#carnage the moth

[the1trueanon]

Happy ArtFight 2023, everyone!! It was super fun and I'm really happy I got to take part this year!

I was super hyperfocused on moths this year lol -- I might be again next year 👀 there were so many cool moth characters and I didn't get to get to them all, I've still got a bunch bookmarked! -- so here's all my attacks from this year! In order: Olive for @harmonymarigold Turon for @turontot Carnage the Moth for @flakytartart Motti for BlueDaLoser Raziel for Soonde36 And a friendly fire of Ann and Apollo for @ariisonfire/@ari-fire-arts

This was really fun!! I loved getting to experiment with you guys characters and seeing all the cool ideas people have! I'm super excited for next year!

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

Why don't you trust butterflies 🧍🦋

well you see, when i was a very small child, i had a nightmare. it began outside a beautiful gated garden, lush with flowers and foliage. every adult that tried to enter was promptly eaten by giant spiders that dropped down from the gate's arch.

i, being very small at the time, was able to enter without harm. and inside were countless butterflies of all sizes! it was gorgeous! i still remember it vividly despite having this dream a loooooong time ago! but i most vividly remember leaning down to look at a butterfly on a gorgeous flower.

then a different butterfly came over and cannibalized it. slowly. while the smaller one just sat there and let it happen, gently fluttering its wings.

and when i looked around the garden, i saw that the butterflies were all cannibals. and they helped the spiders eat people. it was beautiful carnage.

also butterflies are just ingenuine! they're the mean girls! they're all "oh we're so pretty and innocent look at us so so prettyyyy" girl you literally feed on carrion, rotting fruit, shit, and mud, stop lying

[lilacthebooklover]

very tempted to summon all of my mutuals into whiteboard fox and watch the chaos that ensues

[pluvialpoet]

how to disappear

Summary: a reunion ten years in the making serves as a reminder that absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder- especially when history has a tendency to repeat itself 

Pairing: dick grayson x fem!vigilante!reader

Requested: no

Warning: nsfw!!! (18+ MDNI), porn with plot, lovers to enemies, unprotected sex, implied breeding kink, choking, angst, minor barbara gordon slander (for the plot, I swear)- do not read if you are not comfortable with the warnings listed above!!!

Word Count: 12,874

masterlist

Light reflects off the crystals that hang from the chandeliers above, and like a moth drawn to a shiny flame, you bask in the warmth of their glow. For as beautiful as the crystalline teardrops twenty-two feet overhead are, they dull in comparison to the- equal parts blinding and mesmerizing, simultaneously gorgeous, yet gaudy- diamonds that dangle from earlobes, rubies that rest against décolletages, and the pearls placed upon dainty fingers in an over the top display of money, power, and status. It’s the epitome of wealth, and though meant to allure, you find yourself disgusted by the flashy exhibitions of greed and corruption.

Every smile is artificial. Every laugh is humorless and diluted. Any feeling beyond complete and utter misery is a hoax. Yet, they play their parts. Each and every one of them continues to mingle, boast, and feign genuineness, but it’s obvious what they are, even beneath their disguises, you recognize the vultures circling the fresh carnage of the innocent- with blood on their talons and a hunger that’s never truly satiated. Do they even know what they’ve done? Do they even care? Given a chance to make amends, would any of them take it?

Revulsion counters amusement as you watch the elite interact with one another. It’s pathetic. In a room full of affluence, not a single person knows pleasure beyond material possessions, and that’s an injustice in itself. Amongst thieves, you’re the honesty that rivals them all- and that’s a scary revelation, all things considered.

Taking advantage of the large crowd, you continue to bump elbows with the rich- literally- as you weave your way through the opulent mass. A tight-lipped smile is granted when you pass an older woman, and an even wider flash of teeth catches your attention from a man around your age. Mimicking the gestures seal your fate, damning you- even if only temporarily- to this game of confusion, a game in which approval and disgust are indiscernible. Having had years to grow accustomed to the tricks of this elitist trade, it’s almost impossible to recall a simpler time. Back when you still thought there might be a modicum of authenticity behind the action, back before you were close enough to spot the invisible strings controlling the marionettes, you believed- and even hoped- that you had it all wrong. There was a time, long, long ago, when you were desperate to believe that there was still some good left in these people, but you grew out of your naivety. Now older, and wiser, you won’t make the same mistakes you once made. Under the influence of optimism, your purpose became convoluted. Not anymore.

Without anyone to dissuade you from reaching out- to challenge you from swiping a few bejeweled tennis bracelets, engagement rings, or even one or two watches and calling it a day- a thrum of urgency spreads through your fingertips. It’s an impulsive electricity you can’t deny. Besides, it’s not like social dynasties would crumble if a few diamonds went missing. If only it were that easy…

Wealth doesn’t doom these poor, unfortunate souls, but their greed- coupled with the blood on their hands- paints a distinguishable target on their backs. If you look closely, it’s impossible to miss that they’re all cut from the same cloth. A hundred different reflections of the same privileged archetype imitate the same gestures, mannerisms, and movements to a tee. An amateur would operate under the guise of distraction- causing a small scene and offering their apologies before making off with their prize- but you’re not an amateur. Not anymore. Not by a long shot. 

A few women- four or five, at most- nurse flutes of bubbling booze a few feet away. The sound of their laughter is a little too joyous to be feigned and when one of them waves a manicured hand towards a waiter, signaling another round of drinks, you start to put the pieces together. Perhaps, the ladies in your sights are the most genuine in attendance- even if they’ve lost themselves to their cups. Matching their demeanor is child’s play. Once equipped with a half-empty glass from a server on their way back to the kitchens, you stumble towards the group, plastering on the same elated- intoxicated- grin, and hope that they’re inebriated enough to be welcoming towards a newcomer. Masking the bitter taste of insincerity with a sip of prosecco, a greeting rises from the mix, but it never has the chance to come to fruition because a large hand wraps around your wrist- effectively halting your heist before it even really had a chance to begin.

You should’ve known better.

As you turn to glare at the idiot who dared to put their hands on you, your breath catches.

Two birds die from the blow of one stone, and he takes advantage of your stupor- finding that you’re more pliant in your daze- leading you away from the women you intended to rob, and into the crowd. More witnesses make it less likely for you to cause a scene. At least, that’s his logic, anyway.  While it’s not exactly flawed, it’s not all that accurate, either, but for old time's sake, you’ll play along. His hold on you remains firm, and he reaches for the flute in your hand with his other, placing it on a tray and discarding the prop. Your surprise begins to morph into anger- especially when he pulls you closer towards him as the orchestra starts to play a tune. Remembering the steps forced upon you as a child is muscle memory, and you glare daggers up at him- though, they don’t pierce nearly as deeply as the blue of his irises.

“Nice hair,” Dick revels in your obvious frustration of being thwarted, his lips curling into a smirk when your frown deepens, and he asks, “I thought you were blonde, last I saw you?”

“I was,” For the sake of maintaining appearances, you don a phony expression of your own and respond with as much benevolence as you can muster- even though you’re filled with animosity- as he leads you through the steps of the dance. “And you didn’t have a five o’clock shadow,” You note, allowing yourself a split second to take in everything that’s changed since the last time you saw him, before pressing your lips together tightly with a huff.

“Things change.” 

 As if he needed the reminder…

Chance has never meddled in your relationship. Coincidence doesn’t exist within the realm of precision both you and Dick operate from. Everything has always been on purpose, calculated and planned, never left blindly to fate or possibility- which is why this meeting isn’t an accident. As if he can feel you about to pull away, he flexes his fingers against you, tightening his grip and holding you in place. Ten years later- ten years too late- he’s found you. Not destiny, not a fluke, but with his own intention, and you wish that he would’ve just stayed away.

“What are you doing here, Dick?” As you abandon your costume, your smile falls away to reveal genuine loathing as you force the question from behind gritted teeth. Still, despite your obvious disdain, he doesn’t let you go. “Last I checked, you were in San Francisco- and more recently, Blüdhaven. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You keeping tabs on me?” His amusement contradicts your revulsion, and a shallow breath purges the threat of an outburst. Dick has always had a way of getting under your skin, of pushing your buttons and doing everything he possibly could to make you tick, but the sudden onslaught of such juvenile taunting fills you with a fire not even he can extinguish- not anymore. Despite his charming exterior, the steady flow of his breath, and the easy grin of confidence that was once impossible not to mirror, dampness swells where your palms meet, and you feel the rough, raised reminders that he’s kept busy during your time apart- that he’s evolved into a stranger despite how familiar he still seems- and you wonder if he can feel it too, if he can tell just by touch, that you’re not the same girl he once knew.

“I keep tabs on everyone who might get in my way,” Your eyes narrow accusatorially, and the corner of his mouth twitches. “You’re not special.”

“That’s not what you said the last time we-“

“Yeah, well, the last time was when we were teenagers, and a lot has changed since then.” Any attempt to remain cordial flies out the window when he dares to mention the last time- like it hasn’t plagued you for a decade. Not even he possesses the antidote to the venom your words carry, and he winces slightly as your rebuttal shakes. He clears his throat softly, the sound filling the lull where an apology should sound, and he takes a look over your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Any chance I can convince you not to go through with whatever it is you’re planning?” It brings little joy to watch his smile dissolve into something more serious. His face hardens, and you notice lines and creases that you aren’t well acquainted with- unable to distinguish battle scars from the divots of age- and you quickly shake the thought away. Instead, you stare at him blankly, not revealing an answer. Though, he takes your lack of conversation as a reply, and with a heavy sigh, he shakes his head, “Yeah, I figured.” 

He dares to express melancholy. Stunned by his nerve, after everything, not even shame or regret could rattle his courage enough for him to reconsider such a crestfallen expression, and the discouraged twist of his lips and the downcast slant of his eyes are so pronounced and dramatic that you’re unable to discern whether or not this is part of a ruse, or his genuine reaction.

“Did you think that would work?” Your skepticism is muddled with ridicule, a mocking scoff filling the line meant for his counter. It’s almost laughable- the nerve he has to look dejected by your questioning. To be fair, it’s been a while since he’s danced this dance- a routine once familiar, consisting of bite and bark, push and shove, before simultaneous defeat and victory-  but he’s smart enough to know that that’s not how this works. “I mean what did you think would happen, birdy? I’d take one look at you, all grown and handsome, and reconsider my plans?”

Even in heels, he’s taller than you remember. He’s always been pretty- all mesmerizing eyes, slightly crooked smile, and sunkissed skin- but not even he was immune to the awkwardness brought forth by puberty. There was a time when he thought his shoulders were too broad, his ears too big, and the angular structure of his face too sharp and strong for a boy. It didn’t look right. Features that were admirable on their own, looked out of place on his face- or so he feared. You always thought he was beautiful- especially when he didn’t know it.

Now, Boy Wonder is all grown up, exuding confidence and oozing charm. He knows he’s attractive, but he doesn’t parade his arrogance- not anymore. His early twenties were a never-ending roller coaster of trying to find himself, his purpose, and where he fit into the grand scheme of things. Conflicted by right and wrong, tempted by lust and surrender, divided by good and evil, he’s had a lot of time to awaken from the grogginess inflicted by nightmares of freedom and liberation. Still, his eyes are just as mesmerizing, his teeth are straight- but his smile is still crooked- and he’s truly grown into himself. The man before you is a boy evolved- still a bird, but with a different set of wings. Robin is an old friend, a fond recollection of a different time, and though the stranger before you mimics the familiarity you’ve longed for, he’s not Robin, anymore- he’s Nightwing.

“Look, they’re anticipating for you to strike,” His warning is low and hushed, but even in whispers you’re able to detect his plea. Call it concern, or at the very least interest in serving justice as quietly as possible, but his timbre urges you to reconsider- if not for his sake, then for the sake of those around you. He really doesn’t want to cause a scene. “Security has been tripled, and you’ve grown sloppy-“

“Did you ever consider that the trail I was leaving behind wasn’t for anyone else but the one person I wanted to find me?” There’s no affection behind the way your fingers thread through the dark tresses at the nape of his neck. Without any fondness, without passion, or care, the action is mindless, meaningless, and merely muscle memory. There’s no repressed feelings you wish to convey, no animosity you’re trying to diffuse. With no hidden agenda, the gesture serves no purpose- except to unintentionally torture you both. Old habits die hard, and something undefined urges you to reach for him. He flushes, and the sight is so droll that you can’t bring yourself to stop. His lips part once, twice, three times, trying to produce an answer, but he’s at a loss. When you cock your head to the side, he tenses. “Of course, you didn’t,” You purr, and he clears his throat softly. 

Dick’s no stranger to berating. He knows what it feels like to be chastised, scolded, and reprimanded. This exchange feels similar. The only difference is that you don’t raise your voice, your eyes don’t darken and you don’t threaten him- not with words, at least. If anything, the remark feels like a gentle rebuke, but the sting left from the impact of your insult brands him with shame. You’ve always seen right through him. Easily able to discern real from fake- truth from falsity- under both his domino mask and the hardened mask of his stoic expressions, you’ve always had a knack for exposing his most vulnerable self- welcoming his flaws, humility, and weaknesses to light. Even though he’s not the same kid he was when you first crossed paths, he feels just as naive and guileless as the boy he once once. 

“You and the bat were never really known for considering every angle,” Spoken so thoughtfully, he’s almost able to forgive the verbal assault. As intended, the blow lands- precise, heavy, and unforgiving in the center of his chest- and the muscles in his jaw tighten with thinly veiled frustration. It seems, that in the moment he needs his voice the most, it evades him. He swallows consonants and vowels, a jumbled mix of letters that sit heavy atop his palate, and focuses on maintaining his composure- though, his steps are a beat behind and his footing seems, suddenly, unsure. You’ve struck a nerve. Whether or not you intend to wound, the damage is already done. Picking at scabs that should’ve scarred a long time ago cause his insecurities to bleed- a punch more lethal than brute strength and weaponry combined. 

Blindsided by the truth, he feels utterly defenseless.

“Can I ask you something, Dick?” Your brows barely pinch together, your voice calm and steady as something softens in your gaze. Dick should know better than to let his guard down- especially when you lean in, and your lips brush against his ear, “If you’re the hero, here to save the day, does that make me the villain?” 

