock. Danny turns his head and gasps.

“Please,” he whines, “I wanna come.”

“You can,” Zay says. He strokes his cock wildly. “Come, baby. All over him. I wanna see how pretty you look with Yuta’s dick in your ass.” Zay meets Yuta’s eyes as he continues. “Rough. Fast. It’s how he likes it.”

Yuta does so, never breaking eye contact, and he feels as Danny comes. But what really gets him is watching Zay come all over Danny’s face.

That’s it. No amount of training or BCC bullshit could have stopped Yuta from shoving himself so deep inside Danny he’ll get locked there forever and coming his sanity away.

“Jesus,” Zay mutters.

Yuta shakes his head and comes back. Zay is running a thumb across Danny’s face. “Does he look good covered in come?”

“He sure does,” Zay chuckles.

Yuta pulls out, as slowly and carefully as possible, and releases what apparently had been an iron grip on Danny’s hips by the way Danny falls onto the bed. He rolls over. “Goddamn,” Yuta says. “You wait right here, baby.” On impulse, he leans down and kisses Danny’s cheek, getting a little bit of Zay’s come on his lips. He licks it off and turns to Zay.

“You can’t just do shit like that.” Zay leans over Danny and yanks him in for an aggressive kiss, one Yuta would expect from Claudio or Mox but not from Zay.

“Fuck, okay,” Yuta says when he pulls back. He blinks himself back into focus. “Damn. Hold on. Let me get something to help clean up Danny.”

He ties off and throws away the condom as he runs the water warm. He wipes himself up first, then brings two more towels back.

“Here,” he says, gently wiping down Danny’s face. “You feeling okay?” He grabs the other towel and mops up his belly.

“You’re so much nicer after you’ve gotten laid,” Danny mumbles. It’s a marvel he manages to be this bitchy covered in come and fucked out, but Yuta shouldn’t be surprised.

“Wish I could say the same for you,” Yuta laughs. He taps at Danny’s hip and Danny turns over. Yuta feels Zay’s eyes on him as he cleans up the last of the lube and some stray come that dripped down from Danny’s cock. “You’re still as much of a bitch as ever.”

“He really is,” Zay says. He steps backward and stumbles.

“You good?” Yuta asks. He tosses the towels to the side and gets comfortable sitting up against the headboard.

Zay nods. “Yeah, just tripped over your phone.” He picks it up. “Show me that nude of yours again.”

“You saw all of me naked in person!” Yuta laughs, but he unlocks it anyway.

“Yeah we did,” Danny says, grinning. He grabs the phone from Yuta’s hands. “Yeah. You look good here.”

“Weren’t you gonna text the picture to Mox in the first place?” Zay asks. His eyes are soft and content as ever as he pulls on a pair of sweats from the floor. “Send it, Danny.”

“No!” Yuta dives over Danny, pinning him to the bed again as he grabs his phone back from Danny’s hands. He blushes. He’s not sure why. He was inside Danny, like, five minutes ago. “Give it back.”

“I’m just saying,” Zay says. He drapes himself over Danny and Yuta like it’s nothing. Like this is how they always are. “What’s stopping you now?”

Yuta sighs. “I was planning to send it to him to see if it was a good enough nude,” he admits.

“Good enough for what?”

“For – for being a nude, what else?” Yuta asks. He shoves Zay off of him, but then Danny’s on top of him and he’s lost that battle again.

Danny sighs. “I think Zay was hoping that nude was an accidentally on purpose situation.” He grins. Yuta pokes at a bruise he’d left on Danny’s collarbone, but it backfires when Danny closes his eyes and moans, every so slightly. “Since you’ve been flirting with me for years.”

“I have not,” Yuta says. He shifts so Danny’s got his face toward Yuta’s, but still on his chest. “What? I haven’t been flirting with you.”

“So every time we’ve yelled at each other,” Danny says, frowning, “that wasn’t flirting?”