“No, you’re not-“

“How about this, which is the lesser of two evils- knowing that you’re protecting a corrupted establishment because it’s what you believe to be morally correct, or taking back what was wrongfully stolen and returning it to its rightful owners?” As you tilt your head to the side, he hates the way that you look up at him through your lashes. It’s not a demure move. You’re demanding an answer, and a look like that- a look meant to allure, tempt, and bait- would have a weaker man spilling his deepest darkest secrets. With a sharp inhale, he reminds himself that the tricks up your sleeve aren’t new. He knows all of the cards you’re going to play- albeit, he’s unaware of the order in which you’re going to play them- and he won’t allow history to repeat itself. Purposely, your thumb caresses the back of his hand- the touch feather-light, but far from hesitant or accidental- and his breath hitches. Dick doesn’t undermine the small, sinister smile that threatens to spread into a victorious grin when he fails to answer your question. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the answer. Or, perhaps, he’s just distracted. Either way, your voice fills the absence of his own. “We’re not on different sides of a playing field, Grayson. You and I aren’t on opposite ends of a spectrum, we’ve always been right in the middle- dancing on a thin line.” 

Prompted by the soothing symphony of strings, Dick twirls you- delicately extending his arm and leading you into a spin before pulling you back in- and it’s fitting, the push and pull between you so familiar it almost feels as choreographed as the steps of the waltz you’re dancing.

History repeating itself, just one more time.

“We both know you’re not here to turn me in, because if you were going to, you would’ve done it by now.” Your arrogance causes something to snap within him. Clarity comes rushing back as he breaks free from your spell. Without meaning to, his grip on your hand tightens.

“Look, I understand why you’re doing this, but-“

“No, you don’t.” Like a switch being flipped, your façade shatters- revealing a face so unbridled with emotions that not even a mask could obscure. He’s defensive. Tired of grappling for control over the situation, he tastes power as he parts his lips with a clever retort, but you don’t allow him the space to get a word in. “Did you know that last year, the city council held a vote to refurbish a few run-down parks on the south side of Gotham with the hopes of restoring the communities destroyed by violence, or increasing the GCPD budget?” The heat behind your accusation pokes and prods at his curiosity, coloring him intrigued. Admittedly, he’s not the most up-to-date on Gotham’s politics, but something this large shouldn’t have slipped under his radar- or the watchful eyes of those who swore themselves to protect the beloved city.

It’s deeper than that, though.

Your frustrations, however warranted, seem to extend beyond such an injustice. Between the lines, amongst all the words you haven’t said, there’s a decipher hidden in every twitch, gesture, and glare. From the way your eyes narrow, to the sharp exhale and tightening grip of your fingertips. To sweaty palms and clenched teeth, all the way to flared nostrils- there’s something just beneath the surface that he can’t crack. Too much time has passed for him to unscramble tacitness when he no longer understands the codes in which you speak, and, unfortunately, he needs you to paint a clearer picture than the vague abstract before him.

“When it came down to it, do you think that the citizens of the south side had a say in the matter?” Dick’s smart. He’s not just a pretty face or a nice body- he’s actually got brains to match. You know- deep down- that sooner or later, shapeless pieces will fall into place to reveal the completed puzzle, but you need him to come to the conclusion all on his own. It would be easy to simply reveal your motive, and while a straightforward approach may have been less complicated than the mental gymnastics you’re forcing him to perform, it wouldn’t have been as impactful. Dick needs to understand, and to understand, he needs to feel- the same anger, outrage, and upset you felt. “Do you think the people on the other side of the tracks were given a chance to speak in front of the council?” 

“They can’t segregate who speaks publicly-“ The gears are turning- some slower, some faster, and others completely out of control as he struggles to make sense of your elusiveness. When the current song fades out, a scattered round of applause takes its place before a new song begins. Hardly anyone else is dancing, save for a handful of couples who look just about as miserable as you and Dick- without the coordination or grace, the two of you share. It takes him too long to jump to the conclusion, and you tire of waiting for him to put the pieces together on his own. He always did work better with a helping hand- though, the quality of his work declined greatly whenever your hands were involved.

“You’re right,” Your agreement further confuses him, until an additional explanation provides the last bit of clarity he’d been seeking. “But they can change the date, time, and venue of the meeting without alerting the other parties involved, parties that spent weeks building the foundations of a strong claim, and vote on the matter without them being present- subsequently, granting them access to funnel more funds back into their pensions.”

“That’s not possible,” His argument is backed by disbelief instead of reason, denial influencing his refusal to accept such an absurdity, even in spite of proof, and every ugly, undesirable, nasty feeling you’re not supposed to have swirls together in the pit of your stomach at his incredulity.

How can he still be so blind? How, after all of the evil that he’s witnessed, how can he deny the truth in favor of possibility? He may be a man grown, but he still lives in a delusional state of boyhood- where he still clings to hope and the prospect of good intentions even when the jury has already delivered a conviction.

“Why not?” You seethe, simultaneously demanding an answer without allowing him the chance to speak. Unfortunately, whatever’s been brewing amongst your insides finally bubbles over and your own reluctance to accept an outcome where he doesn’t justify your point of view sharpens the words at the tip of your tongue until they’re as lethal as any weapon. “Because good old Commissioner Gordon wouldn’t let that happen?”

It’s resentment- the concoction without a name- but it’s also envy, pain, and perhaps a bit of fear. At the very least, it’s petty, to bring her into this and force him to pick a side, but it’s been corroding your logic- eroding a place in your chest that’s been dormant ever since he last filled it with life and meaning- and you watch his demeanor shift when his lips part to defend her. You can’t bear whatever praise he’s sure to dole out in her defense, especially when she’s just as guilty as the rest of them, as far as you’re concerned. Before he has a chance to tear you to shreds with his ire, you interrupt.

“Look, just because the commissioner has a heart, doesn’t mean that the animals working for the force do.” Without any conviction, you start to claw at the mire on either side of you, closing you in. “It’s always been bad, but it’s gotten a lot worse.” He can’t argue with that. Worse doesn’t even come close to how downright doomed Gotham is now that someone’s poisoned most of the police force. The one group of people who are supposed to remain impartial to power and abide by the laws they’re sworn to uphold, have turned their backs on the people who needed them most, and the people hurting- the ones without flashy jewels or the stomachs for caviar and champagne- don’t have anyone looking out for them. 

Not the way they used to, anyway. 

“You don’t get to come here and lecture me about what’s right and what’s wrong, just because she asked you to.” Bittersweet tips towards bitter and a sour taste settles in your mouth at the suggestion that she had even the slightest part to play in your reunion. “You’re a few years too late for that, birdy.” This time when the song ends, you take a step back- though, his thumb brushes against the back of your hand before you pull away, the phantom of a silent prospect lingering even when the warmth of him is gone. Once, it was what you sought. He was what you sought. Years of desolation turned your desire for that same heat- tender touches and gentle caresses against skin- into favor of bleakness. You don’t regret pulling away from him, not as much as you did back them. This time, it’s warranted- a choice you make unobstructed by what you’re feeling, now that you know the outcome of what was fated to happen between the two of you.

“I appreciate the dance,” You swallow, your throat tightening with words you won’t allow yourself to say. Instead, a retort finds you, though it feels foreign as you speak it into existence. “Maybe we’ll do it again in a couple of years,” 

Without waiting for a reaction, you head off down the same way you came, and this time, without any intervention, he lets you go.

The bathroom door shuts behind you, and the sounds of lively chatter and the hum of instrumentals fade away until you’re consumed by a silence so stark that it buries you. It doesn’t feel real. The soft tapping of your heels against the glossy marble floors cuts through the nothingness- even the slightest echo in the void registering as an alarm, coaxing panic and fear from the rusted, forgotten cells you banished them to long ago- and when you finally take a look in the mirror, you don’t recognize the face that stares back at you.

Your reflection is plagued by guilt, and haunted by ghosts of the past. Well, one ghost, in particular.

Running into Dick Grayson was something you’d prepared for. Since the day you last parted, you always knew that there was a possibility your paths could, and inevitably would, cross again. It was destined to happen, and you were doomed from the start. He makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak. Back then, before everything that drove a wedge between the two of you, you had a bit of a soft spot for him. He was the only other person in the world who truly understood the life you lived because he was living a different version of the same life. Both protégés, both headstrong and zealous- attributes recognized as both strengths and faults- and both dancing a choreographed routine in the shadows cast by the bat and the cat. The two of you were fated. It was only a matter of time before you started pulling your punches, and he started letting you get away.

The chase was always the best part- second only to the capture.

Still, it’s been years since he left. You’re not the same girl he once knew, and he might as well have been a stranger. More than a decade apart will do that to two people. For everything that’s changed, one thing remains the same- the chase and the capture are unavoidable.

With a shaky exhale, your chest tightens. Resting your palms on either side of the expensive stone washbasin, you attempt to focus on regaining your composure- but another heavy intake of breath punches your lungs. You haven’t come this far just to let him swoop in and gain the upper hand. You’re done pulling your punches. Flipping the golden faucet on, you allow trickling water to interrupt the unbearable silence that surrounds you- a lull so loud it sounds like buzzing static without the interruption of something mundane. With a few more deep breaths, in and out, you begin to fumble with the clasp on your clutch, opening the small bag to retrieve a tube of lipstick. The color has started to fade from your lips, and you use the moment of stillness to touch up your makeup. If nothing else, maybe your reflection will look less distraught with a signature swipe of dark red. You long for a sense of familiarity that you can control.

Above the trickling from the luxurious spout, the door squeaks- or perhaps, it cries- as it’s pushed open, revealing a mirage basked in artificial light and a custom-tailored suit. As your fingertips graze the fixture responsible for the steady stream of distraction, a thud sounds, and seconds later, the unmistakable click of a lock latching into place seals your fate. A wave of emotion- a tsunami of feelings- brings forth a myriad of everything, all at once. Just as you suspected you always would, you’re drowning- caught in a riptide of your past and present, finally merging in a deadly current that threatens to pull you below the depths of your worst fears and direful imagination. You swallow thickly as you close your eyes. It fills your mouth with delusions of saltwater.

This isn’t supposed to happen- at least, not like this, it’s not- but the one thing you’ve been running from has finally caught back up to you. Now’s the time to set the record straight. No more ties. No more draws. Tonight, the victory is yours- regardless of his intervention. He’s taken too much from you to take this too, and you’re done letting him.

“I already told you that this is pointless,” You don’t even look at him. Refusing to give him the satisfaction of meeting his overbearing stare. A swirling sea of darkening blue attempts to sail back to shore- pleading to find refuge within familiar comforts and intimacy- but you cast your gaze back to your reflection, focusing on fixing the corners of your lipstick and leaving him afloat. “You’re not going to stop me.” The promise is backed by conviction- though, you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself.

The muscle in Dick’s jaw flexes as he grits his teeth- forcing ivories to clench and grind against each other, creating a perfect, white prison to cage the words he wishes to speak. Stifling his emotions is conventional. It’s a routine he’s perfected through years of reluctant practice. Though uncomfortable and daunting, the void in which he sentences all that’s repressed is secure. It’s safe- if only in the sense that it’s familiar.

You’re familiar- rather, you were once familiar- but he can’t cross a bridge that’s been burned, molten ash still ablaze amongst the rubble, and expect to be welcomed back with open arms. Not after everything that’s changed. Not after everything that’s happened.

Not after what he did.

“I need a list of names,” The determination in Dick’s voice contradicts everything he feels inside. His face hardens- a mask, a shield, protection- and he stands a little taller, fixated on resolving the one problem he could actually solve. “Names of the officers involved in whatever this is,” He clarifies with an uneasy edge to his voice- like he already knows he’s bit off more than he can chew, but he can’t stop himself from going back for seconds, thirds, and fourths.

For all that’s changed, Dick remains the same. A phantom- a spirit, a memory, a ghost- of the boy you once knew disappears just as quickly as your imagination teases familiar red, yellow, and green. He’s not the same. You know it to be true, and yet, you find yourself distracted by glimpses and figments from a different life entirely.

“Grab a pen,” A scoff, an eye roll, and the gentle shake of your head, disbelief and credence existing in tandem- contradicting each other when your eyes finally meet his. “It would be a shorter list if you started with the people who aren’t guilty of committing some type of fraudulent activity.”

You’re not a bad person. Despite varying beliefs, you’re not evil. Mayhem doesn’t bring you joy. Confrontation doesn’t get you off. There’s little pleasure to be found in being the itch that people can’t scratch. You’ve never sought out violence or peril, and you seldom plan on causing either. Just like Dick- just like Bruce- you operate under a different moral code, but a moral code, nevertheless. Even if the only thing it provides is an excuse to justify why you do what you do, you still hold yourself to a standard. Unlike the vile, chaos-thirsty cravens that would happily light the match and watch the world burn, you’re selfless- bound to your morals, if nothing else.

What you do, the sacrifices you make- everything that you’ve lost and everything you’ve fought for- is fueled by benevolence. You’re in a position to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves, to speak up for those who can’t speak for themselves. The power to defend those who have had their rights stripped from them- those who have had their power stolen by greed corruption and profit- is in your hands. You’ll be damned if you let anyone stand in your way and prevent you from doing what you know is right.

Through the reflection in the mirror, you recognize the face that stares back at you. Gone is the fear and doubt that mangled your features unrecognizable. With a heavy sigh, you unclip the earrings that dangle from your earlobes- and the buzzing sound of static fades away completely.

You know what you have to do.

The sound of your heels against the tile might as well have been deafening in contrast to the silence that follows your remark. As you cross the room, your resolve sharpens. Dick Grayson has taken so much from you, you won’t let him take this, too.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me-“ You feign saccharine, your tone phony and filled with counterfeit regret, as you reach for the locked door handle, but Dick blocks the latch, stepping in front of you before you have a chance to wrap your hand around the lever. He knows exactly what buttons to press and genuine annoyance, anger, and frustration fill the space where your poor imitation of remorse once occupied. Through gritted teeth, you command him, lowly, “Move, Dick.”

“You know I can’t do that, sweetheart,” He says it so easily, with a sorrowful sigh and undisputed repentance, that you almost buy the sincerity he’s trying to sell. Unfortunately, for him, you’re not in the market for his misery. He’s a few years too late. Dick can turn his charm up to ten thousand- he can say all the right things and plead with his perfect crystalline eyes- but you won’t risk everything you’ve fought for for a few crocodile tears. You know, now, that you’re better than that. One way or another, you’re getting out of this bathroom- and if you have to go through him to do so, then so be it.

“And you know I’m not above fighting you, right?” He’s entirely unprepared for your snark, the bite that fuels your reply nearly nipping his sense of control straight from the palm of his hand. It’s obvious that this isn’t the same game that it once was, but something much more dangerous. “The dance wasn’t enough?” With your arms across your chest, you challenge, and he hates the way you’re looking at him- like your eyes are piercing straight through him instead of actually looking at him. If you bothered to look closely enough, you’d be able to decipher all of the blatant emotions he’s never been the greatest at hiding. One look and you’d see him- and his heart beating proudly on his sleeve. It’s why you don’t spare him a glance. “You still feeling nostalgic for old times? Because this feels awfully familiar, doesn’t it?”

“What are you going to do with the money?” He asks, fighting to keep his voice stern. His poker face was never the best- or, maybe you could just read him better than most people could. Still, as he stands before you, he grapples with his devotion to whatever this competition is. This clash will never see a winner- only two losers- and he knows it. You do, too- but unlike him, you’re not willing to back down without a fight.

“Give it back to those who rightfully deserve it.” He doesn’t deserve your honesty. He has no right to the truth, but you don’t have it in you to scheme an elaborate lie. However gratifying it might’ve been to feed him false information and watch him fly in circles, you’re too exhausted for mental gymnastics. Like clockwork, you give, and he takes- his stare narrowing, almost accusatorially.

“And who are you to decide who rightfully deserves it?” There’s an edge to his question- like he can’t fathom justice without his divine intervention- and it’s grating, the way he can make you feel so small, and worthless with a single sentence. His arrogance is astounding. Who was he to seek vengeance against Slade Wilson? Who was he to target Heartless? Who was he to sentence Tony Zucco to his death- by placing him behind bars, and granting other enemies easy access to the crime lord, which ultimately led to his demise? The self-righteous guilt trip nearly gives you whiplash from how fast it makes your head spin. He’s no different than you are- no better or worse, since you operate on the same playing field. He doesn’t get to act like he is. Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs, and you’re happily up for the challenge.

“Who are you to try to stop me?”

“Someone who knows you,” He replies, instinctively. “Someone who’s a friend, not a foe.”

“Hmm,” With a bitter laugh, your stomach churns- twisting, clenching, and swirling with swells of irritation, regret, and sorrow- and although it’s a familiar discomfort, it’s been years since you’ve felt the threat of splintering cracks, chipping away at the stone-cold facade of your exterior. Come to think of it, the last time you felt this way was when Selina had told you that Dick left for San Francisco. The reminder fills you with a bitterness you’ve long tried to suppress, and as it bubbles to the surface, so do all of the repressed thoughts and emotions that’ve haunted you for years.

For a moment, you ache- chasing forgotten remembrance plagued by wistfulness. Then, you burn.

“Friends call every once in a while, and if they can’t make it to a phone, they send a postcard to let you know that they’re still alive and well.” Vexation forces your eyes to narrow, the color of your eyes morphing into something much more bleak. With a heavy exhale- filled with frustration and a semblance of humility- you remind him, “Friends don’t disappear into thin fucking air without letting you know why- especially, after those friends, were always a little more than just friends.” There’s a darkness behind your eyes that Dick’s not familiar with, and a weight settles in the hollow emptiness of his chest before sinking deeper and deeper into the pit of his stomach. His jaw clenches and he swallows thickly- the tastes of bile, rue, and shame all indiscernible from one another as he forces them back down.

He knows you’re right.

While his absence was abrupt, it had nothing to do with any ill will towards you. There was never a falling out- no crossing a line of no return or being pushed past a point that shattered a shared fantasy. Though the bullet posed no real threat of death by passing through his arm- beyond the phantom agony of lead tearing through flesh, and the hot, wet feeling of crimson pouring from the wound- a part of Dick Grayson did, in fact, die that night, at the hands of the Joker. The Clown Prince of Crime set off a domino effect when he fired at the young Boy Wonder, inevitably altering the course of his life forever. Acts of violent intent seldom harm a single soul, and as if it were fated, you became another casualty from an attack that was never meant for you.

When Bruce fired Dick, he was angry. Back then, thoughts of hanging up the cape never, ever, crossed his mind. Back then, he was content with fighting crime alongside his mentor, and never really considered what would happen next- or if there’d even be a next, or an after. He felt betrayed, abandoned, and filled with cynicism. As selfish as it was, you weren’t even really an afterthought in the downfall of his life caving in and swallowing him whole. He needed time to heal- time to rebuild- and prioritize who he was when he wasn’t hiding in the shadows left behind by a cape and cowl. Years passed, and with time to reflect, Dick’s bitter resentment morphed into a new kind of devotion to himself, and the few that started to look to him for guidance.

Before the Titans, he never really considered himself to be a leader. He spent most of his life abiding by rules and plans- roles and paths- that were set for him by another. Had he been hungry for control before, his first real taste solidified an insatiable appetite for the very thing he felt himself deprived of for too many years. Though, he’d come to learn that there was an ugly side to the power he wielded. Some days, the responsibility felt like a burden, and others, he felt like his guilt and uncertainty would swallow him whole. He bottled up all of his doubts, packed them somewhere deep inside the closed-off caverns in his heart where darker demons haunted, and forced them elsewhere- out of sight, and out of mind, but never truly gone.

It’s not fair that, somehow, you’ve come to possess the key that matches the lock on his Pandora’s box. Every emotion, every feeling, and every thought meant to be suppressed and banished to a place where they couldn’t torment or harm him, refuses to go gently when one simple, magnetic look threatens to release them from their cages of skin and bone. The most daunting realization of all, however, is that he’s the one to blame- for everything.

For all of it.

Selfishly, he’s hoped for an ember amongst the carnage he’s created. He’s held onto some convoluted idea of hope that whatever was once alight could be reignited again if he fully committed himself to an apology, but he failed to acknowledge the amount of ashes he’d have to sift through for a hint of a spark. There’s too much disappointment, too much duplicity, regret, and time passed between the two of you for things to ever revert back to even a semblance of what they once were.

He looks to you now, and he sees it- your anger is a mask for your pain. It’s so faint he almost misses it, but your lip threatens to wobble. Beyond the wrath you try to convey with the narrowed glare of your eyes, he watches as thinly veiled yearning mingles with what’s left of the color of your irises- simultaneously faint, yet prominent to the only other person who knows what it’s like to push away the person you love. What Dick and you shared wasn’t love, but it could’ve been and that’s what you’re both mourning- what could’ve been.

“You and I aren’t friends, Dick.” He hates the finality behind your conviction. It’s so cold, and void of the warmth he associated with you once upon a time. A split second threatens to expose the façade, and you blink back tears instead of allowing them to fall- swallowing emotion and banishing it elsewhere. Feelings have no place here. Instead, you grit your teeth, clenching them together so tightly that your jaw begins to ache. He watches you struggle to commit to the act- because that’s what your rage is, an outlet for your passions- and as you take a step closer toward him, his breath hitches. “Now, get out of my way,”

Toe to toe, you meet his gaze, and no matter how hard you try to fight it, despite your best efforts to disguise what you truly feel, Dick sees right through you- recognizing the parts of you that you try to mold and shape into something else. After all, he’s your greatest weakness- and you’re his. You always have been, and he always will be.

He dares to move. This close, he resists the urge to reach out for you and never let you go again, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you. Hesitantly, he raises his hand, his eyes never leaving yours as the shaky tips of his fingers graze your chin with a tenderness you’ve sought since the last time you felt it. The air is tense, passed back and forth by sharp breaths and thundering pulses- intimate with warmth and affection that mimics that of a simpler time- and when his palm rests against your cheek, cradling it with such gentle endearment in the face of betrayal, you let him. Dick’s throat bobs, and he pours everything he can’t bring himself to say into such a delicate touch. Every apology he wishes he had the courage to speak aloud, every declaration of devotion he was too afraid to voice, and every inevitable truth he attempted to ignore lingers, and you can feel it- in every shy stroke of his thumb across your cheek.

“You’re not going to distract me,” A single tear merges with the pad of his thumb- a testament to your resilience, but no match for the broken, battered, beaten bond you share with the man before you- and your certainty begins to dwindle. There’s a string that ties you to him- an invisible thread strong enough to stitch the two of you back together when you should remain apart- but you’re destined for him, the same way he’s always been destined for you.

It was foolish to believe any differently.

“I’m not trying to distract you,” Barely above a whisper, he pleads, desperate to make you understand, “I’m trying to apologize.”

He hangs his head with defeat, his shoulder slumping forward as he peers down at you. He’s never known such cruel torture. Such sick and twisted suffering is self-inflicted. The past erodes his future, but he can’t stop himself from resurrecting his demons. Foolishly, he invites them to haunt him further- and you’re no exception. His tightrope is stretched taut, and it’s a long way down. How much longer can he balance between anemoia and actuality before tipping one way or the other? It’s insanity- repeating the same act and hoping for a different outcome- but Dick can’t bring himself to accept that this time won’t be different. If nothing else, the possibility that this never-ending game could crown two winners is enough for him to play the martyr, and suffer whatever repercussions might follow after barring himself whole. What more does he have to lose, if not everything he’s already lost, again?

It would be so easy to reach past him and turn the lock in your favor, granting your escape. Hell, with the way he’s looking at you now, you know that he wouldn’t even put up a fight. He’d let you waltz right past him, slipping through his fingers for the umpteenth time because he knows that this time won’t be the last. It never is. Visions blurred by uncertainty flash before your eyes- infinite possibilities, each with consequences and punishments, rewards and sacrifices- but the unknown doesn’t elicit the same adrenaline-filled excitement that it once did. Maybe because this time, Dick isn’t fighting back. Surrendering his shield, he abandons resistance- instead, entrusting you with the vulnerability that spills from his heart, blood crimson against his fingers as he squeezes it with each thump and thud- crumbling before you, and submitting everything he has to give to you. Even if he can’t bring himself to support your cause.

You lean in closer, drawn to him- the same way you always have been, and likely, always will be- and your palm hovers over his chest. For a second, it’s unclear whether or not you’re going to reach out for him or push him away, but when your hand meets the fabric that covers hard muscle, you know you’re done for- because in the same ways he’s willing to fall before you, you’re willing to fall before him, too. Over and over again. Repeatedly and infinitely.

“Well, you have impeccable timing,” Your reproach is close enough for him to taste. It wavers against his lips and slips past his tongue, allowing him to savor parts of you he hasn’t been allowed to indulge in for so long. There’s no mistaking the invitation of your reprover, and Dick’s palm rests against your lower back, coaxing you closer towards him as his nose brushes against yours. It’s dizzying, and your arms find their way around his neck to steady yourself when he rests his forehead against yours with a soft sigh. The irony of the situation isn’t lost upon you- even when the two of you have ceded to one another, you’re still fighting to see who will give in first. As if he’s come to the realization at the same time, a large hand- rough and callused, but soft and tender in the way that it trembles against your cheek with anticipation- encourages you to tilt your head back, and you follow his lead. You hold your breath as your lips part, and Dick surges forward, slotting his mouth against yours in a kiss that’s fueled by the release of years of pent-up longing, need, and want. The gesture is foreign, yet familiar. Reminiscent of the past, yet entirely new. Everything you remember and everything you’ve ever dreamed of merge together in this moment and bring life to what had only ever been fantasy before his lips found yours once more.

It’s exhilarating.

“I missed you,” The affirmation rumbles against your skin, warm with fervor and urgency, and it’s completely unnecessary- considering that each movement acts as a balm to soothe wounds of time, fear, and doubt- but he vows with each breath, relying on words to convey what his actions can not, and vice versa. Masks are off. Shields have been abandoned. Capes remain long forgotten at the door. This is no longer about duty or morality. No, this moment is about two people seeking confirmation for what they’ve always known to be true- that a love unspoken, but never absent has always existed between them. Two people- not vigilantes or heroes- two hearts, beating to guide the other back, are bare, open, honest, and raw without the theatrics of a chase or the pretense of a game. Surrender invites you to balance on the edge of a precipice, and you’re the first to lose your footing.

Desperation is an influence, and his lapels wrinkle with the severity of your hold. Through the haze of everything unknown, he’s the only thing that’s clear, and you reach for him- blindly, but intentionally- clawing at the fabric that keeps him from you. Clashing teeth and bruising grips don’t elicit pain, not when real suffering exists in the absence of the other, and you allow him to paint you violet, blue, green, and red with desire, becoming the embodiment of his want. Your only regret is that the evidence of this divine crime will eventually fade away to nothing more than a memory- another ache that will never dull, a moment so unique that it can never be replicated. As you rejoice, you mourn.

“Sure you did.” His blazer drops to the floor as you follow your script, hardly taking a moment to realize that the page you’re reading from is blank- without word or direction- as you venture into unknown territory. Even when you don’t mean to be, you’re combative. Even when you don’t want to be, you’re still on edge. This is different. This already feels different than before, and maybe it’s because there’s a lot more at stake now that both of you have already lost one another, but for as overdue as this homecoming is, something subconsciously prolongs it further.

“No, really, I-“ He begins, ready to mold rhetoric and force it to take on a form that would allow you to see just how much you mean to him, but that would make this real, and you’re not sure if you’re ready for this to be real yet- because if this is real, if this isn’t just a cruel imitation of memory like so many variations before or a concocted fantasy so vivid you can feel yourself shaking, then that means you can lose it all, again. Just like last time. Within your grip, one minute, slipping through your fingers the next.

“Don’t.” Fear sounds different when there’s a bite to it. It could almost pass as annoyance, if you’re able to keep your voice just steady enough, and he mistakes the command for irritation, rather than the timidity it actually is. Whatever you’ve intended and he’s interpreted gets lost along the way, and he takes a hesitant step back. It’s impossible not to lunge for him as he retreats, but you remain still- your breath hitching when he holds both hands out to you, surrendering his palms while he shows he meant no harm.