“I – it wasn’t supposed to be.” Yuta thinks back. In the moment, he’d thought each moment was combat, was Danny trying to prove how much better he was. But now… “Holy shit, you’ve been flirting with me like a fucking dick the whole time.”

“I thought you were flirting back!” Danny says. “I thought that was, like, your vibe with the BCC.” He scoots up, and Yuta’s entire chest feels tight as Danny snuggles into his side.

“I figured that was you being bitter about not being BCC or something,” Yuta says, and he trails his fingertips up and down Danny’s back. His chest tightens again when Danny sighs against his skin. “I always thought you’d be more obvious about it if you were flirting.”

“I constantly brought up sex,” Danny mutters. “I felt like that was obvious enough.”

“That is a fair point.” Yuta looks over at Zay who smiles and nods. Yuta tilts Danny’s chin up and kisses him, soft. It’s different from before. It feels right.

“Maybe now he’ll stop talking about you so much,” Zay says. “He never shuts up about you, dude. Yuta this, Yuta that.” He reaches down and pinches lightly at the skin on Danny’s arm. Danny bats him away.

“Do not,” Danny mumbles. He rolls over Yuta until he’s draped across both of them.

“You definitely do, baby, but it’s cute.” Zay leans up and kisses Danny, and Yuta doesn’t feel jealous.

“Can we do this again next week?” Danny asks. “Or, like, any week we’re all at the same place. Whatever.” He’s wiggled in between Yuta and Zay, looking immensely cozy.

“Zay?” Yuta asks. “Does he add ‘whatever’ whenever he’s asking for something he really wants?”

Zay laughs, eyes crinkling and smile skipping a heartbeat in Yuta’s chest. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

“Shut up,” Danny whines. “This is bullying. You two are bullying me.”

Yuta decides to let Danny have the last word this time. But he makes sure the words are well and truly done with a kiss to Danny’s lips.  

~

Mini Playlist: Selfie - Chainsmokers 3 - Britney Spears FUCK - Snow Wife Castle in the Sky - Kim Petras

[mapsofnonexistentplaces]

25 for end of year asks!

25. Did you create any characters (in games, art, or writing) this year? Describe one

GODDAMN DID I! came up with most of the ghosts in ccs this year and it was fun but i think i’m gonna soapbox a bit about the facsimiles because i haven’t really anywhere else….

these guys have technically existed in the narrative since last summer but i hadn’t really developed them nor designed them until like. literally this summer so about an entire year later. their whole deals just being sentient bits of code derived from the memories of two other existing characters. person who made them (marjolaine) has been experimenting with evolving human consciousness from raw code and the facsimiles endeavour was basically just another expression of that with the addendum of an animate human origin point

in the past i’ve like described these two as “new shoots of a plant growing from the same root of an established organism” because they both arise from younger incarnations of their bases and have like. basically fully split apart in ego despite maintaining the memories and foundation of them.

these two guys also just basically exist in the computer. which is also the sky of the entire world. don’t worry about it. but they don’t exist corporeally and can only really commune through a computer interface

frances on the right is a younger copy of marjolaine…. for context marjolaine used to be a prestigious opera singer who ended up straining her voice so heavily she retained permanent vocal strain that completely killed her career and also weakened her ability to consistently speak at all. frances was built from memories PRIOR to that as a way for marjolaine to relive her glory days but frances themself became like. very unimpressed with that responsibility and was much more interested in manipulating their own existence and partial omniscience (as a result of being expanded on with code) to just become a major gossip basically hehe. they love peoplewatching the living and coming up with absurd ‘theories’ and assumptions about their behaviours, making bets on things that will happen, peeking into potential ‘timelines’ for fun….

eventually though marjolaine grew extremely ornery with their waywardness, and started to pressure and berate them into fulfilling that desired snapshot of her own life. this placed a lot of stress on frances and they basically just shattered into code under it which. although not a permanent affliction is something that requires a prolonged period of recovery. and prior to ‘dying’ they basically vowed to never commune with marjolaine again so. that bridge is burnt. fucked up your clone real bad!