“Can I…”

“You don’t have to ask,” You silence his fears quickly, closing the space between you before you even realize that you’ve taken a step. This self-sacrificial eagerness to light yourself on fire just to keep him warm has always been one of your greatest downfalls, but a most ardent gesture, and with ash on your tongue and soot in your lungs, you strike a match the minute he begins to second guess himself. “Just pretend it’s like before.” The suggestion sounds just as unsure as you are, but with a heavy breath, you encourage, “Pretend that nothing’s changed…pretend that we’re still…” You can’t even bring yourself to say it, because the kids you were back then are gone. They’re never coming back. You can’t avenge them or try to seek vengeance for what they’ve lost. It’s over for them, but this is just the start of this new beginning for the two of you. “Just for tonight.”

He moves promptly, gathering the skirts of your dress in one hand, fisting the fabric- a blue so dark he mistook it for black, or perhaps it was, until his fingertips were close enough to paint the illusion with light, making it appear different than it was- without any regard for creases or lingering proof of your affair. Support rests at your back, his chest firm and protective as you lean into the rippling muscle, and Dick continues to illuminate shadows of the past with each touch- eager to help you forget all of the agonies suffered at his hands in favor of remembering glimpses of peace. He’s ready to give you more than just a taste. Now, he wants to gorge you with the pleasure he’s reserved.

His hands shake- not with hesitancy, but anticipation, and when you catch his eye in the mirror, you shiver. You’ve never seen a blue so dark it looks black- until now. Without warning, he mouths at your neck- kissing, sucking, biting, any part of you he can get his lips on- reacquainting himself with parts of you that were once so familiar, and you allow him to explore. Blindly, you reach for one of his hands, taking it in your own, and he begins to intertwine his fingers with yours, but you gently guide his hand where you want it most- and he lets you, following your lead just as impulsively. You jolt at the first brush of his fingertips between your legs, even though you were expecting it, and he lets out a few ragged breaths against the back of your neck. It’s paradoxical, the chills that contradict the flush of your skin, but this relationship has never really made sense before. Why should that change now?

Almost as if he’s in a trance, Dick is overwhelmed by the twists and turns of the evening, but the whiplash is starting to subside in favor of something much more exhilarating. He never thought he’d have this again. He believed moments like these to be lost to time, and he wasted years grieving memories he could never replicate, only to feel the weight of your body against his once more. It’s too much. It’s not enough. It’s everything he never knew he wanted or needed until it was stolen from him, swiped right out from under his nose by his own negligence. He won’t make the same mistakes this time. No, this time, he’s going to do it right. He’s going to-

“Fuck,” When you grow tired of his stalling, you force his hand, again. This time, when your fingers meet his wrist, you press your palm on top of his- coercing him to mimic the shape- and maybe you’re the one in control, or maybe he finally rises to the occasion, but with a newfound determination, he cups your cunt- a choked sound catching in his throat when he feels how wet you are. You briefly wonder how something so vulgar can sound so pretty, but you already know the answer- it’s him. It’s always been him. Had it been anyone else, the effect would cease to exist, but it’s Dick, and that desire- that pull that you can’t ever deny- will always bind you to him.

You can’t help yourself from rutting against his palm, and he presses himself further into your back, allowing you to feel the hard outline of his cock against your ass. The hand that isn’t between your legs rests on your arm, and when he tries to hold your hand, you don’t deny him. There’s just too much fabric for you to hold in just one hand and some of it drapes over his forearm, but you manage to keep most of it from obscuring his movements. It’s a strange angle, and both of you are fumbling to make it work, but you crane your neck in search of him, and he answers your call with an eager kiss. Your tongue caresses his, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory, just in case-

He swallows your surprised gasp when he nudges your panties aside and begins to circle your clit. With just a bit of pressure, a crease forms where your eyebrows pull together, and you untangle your hand from his hold to brace yourself against the counter. It’s been a while since someone else has touched you, and it’s been even longer since the last time Dick had, but it’s so much better than evocations of pleasure. You swear figments are tangible. Spurred on by the reaction his touch has coaxed from you, he’s torn between making the moment last as long as possible or picking up the pace. He settles on the latter, considering that if this is heading the way he hopes it’s heading, he’ll have all the time in the world to make it up to you, but right now, he’s on borrowed time. You both are. With the reminder looming overhead, he adjusts his hand so that he can continue to work your clit while lining up a finger with your pussy. You’re so wet, and warm when he curls his middle finger inside, and he can’t remember why he ever left in the first place. What persuaded him away from Gotham when you were always right here? Would you have waited for him? Would you have followed him if he asked you to? He supposes none of that matters now, but he can’t help but wonder…

He adds a second finger, and even though your body gives little resistance to the intrusion, you groan at the feeling. His fingers are so long, reaching that spot inside of you that your fingers are just too short to reach, and they’re thick enough for you to feel yourself stretching around him with each thrust- not enough to cause pain, but an ache that serves as a reminder that it’s been too long since the last time you’ve had him like this. You vow not to let another ten years pass before you let him have you, again.

He continues a steady pace, curling his fingers in such a way that sweat begins to glisten across your chest, and when a third finger threatens to join his others, you wrap your hand around his wrist- abruptly halting his movements.

“N-not enough time,” He doesn’t even get the chance to ask before you supply him with an answer, but he nods in understanding once you offer an explanation. He’s already reaching for his belt, unbuckling the clasp and roughly shoving his slacks down before you have a chance to catch your breath, and you’re grateful- if the speed in which he undresses is any indication of his own eagerness- that he’s just as desperate for you, as you are for him. Taking a moment to adjust your skirts so that you don’t have to hold them, you bunch them above your hips and lean forward, resting your forearms against the counter while Dick frees himself from his boxers, and when you look back in the mirror and catch sight of his cock behind you, you can’t help but swallow thickly.

He strokes himself a few times, smearing the pre-cum beading from his slit down his shaft as he prepares to take you. This doesn’t feel like last time. As he reaches for your waist and lines himself up with your cunt, this doesn’t feel like last time at all. This is new, and different and everything he’s wanted ever since the last time he had you in his grasp. This time, he won’t let you get away. With as much self-restraint as he can manage, you feel the tip of his cock against your opening, slowly splitting you open, and your back arches. Your own strangled cry prompts a groan from him he sinks into you, inch by inch until his hips are flush against you. You’re so full that you’re not sure if it’s too much or not enough.

“I’ve got you,” Dick assures, his grip on your hip tightening when he feels you struggling to accommodate him. He tries to be a gentleman. He tries to give you a few minutes to adjust- even though he wants nothing more than to take what’s right under his nose, what’s always been his- but his restraint snaps when he feels you begin to rock back against him.

“Move,” You command, and he doesn’t have to be told twice. With your permission, he’s happy to follow orders and obliges with a sharp thrust upwards. The sound you make is a mix between a sob and a moan, and his fingers flex against your hip as he repeats the action.

“I forgot…” Through clenched teeth, he confesses, and you don’t think anything of the admission, too lost within your own feelings to attempt to decipher his. Instead, he wraps an arm around your waist, offering thick muscle to serve as a buffer between your body and the stone he has you pressed up against- relying on intimate gestures to make up for words lost in translation. Even now, when you’re not on the same page, you still know. Somehow, you know, and he does, too. Every time. Without fail. Always. Your head rolls back to meet his shoulder, and your fingertips claw at the back of his neck awkwardly, with transparent desperation to pull him closer. Within reach isn’t close enough. Near is too far. With a muted gasp, you push back to meet his next thrust, and he hisses softly before elaborating, “I’m so sorry if I made you forget.”

“Dick-“ Realization begins to splinter the mirage of bliss, and you manage to say his name with enough caution to serve as a warning. You don’t want to think about the past. Not right now. Not when you can see your future so clearly in the foggy reflection of the vanity. He wraps his hand around your neck, encouraging you to bare your throat to him and he licks at the vein that calls out to him.

“I won’t let you forget, not this time.” He vows, bucking his hips faster and faster as you whine in his hold. In some sick twisted way, he loves that he’s the only one who has this power over you- that he’s the only one who could ever elicit such a reaction- and it’s a testament to how much the two of you care for one another; the influence both of you have over one another. “This time, I want to remember.”

It’s going to be impossible not to.

“I-“ He can barely get a word out with how good you feel around him, and he takes a breath before trying again. “I know you want to pretend, but fuck…I can’t.” Dick wraps his arm around you, guiding your back to rest against his chest, and one of his large hands splays across your stomach, where he can feel himself inside of you. “I really did miss you,” Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Not just like this, either,”

“I-I missed you, too.” You don’t seem certain, not with the way you stutter, but your reply is genuine. It only appears dubious because Dick’s palm begins to press against you, and you all but choke on your confession. He can’t help himself, but neither can you.

“I’m close,” He rasps, brokenly. “Shit,” His thrusts begin to falter, and his eyes meet yours in the mirror. “Are you-“

“Yes!” You yelp when his fingers start circling your clit, and he doesn’t relent, even when he feels you start to tremble beneath him. You’re overwhelmed by him, in the best way possible, and as eager as you are to chance your release, a part of you never wants this moment to end. “Dick, please d-don’t stop,” Your muscles grow taut, and when his thrusts lose their precision, you know that he’s almost there. “Just like before,” You encourage him, clenching hard when he bites your shoulder and your orgasm washes over you. “J-just like before.”

He knows what you’re asking for. He understands what you’re practically begging for, and in a fleeting moment of clarity, he catches a glimpse of the faded scar on your arm- his only regret being the fact that an implant still stands in the way of what he truly wants with you- but the thought disappears as quickly as it materializes.

A few seconds more and he grunts against your neck, pulling your hips to meet his and spilling himself inside of you. It’s even better than you remember and your body shakes with aftershocks of pleasure. Luckily, he’s there to keep you upright. Your vision starts to blur and the only sound you’re able to make out is both of you struggling to catch your breaths. With a heavy sigh, he pulls out, and you can feel his cum start to leak from you, but you’re too disoriented to clean it up. Instead, you lean forward, relying on the countertop for support as you hang your head and try to come back to your senses.

Dick leaves a trail of soft kisses down the back of your neck and his forehead is both warm and damp when it meets your shoulder, resting comfortably against your skin while he takes a minute to catch his breath, and these sensations- these tiny little reminders that he’s here, this moment is present and real- ground you. Where your mind is a mess, reeling with indecision, emotions, and thoughts you can’t yet process, your body is at ease.

As your eyes flutter shut, greedy gulps of air fail to satisfy your lungs, and you swallow thickly, allowing pressure to build up in your chest until you simply can’t take it anymore. Darkness saturates all that you can see, and you’re caught in a void- trapped, without any light to guide you back home. The gentle caress of his touch along your arm brands you, flush enough to make you burn with reminders of this fleeting moment- when embers of devotion inevitably fade into ashes- and you stiffen in his hold, not that he’s coherent enough to notice.

He seems to be in his little world as he tucks himself back into his pants and presses another gentle kiss to your shoulder before wrapping his arms around you. Violent delights really do have violent ends and it’s not fair that you let it get this far without thinking about the consequences of your actions. None of this would’ve happened if you just let yourself love him- without fear, without judgment, without regret- and if you had just been honest with yourself all those years ago, this mess would’ve never spiraled so far out of your control.

Whatever repercussion await you, you’ll brave. Regardless of what happens next, you know that you have to tell him the truth- even if it kills you. The thought is often more daunting than the action itself, but as you turn yourself around in his arms so that you’re facing him, you’re petrified.

“I’m sorry,” The magnitude of your apology isn’t supported by the handful of letters that arrange themselves as they slip past your tongue. There has to be a better way to express your remorse, but if one exists it evades you. Over and over again, the same words come to mind and it’s not fair that you know exactly what you want to say, but you just can’t find the right words to absolve your shame. At your inability to voice your regret, frustration overwhelms you. Your lips part, ready to divulge your sins, but only a pathetic, meek sigh comes out. Why is this so difficult? You know the answer, and yet, you play the part of the fool- leaning on ignorance as a crutch for what you can’t bring yourself to brave. He deserves it, doesn’t he? The truth- not something partial, but whole. Transparency is the only piece left of a nearly complete puzzle, the only thing keeping this tragic tale of two lovers who break each other’s hearts only to stitch them back together again from reaching its inevitably doomed end. When your lip begins to tremble, Dick reaches for you, pulling you into his chest and embracing you in a hold that’s absolutely suffocating. You don’t deserve his kindness. You don’t deserve his love or affection- his tenderness or his forgiveness.

You don’t deserve him.

“Me too,” He sighs into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before resting his head on top of yours. You can hear his heart- how steady it beats- and the sound rivals the racing of your own where it threatens to burst straight from your chest, and your eyes flutter shut, savoring the gentle lull of his own serenity before you poison his relief with your own disruption. No matter how much it hurts, no matter how difficult it may be, you know that you have to tell him. With a breath, you prepare for carnage.

“No, Dick, I-“

“Dick? Are you in here?” Barbara’s voice seeps through the wooden barrier that separates the two of you from the rest of the world- from reality- and as soon as she calls out to him, the illusion of tranquility is broken. Of course, it’s her. Of course, she’d be the one to interrupt you before you had the chance to speak, and of course, it would be her that drives a wedge further between the two of you with one simple revelation, “They’re getting away!”

It’s almost impossible to miss the sounds of commotion that follow her declaration. Faint screams and chaos replace the background of symphony strings and he turns to you then, a divot dividing the smooth skin of his forehead while his eyes narrow. Blue is black. Dark, and unmistakable. The muscle in his jaw looks like it’s about to burst with the severity of his clenching and his nostrils flare with a shallow exhale. It’s excruciating to watch him slip back into consciousness after being caught up in a dream, but a nightmare unfolds before you, twisting your stomach into knots so intricate they threaten to snap. You can’t breathe, and when you gather enough courage to finally take a step forward, he takes a step back. He’s never looked at you with so much hostility before, and you open your mouth to explain, to shower him with honesty and desperate pleas to make him understand that this wasn’t meant to happen like this, but no sound comes out. Not even a sigh. Not even a huff. Not even a pathetic, broken whimper. Nothing.