(also yes they’re named after that One Album. for no reason really)

sezim on the left derives from another guy (olzhas, who has many problems, such as being friends with marjolaine) who basically ‘donated’ eir own memories for this experiment only to like. very quickly regret it once it turned out sezim developed into kind of just. an embarrassing immature bratty version of emself from like 5 years back. he’s much more vexed about setting himself apart as a distinct individual than frances was, to the point that it’s what occupies his mind most…. his main pastime WAS hanging out with frances and testing the precise vastness of their knowledge, together, but once frances exploded and shit, seething about his general existence kind of took priority lol. he’s basically just got an entire thing of “i’m a terrifying being of great wisdom and power but i have to be tied to this random motherfucker that i hate and i wish i could shed all that influence off. and also i’m confined to a computer.” he sort of just ‘fled’ once frances exploded (which he’s EXTREMELY bitter about btw) and has formed an undying grudge against marjolaine, thus never contacting her again afterward….

these two have a weird role in the story where they’re kind of just setpieces for their bases’ story arcs. funnily enough. but they’ve got a bit of meta to them that i think is interesting…. mostly just embodying the idea of “here’s ‘people’ who both literally and figuratively sit ‘above’ the narrative and the traditional idea of being developed characters” by design they’re kind of just witnesses or, more aptly, critics of the main conflict of the story which is all about really convoluted and annoying interpersonal drama radiating out into more serious conflict. they kind of think it’s all stupid and avoidable and they are 100% right. but who’s going to listen to them! nobody’s really casting an ear to them since they’re so above it all to begin with….

or something like that. i like these two catty fucks

[goawaypopup]

Roddacember Day 2: Your favorite Place

Well, I wouldn't want to visit, but...

The Shadowlands is a place that's been caught in my mind since that first faint recollection of the party walking face-first into an invisible wall. There is no leaving this place, not anymore. The Shadow Lord is going for sheer effectiveness over a number of other showy villain options, and that makes it terrifying in a way that a shark moat would decidedly not be.

This is how he's such an effective villain while never really appearing in person. He is not just a character, but a force of ruination, and one that pursues his goals intelligently, something that adds a lot to his threat. (He/it goals.)

We see this characterization through the Shadowlands, the place that has been wholly absorbed by him. The sun itself has been replaced somehow with his symbol in the sky. Breathing the air gradually gives you clinical depression. Someone gets eaten by beetles not ten minutes in.

These things are far more haunting than the fact that the place is desolate and has monsters.

The unknown is also used here to great effect. We know that that factory over there, with the constant smoke from those tall chimneys, is busy designing facsimiles of life and grafting humans to animal parts. But we only see some of the finished products of the Factory, and Claw, the escapee. The medical horrors that go on inside (children's book, everyone!) are left to your imagination.

...The pile of living Grey Guard corpses outside is fair game though.

I also always liked how so much of this place is left unknown. There is absolutely no trace of Pirra left here, and its people neither remember nor are able to return. Nobody comes back ever again, before or since Doom, and King Lief's rescue mission.

Nobody knows what even exists in the deeper continent. Maps of Deltora cut off at the border, and there doesn't even seem to be any knowledge of the north coast at all. Everybody stays way the hell away from the evil beach, I suppose.

Good stuff. And perhaps it makes for a better story, that the Shadowlands will likely never be reclaimed or explored further.

[sidhewrites]

❝    IF YOU WALK FAR ENOUGH You will find a castle With more books and scrolls Than stars in the sky …   ❞

Mistress Ruby, the Lady of Scrolls

The current biography of my oldest OC.

CW for implications of grooming, abuse, child death, cannibalism*, spiders, light body horror.

ONCE UPON A TIME…

There was a princess with golden hair and the smile of a wolf, but she was all alone. She was covered in dirt and scrounged for food, until she met a dragon who promised her the world. All the gold and all the jewels and all the pretty dresses she could dream of – if she only went into his cage.

What choice did she have? She followed the dragon back to his hoard, where he cleaned her and dressed her, and taught her to smile like a doll instead of a wolf. She learned to be soft in the dragon’s cage. She learned to be tame. And she learned to make all the men in all the realms fall over themselves just for a chance to see her laugh.

And laugh she did. She smiled and sang and danced with every man the dragon pointed his claws at, all while her heart rotted in her chest, dead and forgotten, burning cold with hate.

Then one day, the princess had a child. A beautiful, healthy girl that made everything worth it. The laughter, the men, the cage. For a moment, the princess remembered how to smile as herself again, but the dragon locked the child away, because he could not bear letting someone matter more than himself. But she would be safe, he promised.

So long as the princess did as she was told, the little girl would be raised and loved and want for nothing. So the princess laughed and smiled like a porcelain doll and kissed all the rich men that asked.

And the dragon raked his claws down her back and her face and her neck, so she would never forget that she belonged to him.

SHE BORE IT ALL WITH A SMILE.

And then, one day, she met a fairy. It was a handsome creature, with glittering wings and long fingers, that took her hands and asked for a kiss, a dance, and a laugh. “In exchange,” they promised, “I will grant you three wishes. Anything in the world you like.”

So the princess asked to be free of the dragon. She wished for her child, warm in her arms once more. And she wished for the power to be safe from anyone who would hurt them ever again.

But fairies, after all, are fickle things, and this one granted the princess’s wishes in their own way.

True, she was free of the dragon. True, she was given her little girl, safe and sound. And true, she became strong. But, like all fae - granted wishes, not a one came as expected.

THE FAIRY GAVE HER A CASTLE.

It was a beautiful thing, old stone covered in ivy, filled with books upon books. An astrological clock topped one tower, an observatory the other. It was a world of knowledge, and her silver eyes saw every word and illustration within. “You will be safe so long as you keep this realm,” the fairy promised, but never said that she could leave.

THE FAIRY MADE HER STRONG.

She grew and grew, her two legs now eight, a spider of a woman with too many hands and eight moon-bright eyes that could see into the very threads of the world.

One last time, she came to the dragon in his den, and tore him to pieces. His blood was sweeter than any wine, and she swallowed every last bit of him up. It was as easy as plucking a flower from its bed, and sated her the way no food ever could.

AND THE FAIRY RETURNED HER LITTLE GIRL.

She was too sickly and afraid at first, a slip of a thing with night-black curls falling in her eyes. But she was safe – and she was little. And as the days and months and years passed, it became clear. Little, she would always be. The true girl had perished years ago, too long-gone to revive. This was a facsimile, a foundling child woven together out of magic and mud from the very stream encircling the castle grounds.

But they were together once more, in the only way they could be. Together and safe, in the realm of stories and books and poetry.

AND IT IS NOW.

The Archival Palace is a fae - made thing, fickle in when and where it appears, and in which dimension or world. But it appears all the same, to those who seek knowledge - and those who don’t. Her Ladyship the Archivist is a fearsome thing to behold at first, seven feet tall, with a veil over her shining eyes.

Those who frequent her halls know well. Mistress Spider is imperious when it suits her, vicious and bloodthirsty in the most literal sense. But she is very nearly warm when she cares to be, stern but quick to laugh and ever eager for gossip. Close friends may be few for the archivist, but her halls are welcoming to those who look past the occasional bramble or cobwebs.

Those who are lost may find any answer they need in her halls. Any question may be asked – but payment must be delivered. No longer human, the Archivist has no choice but to obey the fairy blood in her veins. No lies, no iron – and no gifts. Everything has a price, even the simplest of inquiries.

Once payment is rendered, be it a quest, a boon, or a simple joke to make her daughter laugh, the Archivist removes her veil. She Sees into the fabric of the world and answers the question whether the answer is easy or not.

And her little girl – her Jane – flutters about the halls on glittering wings. Forever a child, yet happy as can be as she reads and plays and dreams of adventures she'll have when she's grown.

AND TOGETHER, THEY LIVE FOREVERMORE.

.

.

.

Tag List: @leahnardo-da-veggie