Unfortunately, Dick’s left to draw his own conclusions- to fill in the gaps in which your silence fails to atone for your crimes- and he paints a picture so drastically different from the truth, relying on his interpretation to establish a story so vivid he believes it to be real- even if it’s a figment of his own imagination, a product of his own devastation. Dispelled doubts come rushing back, and he allows them to influence the narrative- since you still can’t seem to find your voice- and everything left unsaid becomes louder in the silence. He mistakes your tears for guilt, instead of recognizing the regret and shame that mingle with saltwater. As gutted as he is, he looks to you for an explanation, but you can’t bring yourself to justify what you’ve done- even if it wasn’t your intention. Distracting him was part of the plan. Keeping him occupied was your mission, but confessing your true feelings and allowing yourself to fall back in love with him- not just the idea of what it would be like to love him- wasn’t part of your job description.

The second your paths crossed again, you were done for. It was never about seeking vengeance or getting even for the hurt that he caused you, because the minute that Dick waltzed back into your life, you knew you were doomed- because he makes you reckless. He makes you sloppy and distracted and forgiving. He makes you weak- and you let him. Every single time. Always and forever. Infinitely.

When he looks at you, he looks past you and towards your belongings on the counter. No. You shake your head, vehemently encouraging him to look away. If his eyes would just meet yours, if only for a second, you know you could save this. If not for the sake of putting broken pieces back together you could at least salvage fragments amongst the wreckage, but he doesn’t spare you a glance. No, no, no. His attention is solely on the expensive stone behind you, and when you reach out for him, your fingertips shaking as you grasp his bicep with all of the strength you can muster, he shakes you off of him.

Everything splinters.

When he reaches for your earring, you know that this is the end. It’s all over. A new moment will erase everything you thought you knew about pain, heartbreak, suffering, and betrayal. This moment, as it unfolds before you, will plague you until you meet your demise, because the second that he dares to bring the jewel up to his own ear, the exact moment that he hears Selina’s command through the gravely static of the earpiece you discarded earlier in the evening, you know that any hope for a future together vanishes- ripped straight from your fingers before you even had the chance to hold onto it and guard it with your life.

Even with his back towards you, you can see his face harden in the reflection of the mirror. Through the thin material of his crumbled dress shirt his shoulders tense and when he finally looks up to meet your stare through the glass, all traces of red, green, and yellow are gone. A piece of him- the piece of him that you’re most familiar with- dies, sprawled out and oozing across the marble. It’s too late to try to revive him. All that’s left in the wake of his slaughter is blue and black.

Blue and black, forevermore.

There’s nothing left for either of you here. Not anymore. Hope begins to decay, and the hollow hole in your chest that only he could ever fill begins to die from rot. Nothing will ever be the same. Not after this. Perhaps the final thought passed back and forth between a glare is the last thing you’ll ever share- beyond moments of destruction and beautiful chaos- but it’s clear to you both, that not all ghosts are meant to be resurrected.

Some ghosts should just stay ghosts.

a/n: hey, I’m raen and I’m down bad for this man lol…anyway, I’ve been working on this story for months. I literally poured bits and pieces of my soul into this (so if you wouldn’t mind interacting or providing feedback I’d be forever grateful) but I just wanted to write a tale of doomed lovers who care about each other in such a way that it leads to their downfall. I wanted this to hurt, and I hope it did- in the best way possible! I’m not above begging, so please, please, please feel free to send some feedback- as this is my first time writing for Dick and I would love to hear what people think! that being said, requests are also open! check out my request guidelines before submitting! and if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for reading! 

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[evieelyzabethh]

Love your work. <3 Could you write something with reader x spike where they're kinda' pining for one another, but one night he gets injured and has to stay over at her house? She patches him up and maybe offers him a bite? Doesn't have to be nsfw but +5 cool points if it is. <3

Hello, my loves, long time no see!!! I hope this is to your liking <3

Spike is so incredibly reckless. You knew this, he knew, everybody knew that Spike was a walking accident waiting to happen'. He likes to think he can handle himself. "I'm bad, baby," he'd tell you, "M' the big bad slayer killer. I can handle a few scratches." But you were never worried about what he could handle, you were worried about the fact that his blood was always staining your couch. That and the fact that his lack of self-preservation kept you up at night.

Usually, he has some decorum. He doesn't come to you with every scrape and bruise, even though you handled him with much more care than he was capable of extending to himself. It was his way of punishing himself, depriving himself of your head scratches and soft hands for bothering you too much. You scolded him for this, of course. It seems like its every other week (more like every other day) when you and he argue, most often in front of the Scoobies who waited anxiously for you take your arguments to the bedroom, about him leaving you to worry about whether or not he was ash.

"I mean, fuck Spike. Is it really that hard to just give me a call if you plan on bleeding at your place. A little 'Hi, yeah, I don't think I need my wounds treated with modern medicine, I'm gonna take my chances with old whisky and tetanus like the good ol' days'." And every time he takes his well-earned lecture with a smirk and a bowed head.

"Yes, mother, next time I'll break your door down at three in the morning for some pretty pink bandages."

"If you were so ashamed of the pretty pink bandages, maybe you should think before you run into knives!"

Spike has maybe told the truth a grand total of two times in his whole life, so his word means absolutely nothing. He continues to ignore your street like the plague unless it's an absolute emergency.

Now was an emergency.

You barely heard the faint knocks on your door from your bedroom, where you sat on your bed, music blasting from your stereo and some reality court show droning on in the background, catching your attention when someone decided to be particularly messy. You had thought it was your neighbors blind dog scratching at your door again until something large and loud hit it. Quickly arming yourself with a frying pan, you crept to your door, tearing it open for a very injured Spike to nearly fall flat on your floor before he caught himself using your doorframe.

His left hand clutched at his bleeding side and he walked with a limp over to his couch which now had a plastic cover. His dead heart was touched.

"Aw, you were waiting for me, " he croaked out. He fell on his back, one of his hands falling over the side and his eyes closing as soon as his head at the pillow. His shirt had claw marks that were lined with blood and his duster had barely escaped the carnage, a few holes separate from the preexisting moth holes sticky with some supernatural substance.

"Have to be prepared when it comes to you." You patted his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbones to try and arouse some consciousness. "Can't have you fallin' asleep on me. You might not wake up." You weren't going to leave his side until you were sure he wasn't going to die in your absence.

He babbled unintelligently, his mouth moving but having no connection to his brain to form any sort of actual thought. His eyes flit between closed and aware, his head moving to catch up with the spinning room, his mouth impossibly dry, and his head pounding. In his head, he insisted he was fine, but the words wouldn't come out right. He spat them out garbled and messy until he was too choked up to even try anymore.

He was barely conscious when he felt your wrist at his mouth. He had enough sense to shake his head and nudge away your wrist with his nose, but his lack of strength made his attempts futile. "No," he mumbled.

"You'll feel better," your voice swam around in his head until the words lost meaning and he just smiled at the sound of your voice. You swiped your thumb across one of his canines, the red contrasting with the pearly whites of his teeth swiftly wiped away by the pink of his tongue. After the taste of your blood was on his tongue, his sense was surrendered to instinct as he brought your wrist to his lips.

You didn't know what you were getting into. Vampires get their life force from blood, so it just made sense to have him feed from you to expedite the healing process. The more he drank, the louder your heartbeat grew in your ear and the closer he pulled you to him. You had only done this once before, when you were both drink and dizzy and jokes being whispered in your ear turned into tiny nips from your neck that Buffy nearly walked in on.

In complete shock of what had happened then, you never brought it up, halfway convincing yourself that it never happened in the first place. If it did happen, he had enough sense to pull away then and you hoped he had the sense the pull away now, but now was much different. Now, there was a newfound hunger. A desperation. Like he had been starving himself for years and you were the first bite of food he had eaten. Had to have been good food to, with the way he inhaled you, indulged in you like you were some ambrosia or golden mead.

"Spike," you moaned. "I'm getting a bit light-headed." Your voice was high and thin, fearful as you made attempts to pull your arm from his lips. Through his haze, his fangs contracted back, and his tongue swiped whatever lingered on your skin.

"I'm sorry." Sorry for going too far, sorry for almost turning you into an empty Capri Sun pouch, sorry for being reckless again.

" 's ok."

You wobbled a bit as you stood, fingers wrapped around your wound as you shuffled into your kitchen in pursuit of your first aid kit. "You gonna tell me what happened?" He only groaned from the couch.

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired." You laughed on your way over to him, wrist already covered in gauze with an all too familiar needle and thread in hand.

"You're tired?" The smell of your blood was all too pungent, still. He turned his head towards the wall, studying the numerous music posters and paintings you had hanging.

"Going out to fight evil is a very hard job." You chuckled.

"I know. That's why I stay in here to patch you up." Your fingers were like magic. They always had a way of calming him down. Especially the way you hummed to yourself while you worked. You were never content with just silence. "I expect an answer in the morning." He smiled.

"Yes, ma'am." He fell asleep before you even finished and by the time you were done, you were too tired to walk the down the hall to your bed. You laid your head down on his chest, with no heartbeat to thrum and no breath to rock you, you still fell asleep just like that. Who knew cold bodies were so comfortable.

[bonefall]

Better Bones AU: History Lesson

(A new, updated version of an old history lesson, with some new names and the hopes of being a better summary. Refer to this one over the old one!)

[ID: Ferncloud from Warrior Cats is lecturing Lionkit, Jaykit, and Hollykit.]

Teaching history in the Clans became an important feature after the defeat of Ripplestar near the beginning of the Chivalric Period. While elders are seen as the chroniclers of history, a dedicated Educator takes on the role of making sure each litter learns everything they need to know.

During the Settlement Era, ThunderClan's educator Ferncloud teaches the kits of ThunderClan about glyphs, the basic tenets of the Warrior Code, and an overview of history.

As of the newest arc, there have been 5 Periods so far, with each period being broken down into 3 Eras and side stories. Those are;

ANCIENT PERIOD Dawn Era, Code Era, Skyfall Era

CHIVALRIC PERIOD Ripple Era, Crusade Era, Campaign Era.

THISTLE PERIOD Broken Era, Tiger Era, Fire Era

HOMING PERIOD Journey Era, Settlement Era, Eclipse Era

MODERN PERIOD Reunion Era, Reckoning Era, Current Day

In addition, there is also a Prehistoric Period, which is only remembered by Clan cats through the tales of LionClan, LeopardClan, and TigerClan. The truth is even stranger than the mythological animals they tell stories about.

See: Hollyleaf's Century.

Ancient Period (1920s - 1970s)

Dawn Era

Moth Flight's Vow

In the Dawn Era, the five ancient founders settled the Forest. From the North came the Clans, lead down from the mountains by Gray Wing the Wise. From the south came Warriors, following a king, Arc of the Park.

Gray Wing died in a fateful accident while saving his right-hand man, Shaded Flower. Clear Sky managed to keep the group together through his sheer strength, settling them into the forest. This all changed when a horrible accident caused the leg of Clear Sky's brother, Jagged Peak, to be permanently twisted.

His own brother and the leader of the Clan at the time, Clear Sky, cast him out. His pregnant mate, Bright Storm, protested this cruelty and tried to care for Jagged Peak all winter long. Her efforts were in vain as he starved to death, and the spirit of Gray Wing responded to this by sending her a hero and a sign;

Bright Storm's litter had one survivor, a ginger tabby named Thunder Storm, missing its leg in the same place where its uncle had lost his. They brought the child back to the group.

Refusing to learn his lesson, Clear Sky rejected the child just like he'd done to Jagged Peak. This time, many families did not abide the cruelty, headed by Tall Shadow. This caused the split between Sky's Clan and Shadow's Clan. Shadow's Clan came into constant conflict with the Wind Coalition, Thunder Storm broke off Thunder's Clan many years later after a great injustice, and he eventually struck up an alliance with the River Kingdom.

Rising political tension culminated in Sky's Clan taking the prince of the River Kingdom, River's Ripple, as a hostage. The First Battle broke out between all five groups at Fivetrees, a bloodbath with so much carnage that the bodies could not be buried in one day.

StarClan broke the battle with a flash of lightning, coming down from the heavens to offer each leader a revelation, and a reward. The reward being that each leader would get 9 lives to lead their Clans, and better understand the cats within them, as long as they gave a proper burial to each cat killed in the pointless fight.

The first two Commandments of the Warrior Code were made on this day-- the Law of the Land establishing borders, and the Law of Honor, which states that a true warrior does not need to kill in order to win their battles.

And thus ended the Dawn Era, and started the Code Era.

Code Era

Because this was before the Clans taught history, most of the Code Era is remembered in parables associated with the creation of Commandments 3 thru 8. It's also MUCH longer than most other Eras, with many of these parables being several generations apart.

The cats in them are so old and so storied that they are seen as deities in StarClan, prayed to and invoked by the living. Examples being Daisytail, Patron of Protection and Parenthood, and Redscar, Patron of Arbitration and Decision-Making.

Eventually, the third commandment, the Law of Loyalty, was made in response to the open love of Ryewhisker and Cloudberry. It banned interclan mateships and closed off the groups in a way unseen since the Dawn Era, and ignited the ancient tradition of Kitten Stealing.

Unknown to the living, in protest of such an evil law, Ryewhisker and Cloudberry willingly joined the Dark Forest. They are two of the oldest spirits there.

An accurate chronicle truly begins with the Skyfall Era.

Skyfall Era

Cars, brand new highways, and suburban expansion started to cut into the Forest as the humans entered a new era... not that the Clans knew why it was happening. Kittypets, associated with these humans, started to be seen more negatively than ever before.

This Era is named for, and defined by, the loss of SkyClan.

Commandment 9, the Law of the Wild, was made in response to SkyClan cats defecting to live as housecats; "A true warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet."

As their territory evaporated below their paws, SkyClan was blamed for everything out of their control. To this day, this era is framed as a cautionary tale to kittens, "What happens to a Clan when they stop living by the Code." In a famous final plea, SkyClan was turned away and exiled.

Their ancestors, 1/5th of StarClan, went with them... except for Skystar who remained in Silverpelt, revered as a Patron of Battle.

The Clerics of the four remaining clans protested the exile ferociously, banding together to go on strike until SkyClan was returned. To break it and bring their medics back under control, the Medicine Cat's Vow was codified into law.

Previously, it had been a personal vow between Clerics, one with no enforcement behind it. Not taking a mate or having kittens was to always keep medicine above Clan loyalty; but the code was enshrined to make a Cleric put Clan loyalty above all else. A corrupted vow. Dalestar of WindClan smeared his Cleric, Larkstripe, as a hypocrite and sent her kitten away.

See: Larkstripe

And thus ended the strike, and the Ancient Period, as the following Chivalric Period began.

Chivalric Period (1970s - Late 1990s)

Ripple Era

Ripplestar's Rot

Larkstripe's kitten was raised at Birdsong's belly in ShadowClan, the adopted brother of Gorseclaw and Spottedpelt. Ripplemoon understood it was a great injustice that SkyClan had been exiled, and vowed to make room for his siblings' father and Clan to return home.

Meanwhile, the 5th Oak at Fivetrees was beginning to rot. The Ripple Era was named for this time of tumult, ending with a crash as Ripplestar's war came to a bloody halt.

After the death of the 5th Oak, Fivetrees becomes Fourtrees, widely considered a sign that a Clan that cannot keep its borders does not deserve to have them. THREE new laws were added to the Warrior Code, all of them related to making cats more loyal.

The Full Moon Truce, ruling that cats were not to fight or argue at gatherings

The First Tasks, a set of pre-existing traditions now codified, that all apprentices had to complete upon becoming warriors

The Leader's Rights... to not be disobeyed.

The Clan Pride Tide that followed ignited war and chaos, considered to be the 'chivalric ideal' of Clan society. The battles were glorious, and never before were cats so honorable and ferocious. Punishments were harsh and severe... such as the one for a certain mother who took a halfclan mate, and was given 3 ill-fated kittens by StarClan.

And this punishment truly ended the Ripple Era, and lead to the Crusade Era.

Crusade Era

Darkstar's Commandment

Pinestar's Crusade

When a false sign from StarClan was misinterpreted by the Cleric of ThunderClan (unknown to all: Birchface was a rogue StarClan warrior who sent it), Oakstar ferociously exiled Mapleshade and her three kittens in the midst of a storm. With nowhere to go, she tried to bring her children across the river to their father's Clan. They did not survive.

Darkstar refused to even allow her to bury the kittens in RiverClan. Mapleshade exacted her revenge, taking out 3 cats before being taken out herself. Furious at the injustice and murder, StarClan damned every cat involved, and gave Darkstar and Oakstar a command; to NEVER let this happen ever again.

Darkstar created Darkstar's Commandment, that all kittens were to be protected regardless of origin, and no one would be compelled to reveal the other parent of their kittens. This is known as the Queen's Rights.

See: Queen's Rights

Oakstar opposed this change at first, until he was beaten by Darkstar and forced to accept this new law. Fearing that StarClan would be furious with him, he attempted to please them by starting crusades against the cats of Chelford.

These Crusades lead to the creation of BloodClan, to defend Chelford cats against Clan invasion. From this point it evolved into a system of governance unique to itself.

See: Brief BloodClan Guide

WindClan and ShadowClan joined in on these raids for several years, with only RiverClan abstaining. Between the cats of the forest there was an era of odd 'peace' as they had new targets to battle for honor... until Heatherstar took power.

The Campaign Era reignited inter-Clan hostility.

Campaign Era

Tallstar's Collapse

Brokenstar's Cataclysm

Stormpaw's Demon

Bluestar's Flowers

Heatherstar of WindClan flexed her ambition by launching a campaign to take the Mothermouth Moorland from ShadowClan, setting off a cascade of renewed inter-Clan hostility. It caused ShadowClan to hold territory from ThunderClan, ThunderClan to re-take Sunningrocks, and RiverClan to assert control over the Gorge, causing periodic four-way fights between them in ways unseen since the Ripple Era.

WindClan lost the tradition of tunneling in this Era; as it isn't useful for the total war that Heatherstar needed to take such a huge chunk of territory.

In the later half of this Era, a group of young cross-Clan friends started to meet in secret. Bluemoon of ThunderClan, Hoprunner and Ashfoot of WindClan, Lizardstripe of ShadowClan, Oakheart of RiverClan, and Barley Senior of BloodClan.

They called themselves the Forget-Me-Nots, and it was the beginning of the ideology known as Fire Alone. Bluemoon's love of her friends, and the loss of her family in pointless battles, made her realize that something needed to change.

And yet, this era gave birth to something much more rotten. As the Clans hardened and started to see the more brutal parts of the code as fundamentally opposed to its softer laws, the tenets that would found Thistle Law began to form.

See: Thistle Law

Named for a painful lesson that Thistleclaw taught his apprentice, Bluestar's rise to power stalled its implementation for a few more safe years. It was the ironic negotiation of a Peace Deal to end the Mothermouth Moorland war which ended the Chivalric Period, and birthed the Thistle Period.

Thistle Period (Late 1990's - 2008)

Broken Era

Spottedleaf's Plague

After generations of fighting, Raggedstar of ShadowClan was old, tired, and wanted only to see peace for his last years of life. He went to end the war and stop fighting for the Mothermouth Moorland which had been contested for so long.

His son and deputy, Brokentail, killed him before he had the chance.

The rise of Brokenstar was the first true implementation of Thistle Law. His followers believed that the only way to truly win a war was to destroy the opposition-- completely. As Heatherstar had done before by sacrificing tunneling, Brokenstar, too, was prepared to make sacrifices.

In just a few short years using brutal tactics like poison claws, traps, and apprentice-targeting, ShadowClan had shredded WindClan's numbers. The final bloody event in this eradication was the WindClan Massacre, a full assault on their camp, and ShadowClan had even broken the code by bringing inexperienced warriors to battle. Casting out a full Clan was considered evil and barbaric.

Rebels formed in this time, but without help, they would have stood no chance against the popular Brokenstar.

It was Bluestar of ThunderClan and her young champion, an ex-kittypet called Firepaw, who agreed to lend their aid. Guided by the words of a prophecy, "Fire Alone Will Save The Clans," Bluestar instilled in her apprentice a new way of seeing the world.

With Brokenstar deposed, Bluestar sent her champion again to fetch WindClan. They gave ShadowClan space to recover, defended the weakened WindClan against River and Shadow, and even accepted a blinded Brokenstar out of mercy. At all turns, Bluestar embodied justice and chivalry...

Or so the ThunderClan history lessons say. Others like to put more emphasis on the growing darkness behind Tigerclaw.

Tiger Era

Tigerstar's Paws

It officially began when Tigerstar took power in ShadowClan. TigerClan lasted for only six horrible moons and defines the shortest era in the history lessons, but its story is told with horror and hushed tones.

Dozens of cats died, in raids and in executions. Prey was stolen from other territories and slaughtered en-mass to build a ridiculous, reeking monument of bones. There wasn't even enough to build a solid hill, so Tigerstar demanded they create a pointless facade over mud just for his ego.

But all of this was still not enough for him, and he contacted BloodClan to negotiate the Impossible Deal. They would have half of the Forest, if they helped him kill his enemies. Scourge did not trust Clan cats, but against his better judgement, as if the heavens were whispering in his ear... he agreed.

The Era came to a crashing halt when Tigerstar attacked his ally and Scourge famously opened him up in two hits. A very special song was made about this moment; Tiger's In A Heap.

Fire Era

Cinderpelt's Solution

Firestar's Quietus

The Tiger in RiverClan

Tigerstar had made a deal, and Scourge intended for it to be upheld. Half of the forest was rightfully his, and he would evict any Clan cats who he found living on it, tired of their dishonorable ways. He gave them three days to clear out.

Firestar was able to convince the four Clans to unite as one to defend against this threat, but he had a revelation. Scourge wasn't wrong. Clan cats had acted dishonorably with him, making promises they didn't intend to keep, attacking him when he didn't obey like a minion. In spite of being Bluestar's champion and successor, Firestar himself had been treated as if he was lesser, just for his birth.

To Scourge, and to Rusty, the Clans HAD been dishonorable. The Code ended at the border and treated outsiders as less-than-cats.

When the battle with BloodClan began, Firestar and Scourge faced off. The battle was legendary. In a fateful move, Firestar slammed the leader of BloodClan to the ground, and ripped his collar clean off. "A true warrior does not need to kill to win their battles."

Calling for a retreat with his life, Scourge left his collar behind on the battlefield. Firestar returned it, and opened up new negotiations with the humbled leader. "We have won our right to the forest, but speak to me; how much of Tigerstar's impossible deal can we honor for you?"

The answer was so simple as to be ridiculous. They wanted materials like wood, nice-smelling flowers, and new kinds of food. Things that they couldn't find in the dumpsters and gray pavement of twolegplace, and BloodClan could offer materials of their own to trade.

The Fire Era allowed the Thistle Period to have a brief, but sweet time of peace. This time of cooperation ended in a horrible ball of chaos, as the forest was destroyed by man and the cats had to go on a long journey.

Homing Period (2007 - 2018)

Journey Era

As the forest was destroyed, the Clans sought guidance from StarClan. The Clerics went to the Mothermouth, as was expected in those days. Cinderpelt, Littlecloud and Cinderpelt's apprentice Leafstripe were slightly late, as usual, taking their time getting there to have their bi-weekly chat.

When they arrived, they found Mothwing frantically digging at a collapsed rockfall. If they hadn't been late, they too would have died. Mudfur and Barkface were dead. The remaining Clerics dug until their claws were bloody, then fell asleep where they stood.

Leafstripe of ThunderClan received a prophecy. Four chosen cats must follow the Brightest Star, and find them a new home. These four cats were sent by each Clan; Brambleclaw, Tawnypelt, Feathertail, and Crowfoot. Squirrelpaw and Stormfur joined them, without permission.

As they went on a quest that would come to be known as the Sundrown Patrol, the four Clans suffered through many hardships. ThunderClan was forced out of its camp, WindClan was poisoned and ensnared, RiverClan pushed for Sunningrocks as the river dried up, and ShadowClan's marshland was filled in.

After the patrol returned to free several cats who had been trapped by humans, the Clans left hastily to begin the Great Journey.

Something changed on that trip together. For the first time ever, the four Clans had to rely on each other, and see things the way they could be. The apprentices and kits in particular walked away with a unique mindset about cooperation, summed up with a special dish they created together known as Paw Soup.

But of course, it did not last. On reaching the lake and discovering the Moonpool, Leafstripe received three new prophecies.

"Blood will spill blood and the lake will run red."

"Fire and tiger will clash and burn together into ash"

"The first of the lake will guide WindClan."

Her name was changed to Leafpool, an honor title to reflect her powerful seeing abilities.

After the death of Tallstar and the hasty rise of Onewhisker to power, Mudclaw decided that this prophecy must mean that the first cat to see the lake after the Great Journey would lead WindClan. Since he lead the first patrol here, he was especially convinced that it meant him.

(Unknown to him, it was referring to his child, Kestrelflight, who would be the first kitten born at the lake. Shortly followed by his brothers Harestar and Owlclaw, Hare and Kestrel were given to Mudclaw's brother Torear shortly after their birth while Whitewater kept Owl.)

Mudclaw's Rebellion spiraled into a conflict involving cats of all Clans, lead in by Hawkfrost. After a failed assassination attempt on Onewhisker's life, StarClan was so furious at Mudclaw's insolence that they smote him with a falling tree.

When this failed, Hawkfrost became desperate, getting three Tribe cats temporarily cast out of RiverClan, and attempting to kill Firestar to put Brambleclaw into leadership. When Brambleclaw hesitated, Mothwing sprang out of a bush to rescue the leader, and Brambleclaw fought his brother. But, he was unable to land the fatal blow, and Hawkfrost lunged for his sister... only to impale himself on the stake she was holding.

As the lake ran red with tiger blood, Brambleclaw stepped down from his deputyship, and Brackenfur took power. Mothwing returned with the body of her brother, but her troubles were not yet over. The cats of RiverClan who had participated in WindClan's rebellion didn't believe it was an accident, and Leopardstar did nothing about these accusations.

Mistyfoot realized that something had to be done. Hawkfrost was a victim as much as he was a perpetrator, and these ideas had to be pulled up at the root.

Every Clan has a different moment for where the Journey Era ended. ShadowClan believes it's when they arrived in their new home. WindClan thinks the death of Mudclaw feels right. ThunderClan sees it as the appointment of Brackenfur as deputy. RiverClan marks it at the sudden death of Leopardstar to a rogue, bludgeoned to death on a rock.

Homing Era

An unprecedented time of peace, never seen before, nor since. These days have come to be seen as halcyon, divided up into 'episodes' of conflict and interesting tales.

Some of these episodes are,

The Shinewater Plague

When a twoleg truck veered off a thunderpath and spilled gallons of shining poison into RiverClan territory, Mistystar had to decide what kind of leader she wanted to be. In this instance, she accepted help in spite of what some of the harsher cats of her Clan demanded.

ShadowClan's Lichen Rebog Project

Arriving at the lake was hard for ShadowClan, as the rivers in their territory were deep and their land was largely useless pines. Blackstar commanded an ambitious terraforming project, blocking up the rivers and controlling the flooding to turn their land into a marsh. ThunderClan offered their help, as usual.

Ripwater's Devastation

A giant, monstrous fish lurked in the depths of the lake, sucking down a RiverClan apprentice into the abyss and making fishing dangerous for any cat going for a swim. Ripwater needed to be dealt with, but RiverClan had never killed something as large as a boar, let alone larger.

Salt Patrol

This was the first time that the Clans had regular access to gathering their own salt, an important medicine for treating infection and parasites. There were times that apprentices of all Clans would converge, by coincidence, for a beach episode.

The Tribe's Rogues

Taken aback by the fact the Tribe cats ask for help even when they have a choice, Clan cats grapple with what this says about their own upbringings.

See: The expanded notes on how the Tribe visit has been completely reduxed to fix its problematic elements.

The Three, who would come to be known in story and legend, grew up in this period, exploring themselves, their friends, and the culture around them.

This time of kindness came to a tragic end in the Battle of the False Eclipse, and the Cruel Season that followed it.

Angered by ThunderClan's meddling in their affairs, WindClan and RiverClan attacked them and pulled all the Clans into a lake-wide brawl that was only ended by a flash of darkness. Sol showed them a taste of what was to come just a few years later, when the planes of reality would collide.

The Dark Forest had been making its moves and sewing seeds of discord within disgruntled cats of the Clans, involving them in a plan to snatch godhood from the stars. Their first major move was the 'accidental' killing of Brackenfur in the Battle of the False Eclipse, and the fire in ThunderClan that came later, as cover for killing Firestar.

And so, Bramblestar ascended to power with Squilf as his first deputy, Thornclaw as the second after Hollyleaf spilled a secret, and the young prodigy vanished into the tunnels for many years. A third cat of great prophecy was born to her brother.

See: Hollyleaf, just, this whole post

Eclipse Era

Uniting a group of cats with almost nothing in common, Tigerstar planned to usurp StarClan and become the new deities of the four Clans. He relied heavily on his son, Hawkfrost, to be his diplomat and keep the unstable alliance together just long enough to accomplish his goals.

Lionblaze and Jayfeather learned there was a plot, but didn't know how to infiltrate it. Lionblaze sent his daughter, Ivypool, in to spy on the demons and their schemes. Hawkfrost became her Dark Forest mentor.

The Dark Forest plan: replace every cat in power with a trainee before the night of the True Eclipse, to make their takeover easier. Simple enough. Harder was coordinating a bunch of trainees with completely different motivations.

See: Motivations of Dark Forest trainees

Firestar and Brackenfur were first. Sedgecreek and Mistystar, Ashfoot and Onestar, Russetfur and Blackstar were next.

The Dark Forest succeeded in pitting ThunderClan and ShadowClan against each other, thanks to deputy Thornclaw's influence. After the death of Russetfur, Blackstar was absolutely devastated and prone to Sol's influence. This was ShadowClan's first collapse, but unfortunately, not its last.

Redwillow, Ratscar, and Applefur took power of the Clan in his absence, and leas to bloody infighting as they tried to hold onto it. It was Rowanclaw rallying Blackstar's family to remind him of how loved he was that brought him back around, calling forth enough manpower to overthrow the trainees and take ShadowClan back.

Just before the Eclipse was about to commence, Hollyleaf returned just in time to fight for her family.

Thanks to the information of cats like Ivypool, the Clans were able to prepare for the Night of the True Eclipse. Unfortunately, the days of the Homing Era were gone, and they had a hard time uniting as a front. While ShadowClan and ThunderClan were able to rally and limit their losses, WindClan and RiverClan remained individual targets.

Dovewing lead a coalition of cats to counter the Dark Forest wherever they attacked, her father Lionblaze trailing just behind. Jayfeather used his powers to summon cats from StarClan itself, using a stick stolen from Rock to resurrect a tree and pull down as many angels as could fit on its branches.

Though outnumbered and losing, Tigerstar had vowed to go out in a blaze of glory. Scourge under his left claws and Blackstar bleeding out a life to the right, Firestar himself came in to settle the score with his old foe.

Modern Period (2018 - Today)

Reunion Era

ThunderClan's Tempest

Heartstar's Rise

Following the terrible carnage of the Great Battle, a grand storm blew through the lake and brought flooding unlike anything ever seen before. In the aftermath, many of ShadowClan's carefully managed projects took a beating.

The other Clans were reluctant to lend their aid, in contrast to the peace and cooperation of the Homing Era. Frustrated by ShadowClan's first collapse and the lack of help they were receiving now, the youngest generation was desperate for radical change. Many of the dejected cats around the lake agreed, Dark Forest trainees, halfclan cats and lovers, codebreakers, and so on.

They were co-opted by a terrible actor. Darktail had infiltrated SkyClan, many miles away, and exploited their internal divisions. Sharpclaw, Rockshade, and cats like them joined his cause, and SkyClan had fled in the chaos. He offered his help to the struggling ShadowClan, and any Clan cats seeking a safe haven. Breezepelt and his fellow ex-trainees were some of them.

"Nevermind your borders and your battles and your bloodlines," Darktail announced, "We will all be the Kin." Slowly, each of these things he spoke against became central to his movement.

WindClan, lead by Onestar, reacted severely. He put a complete embargo on any Clan lending aid, even denying them medicine during a terrible outbreak of Yellowcough. When ShadowClan fell apart, the Kin absorbed it completely and became an unstoppable force.

Heathertail couldn't handle the horrible cruelty of her father, and joined them hoping to get her half-brother's side of the story.

This was when The Kin started expanding, targeting their neighbors for territory. It was only through the return of SkyClan that the cult was able to be defeated, and because of their role in the final confrontation, it was agreed they had a claim to the Lake.

In memory of the conflict, and with respect to the destroyed ShadowClan, a new commandment was added to the code. The Law of the Lake demands that in times of stress, no Clan may allow another to falter and disband.

Rowanstar intended to live the last of his days in shame, having watched Dawnpelt die, his Clan disband, and Tigerheart vanish. Tigerheart returned only to die in a horrible accident, and Rowan refused to watch his last child be taken from him.

Drowning away his lives in the Moonpool so Heartstar could rise, the Era ends with the resurrection of ShadowClan.

Reckoning Era

Squirrelflight's Horror

Tawnypelt's Mountain

Ferncloud's Parting

SkyClan joining the lake and ShadowClan reforming caused struggles for territory. It was already a tight squeeze for ShadowClan before they joined, and accommodating an extra Clan would require careful diplomacy.

Unfortunately, Bramblestar had other plans. It got into his head that his deputy, Squirrelflight, was undermining him and he played a pointless game with his power. Joining Heartstar in an ill-fated invasion on a nomadic group, ThunderClan lost the respected senior Cleric and discoverer of the Moonpool, Leafpool.

But in those days, there was nothing that could be done about a bad leader besides violent revolution. Any telling of this era of history starts with these events, to establish why ThunderClan did not quickly realize their leader had been replaced by an Impostor only a few moons later, and why they didn't immediately do anything about it.

This impostor's first action was to announce his plans at a peaceful gathering. While losing a life, StarClan had told him they were disappointed and furious at the lack of a reckoning for the cats who had been disloyal in the previous two eras. HalfClan cats, insurgents, and other Codebreakers must be punished and brought in line, to return the Clans to a better time.

Most leaders agreed with this sentiment, and loosely implemented tests of loyalty. It wasn't enough for the Imposter, who was particularly insulted by Bristlefrost codebreaking within his own Clan to see Rootspring of SkyClan.

So at the next gathering, he called together the five Clans, implored them one more time to truly punish their Codebreakers or else StarClan would never come back, and finished his speech by ripping open Bristlefrost's neck.

Over the screams of the crowd, the full, uncovered moon shined bright. He pointed up with his bloodied paw, citing its light as StarClan's approval.

It wasn't the first time an unblemished moon meant cruelty, and SkyClan refused to be part of this evil game. Conflict escalated into a full-blown civil war, leading to scores of dead cats, and the eventual cornering of the Impostor.

When he escaped into the Dark Forest with the ghosts of the fallen kept hostage, Squirrelflight organized a final push to free those who were trapped. These cats came to be known as Lights in the Mist:

Harelight (then called Harefur) and Mistystar of RiverClan

Ivypool and Ferncloud of ThunderClan

Rootspring and MacGyver of SkyClan

Shadowsight and Flowerscar of ShadowClan

Breezepelt and Leaftail of WindClan... after Breezepelt conked Crowfeather over the noggin to forcefully take his spot.

(Exact cats liable to change, particularly MacGyver, Flowerscar, and Leaftail)

In the final confrontation, Ashfur revealed his special powers, having killed and absorbed the ancient spirit Clear Sky as well as several other demons and angels. He was too powerful to defeat, in spite of the combined efforts of the Dark Forest, StarClan, and the Lights in the Mist. In a final, grand effort, Shadowsight used a lightning bolt coursing through his veins to hold the monster down, and Bristlefrost sacrificed her life and eternity knocking Ashfur out of the sky like a falling star.

They crashed to Earth as a pair of asteroids, leaving a crater that became a small pool on SkyClan's border.

This fight destroyed a region of StarClan, an in-between area known as the Meadow of Young Stars. Now a shattered plain unable to separate the Place of No Stars from Silverpelt, A guard defends the single unstable bridge between the lands.

See: StarClan 101

~Current Day~

Ferncloud died tragically after confronting her brother on that fateful mission, and ThunderClan mourns its educator. In respect and heartbreak, its elders have hesitated in choosing a new cat for this role.

With two Eras behind them, the Clans have been loosely speculating what the new name for this Period will become, what its theme will be. There's no way to know until it happens... and it's not as if all the Clans agree on where exactly the times begin and end.

In the meanwhile, a new commandment has been added to the code. It's called Bristlefrost's Law, and for the first time, there is now an official system for changing Clans to be with a mate or a partner. Not all like this change-- some call these cats 'Turnclaws,' and didn't think there was a problem with the way things were.

Bramblestar has been tired since his ordeal, and ThunderClan is hoping he will step down soon. Mistystar has also been slow and aching, but her son Reedwhisker is a fine deputy, and he will make a fine leader as well.

The Clans have gone through a hard time, but there seems to finally be a light at the end of the- oh hey what's Splashtail up to

[hunterwritesstuff]

Reader killing Val brutally for hurting Vox <3

HELL YEAH I CAN FUCKING DO THAT, SORRY IF IT'S A LITTLE AMATEURISH, STILL LEARNING HOW TO WRITE GORE STUFF LOL LMK IF YOU WANT HCS TOO LMAO Hope ya enjoy, even if it isn't that gorey! :D

"Keep your paws off of him."

Vox screamed as the hit came to him. Another cracked screen. Vox didn't know how much more he could take. He didn't know how much more he could handle having this stupid partnership with this stupid fucking moth.

"Have you learned your lesson, ¿mascota? Or do you need more than just a cracked fucking screen this time?" Val hissed.

"F..fuck you..." Vox hissed. That was the last straw that snapped Val's back.

Vox screamed as Val snagged a hand around his throat, aggravating his neck-wound. Vox's mind fucking RACED.

For the first time in years, a thought crossed Vox's mind.

He was going to die.

Vox screamed, BEGGED for someone to help him as Val tore off one of his arms and he felt his fluid start leaking out of the open wound.

Val dropped the TV-head to the ground, now in his more shadowed form, eyes glowing bright red. Tears clouded Vox's vision as Val said one last thing. "Hasta luego, mascota."

Vox squeezed his eyes shut, tensing up, ready to die, ready for impact-wait, why was Val screaming?

Vox opened his eyes, finding that Y/N had thrust a clawed hand through Val's midsection, pinning him against the nearby wall.

Vox slowly sat up, watching the carnage from a distance. You were tearing into the overlord almost animalistically.

"KEEP YOUR PAWS OFF HIM." Vox's eyes widened at your loud voice.

Hot pink splashed across the floor and walls as you mauled Val, pinning him to the ground with one foot and grabbing one of his wings firmly, slowly tugging at it.

As he was about to speak, you pulled with full force, tearing his wing off with ease, loud screams of agony echoed in the room, more hot pink splashing across the floor.

You took a firm grip of each of Val's limbs, snapping each of them in two. You didn't kill him yourself, but you made sure he would fucking bleed out. He was always on the top floor. Nobody ever came up there. He would die alone.

You walked over to Vox, gently picking him up, kissing him on the corner of his screen, and walking over to the elevator.

"Vox...! Help...me..." Val begged, coughing up more hot pink blood.

Vox looked over for a moment before turning back to you. "...come on, honey...let's go home..."

[peaxhxhair]

Hello 👋 Can I pls request dating and jealousy headcanons for Choi Mujin and Do Gangjae with a gn reader? Thank you ❤️

A/n: Heyy! Thanks so much for the request <3 Hope you enjoy!! :)

Navigation

My name - MASTERLIST

~Choi Mujin

Has a photo of you in his wallet.

His name in your phone is something like “Mujin❤️”

Your name in his phone is your full name. (And probably where he met you). He forgets to change it.

His penthouse was really boring until you started sleeping over. Now it’s full of your stuff.

Pictures on the fridge. New mugs, blankets and pillows.

If you’re a collector, he’ll make room for your stuff - shelves, drawers, cabinets. Wherever you want to put your stuff.

He’s not usually one for PDA, but if someone’s flirting with you, suddenly he can’t get enough of it.

You have a hard time buying gifts for him, but he’ll be happy with whatever you give him. He’s just grateful for you.

He somehow always knows exactly what you want - even if you haven’t said anything.

Lets you tie his ties for him.

He can do it himself, he just likes being close to you.

Tries his best not to be jealous of people, but it happens often.

NOT good at telling you either. He’ll just stew silently, glaring.

His jealousy usually comes out when someone else puts their hands on you. Though it’s hard to tell whether he’s just protective or actually Jealous. It’s usually both.

Will resort to violence, even if you tell him not to.

Absolutely irrational when jealous.

A person touched your ass? Murder. Absolute Carnage.

You don’t have to reassure him that you love him, he knows. Though he does like hearing it.

If you’re younger than him, he gets jealous of the younger people you talk to.

Sometimes he thinks you’ll leave him for someone closer to your age.

You’ll reassure him with something silly like “well I’m into dilfs so…” or “I like old men, you’re fine” not older, old. It makes him laugh.

~Do Gangjae

Actually really insecure about your relationship.

He really thinks you’ll leave him with the first chance you get. Obviously that isn’t true though.

Gets jealous SO easily.

If you’re shopping together, he’ll get jealous of the staff that you speak to.

And If you’re into more than one gender, it’s 10x worse.

He’s definitely that partner that talks for you at a restaurant because he’s jealous of you talking to other people.

But if you scold him about it, he’ll stop.

Not good at apologizing for it, but he’ll try his best to show it.

You have to reassure him at least twice a day that you wouldn’t leave him for anyone else. That you could never love anyone else.

“that person was totally into you” “Baby, I promise that old lady was NOT into me”

Scary dog privileges, except he clings to you like a moth to a lamp.

Requires kisses 95% of the time.

Likes your fingers in his hair.

You take all of his shirts. It’s not like he wears them anyway.

Every time he comes home from work, you check him for wounds.

If he has any, you patch him up. He gushes at your kindness.

Obsessed with you.

If someone he kills has something you’d like, he’ll take it to give to you.

If you’re good at cooking, you’ll pack him lunch.

If you’re bad at cooking, he’ll eat your cooking regardless. He’s just happy because you made it.

[k-marzolf]

blood and pomegranates.

Friends to lovers, canon typical violence, blood, death of Frank’s family, canonish Billy with no good options, Rawlins, fem!reader.

x

“I’d eat the pomegranate for you, but six months would never be enough,” you confess to your best friend, standing outside the bar while he has a smoke, moths dancing around the lights as summer dies.

He kisses your forehead, flicking ash to the side, warm fingers touching your cheek, “You’re too soft, sweetheart.”

“Abundant violence has made me that way.” You say, clinging to his sweater, warm in the September chill that has you shivering, and pressing closer.

He aches, wrapping his arm around you, “You never haveta be afraid again.”

And you believe him. Even after a week later men come to the bookstore you work at, sniffing around, mentioning Billy’s name.

Even after he comes to you late at night, covered in blood asking to use your shower, and afterwards his body presses to yours, head resting on your chest, relishing in your touch as you stroke his hair. He cries and you don’t know why.

And even when he admits to killing a man, you become a saint, forgiving even the worst crimes.

Even after Frank Castle comes to you, telling you about his family’s massacre, that Billy might have betrayed him.

Because you're selfish, and you want to be the one thing Billy loves, and that you’d look past the carnage of his own making, to find him waiting for you.

And as God as his witness, Billy does love you, and didn’t Rawlins know it when he’d sent those men to the bookstore?

The one piece Rawlins had in the puzzle that assured the Castle’s deaths was you.

And someday, Billy swears he will kill him for taking his family, but for now he holds onto you, his own bud in the spring after a long, cold winter.

[alexanderlightweight]

cat boy Alec, with big fluffy ears and tail

-an excuse for magnus to call alec kitten? my favorite nickname magnus has for alec besides treasure and lovely... uh no thank you of course i'm not excited LET ME WRITES IT ALREADY BRAIN

i hope you enjoy this!

<3 lumine

maybe i'm a villain

is the title

-

Alec eyes the six shadowhunters that flank him and shakes his head, internally biting back his exhaustion.

“You’ll stay out here, until I’ve talked to Bane.” Alec orders and the hunters respond with concise, clear nods. Normally Alec wouldn’t detach from an official team — one sent from Idris no less — but as as head and Commander of New York, its Alec’s duty to pave the way for the clave.

Which mean this, meeting with the king of the East Coast for the very first time… and without even a hint of an invitation.

The clave has put Alec in perhaps, one of the most precarious positions he’s ever been in. It’s frustrating and insulting but the law is the law and so Alec will do the duty they’ve asked of him.

And then he’s going to go home to his Institute and write a detailed missive explaining every way the clave fucked up and ensure that every single Institute and clave elder sees it.

The clave is practically asking Alec to take the fall — ordering him to with fancy words and pretty calligraphy — and well, Alec always knew this was a possibility. He didn’t expect it — had been hoping it wouldn’t come to this — but Alec is still unmarried at twenty and has been finding ways to deny and ignore every single eligible candidate sent by his parents and the clave both.

So now, the clave has started to ask him for things that could — even by nephilim standards — be considered extreme.

They’re hoping to force him into a position where marrying is the better option but well… Alec would rather die on some convoluted mission for the clave than marry a woman.

As the clave is about to find out.

Alec will protect the hunters assigned to him to the best of his abilities, but they are not his hunters. They have sworn no oaths to him or he to them.

Alec will leave them if needed.

Their carnage and loss will be on the heads of the clave, not Alec and well, Alec’s has his own priorities.

Alec doesn’t disarm, but he takes only his sword and a dagger physically present. His quiver and bow will remain away until needed and Alec desperately hopes they won’t be needed during his meeting with Bane. If they are, it will already be too late for Alec.

—

Nephilim grace is the first thing Magnus tastes.

It’s a cool, almost glacier, presence. It moves nearly languidly through his subjects until it lingers on the steps to Magnus dais.

It’s with tempered curiosity that Magnus takes his first look at the nephilim intruder.

Soft.

It’s the first thing that Magnus catalogues.

Large, delectably looking cat ears with fur the color of an abyssal moth.

They’re elegant and pointed with little tufts that Magnus wants to curl around his fingertips and the crowd parts with a motion of his fingers. The hunter pauses at the foot of the steps and then slowly begins to ascend when Magnus crooks his fingers in demand.

He’s careful about it, hesitant without fear but a clear edge of wariness.

A predator entering another predators den… respectfully.

Magnus wants to feel if that fur and hair is as soft and lush as they look and then the hunter gets within a few steps and Magnus sees a thick, plush tail that is currently wrapped around a muscled thigh.

How sweet.

Magnus’ darling little hunter kept his tail to himself, not wanting others to touch him but also not making himself too large of a threat when entering Magnus’ territory. That he is clearly trying his best to not stand out or take up more attention than necessary.

It’s a pity then, that nothing he ever did would be enough to keep him from Magnus’ gaze.

— “I don’t often get strays in my domain.” Bane murmurs as he gets close and Alec feels the weight of Bane’s power — of his sovereignty — press down around him. Glamours have no place in Bane’s court. The fae and warlocks are all showing their marks and traits and Bane is no different.

His golden eyes are large and slitted, black and gold scales dapple his temples and his neck and his wrists and knuckles.

There are curled horned antlers coming from his head, golden veined and obsidian black and tapered to deadly points.

Alec swallows and stays where he is.

His ears twitch, flattening against his skull before he can help it.

No one thought to warn him how much Bane would be.

How gorgeous he is.

How powerful he is.

How glorious Alec would find him.

“Name and rank, little nephilim.” Bane tells him and for all that Alec knows he’s not small, he feels it in that moment, with the weight of Bane’s focus more encompassing than the entirety of the claves authority has ever been.

“Alec Lightwood, Head and Commander of the New York Institute.” Alec gets outside, throat tight in a way he doesn’t understand.

“You don’t have an appointment, Alexander.”

Alec hesitates, because he doesn’t hate the way that his name sounds when Bane says it and he also doesn’t want to argue with a Dominion king, especially not with one on their own territory.

“The clave asks for your pardon and that I be the representation between you and they. A team of six clave hunters, lead by myself, is requesting access to monitor and close a rift just past your wards.

“Do they think I’m incapable of taking care of my own territory?” Bane asks, voice even with a hidden danger that makes Alec’s mouth dry.

“No.” Alec says, because it’s definitely not that and also he’s pretty sure Bane won’t appreciate being told that this is probably Alec’s fault. That this encroachment on Bane’s territory is nothing more than the clave putting Alec in an unfortunate and almost impossible place.

Almost impossible, because they expect him to survive and immediately happily accept an engagement to ensure this never happens again.

There is a moment of pure silence and Alec wonders if he’d supposed to try and explain. Perhaps make something up or lie and he doesn’t notice how his ears fluff in annoyance before flattening against his skull when someone gets too close… it’s just. Alec doesn’t think it would be smart to lie to Bane.

“Come here, Alexander.”

—

After a moment of hesitation, Magnus’ hunter obeys.

As he gets even closer to Magnus and still further away from Magnus’ court, he relaxes.

It’s not much, but it’s enough that his tail slowly uncurls from him and Magnus catches the way the fluffy tip twitches, as if betraying Alexander’s anxiety.

And he is anxious.

Oh he’s hiding it well, but Magnus would only expect an idiot to feel confident and Alexander is quite clearly, not an idiot. Though he is something and considering the fact that Magnus has lived long enough to recognize when the clave is trying to subtle punish their active hunters. The clave likes to use downworlders to do their dirty work, but Magnus has never enjoyed being the clave’s tool.

“I think we can negotiate something between the two of us, personally.” Magnus promises and it earns him a nearly silent sigh of relief.

It’s a pity that relief won’t last for long.

“However even negotiations have a price—” Magnus smirks at Alexander’s suddenly narrowed eyes, “I may be known for my indulgences. Even the clave is quite aware of them.” Alexander grimaces but doesn’t deny it, “but I am not a gracious man. Therefore, if I’m going to let a pack of the clave’s miserable little beasts rampage through my territory, then I want something in return. I don’t do charity cases, Alexander.”

“Your price?” Alexander asks quietly, hesitantly.

“The clave has nothing I want.”

“Then?” His hunter asks, knowing that Magnus wants something or he wouldn’t have started this path.

“You.” Magnus says simply. “The night is still young but already it feels long and I rather enjoy the thought of being able to enjoy the softness of a pretty kitten on my lap.” Alexander’s eyes widen and his mouth parts but Magnus tuts, shushing him. “It would be the start, to opening negotiations. After all, I wasn’t even sent a courtesy message to let me know you were coming.”

Alexander glares at the floor at that, his ears twitching with clear displeasure at the blatant insult dealt to Magnus and Magnus knows this blame can also be places at the feet of the clave.

Magnus thinks he’ll need to make himself more clear.

To point out that at this rate, Alexander in his lap is the least of what will get Alexander’s team out of here alive, then, like an actual stray kitten, Alexander warily approaches him.

—

Alec isn’t sure how he’s supposed to sit in Bane’s lap, but he does his best anyways.

Hands dusted with scales reach out to grip his hips, guiding him close and up until he’s got a knee on either one of Magnus’ thighs. With his runes and training there isn’t even a burn in his muscles, but oh, it burns to feel Magnus solid and hot beneath him.

“Good kitten.” Bane practically croons and then — without warning — fingers are rubbing Alec’s ears and he keens.

Alec can’t help it.

He can’t help the noises he makes or how he all but melts into Bane, dropping against him with shuddering sides as Alec’s nerves are teased and petted and cosseted with the live wire of feeling that his ears currently are.

It’s a moment of time where thoughts don’t work and he’s still trying to catch his breath when Bane rumbles.

Alec aches to respond in turn and he can’t help the tiny, bitten back chirp that crosses his lips or the softest of purrs that Bane compels.

“Shall we start negotiations then, kitten?"

[darethshirl]

It was only after Astarion had finished the kill—after the gut-deep slash, the satisfying spurt of blood—that he realized he was being watched.

He looked over his shoulder. Cassiopeia stood in the midst of all the post-battle carnage, bright-eyed and slightly out-of-breath, a single streak of soot marring her forehead. The remnants of her magic still surrounded her, the tingling scents of ash and ozone tainting the air. The corpses of her enemies were spread out in a semi-circle around her, but she paid them no mind. Her attention was focused entirely on Astarion, her gaze sharp, appraising, and approving.

“You weren’t lying,” she said, a pleased curl to her lips as she approached him. “You really are stronger when you feed.”

Astarion let a smirk grace his face, making a bow that was so theatrical it wrapped back around to mocking. “Nature’s perfect killing machine, at your service.” He looked up from under his eyelashes, teeth sharp on his lips. “Aren’t you glad you kept me around, now?”

Cassiopeia’s smile twitched wider, though whether that was from amusement or some other hidden thought Astarion couldn’t tell. “We should make it a regular occurrence,” she said, ignoring his question. “You feeding on me, I mean.”

Astarion paused. He flicked a careful glance at her, shaking the blood off his dagger with a practiced motion. “Is that what you want?” he asked, then made his expression sweeten into something flirtatious. “All that delicious blood running through your veins—surely we shouldn’t squander it, hmm? It wouldn’t do to tire you out too much, darling.”

“I have blood enough,” Cassiopeia said, with all the supreme unconcern of the truly confident, “and I have power enough. The point is, why shouldn’t you be the strongest version of yourself? This is an advantage. We’d be fools to ignore it.“ She tilted her head then, her brow slightly furrowed, and for the first time since this conversation had started she looked less than perfectly certain. “I thought you’d want this.”

Astarion laughed darkly, hunger and resentment swirling in his belly. “Oh, I do.”

“Well, then.” Cassiopeia gave him a nod, graceful in her decisiveness. It seemed that, in her eyes, the conclusion was foregone. “Tonight.”

Later that day Astarion repaid her by observing her just as closely, keeping to the shadows of his tent as he hunted for her weak points. She and Gale lounged in the middle of the camp like highborn aristocrats, as if the wilderness around them was not mere trees and grass but Baldur’s Gate’s most fashionable parlor. Gale was leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs, his grand gestures animated by the strength of his own convictions. Cassiopeia sprawled back on her seat of stone and moss, loose and indolent like the elven nobility she in truth was. She stayed mostly quiet during Gale’s onslaught of words, with her chin resting carelessly on her palm and an air of indulgence to her silence, until—there: Astarion caught the moment where her smile turned from polite to haughty, the way her gaze flickered, just once, with benign contempt. 

Her breathtaking arrogance, her effortless superiority—it all tickled a memory buried deep inside Astarion’s mind, farther back than Cazador’s first cruelties. Far back in his misty, half-forgotten youth, Astarion had rubbed elbows with the same-such nobles, and he’d been drawn exactly to that type: men and women who wielded power like a deadly scalpel, their every smile a disdainful caress that sliced through skin. Astarion had thrilled at the challenge of catching their attention, posturing and flittering and pushing past boundaries like a suicidal moth diving straight into the flame. He hadn’t managed to conquer any of those untouchable beings—he hadn’t had the time—but the remembered warmth of his occasional victories still glowed within him. His flirtations had drawn blood in their own right. Once upon a time, he’d held influence too.

He’d been lost in reverie for too long; Cassiopeia caught his gaze from across the camp and kept it, staring back with no outward sign of discomfort, focused and nonchalant at the same time. Her expression was inscrutable, too polished for cracks or flaws.

Astarion scowled, and pushed all thoughts away.

(Keep reading on ao3)

[ayzrules-art]

a lil intro for moon-and-seraph's words into potions event this march! definitely check it out if you can; they've put so much work into making such a cute, motivating challenge for us!

WILT AND BLOOM .

GENRE・Fantasy (specifically, second world urban fantasy) WARNINGS・Body horror and plant-related body horror, mild gore, physical/emotional abuse, implied/fade-to-black sexual abuse, violence, torture, nonconsensual experimentation, abductions/kidnapping.

SUMMARY・Sworn to serve the Blooming Court and its fickle blossom-queen, Alejandro has resigned himself to an eternity ensnared in the treachery of fae lords and their patronage contracts—binding agreements drawn in blood, and in the flowers that sprout from his bones each spring. But everything changes when he rescues a girl cursed to die as a star.

First, Alejandro must accept the help of a traitor. Then, the manhunt to bring in a heart-eating Oathbreaker wreaks havoc on the centennial Ascendancy, uprooting all his attempts to save Genevieve. To make matters worse, the embers of an ancient war are flaring back to life: the Blooming Queen and her Withering half-sister have been battling for centuries, the magic of the land sickens with the pollutants of the modern age, and investigating the curse reveals a deadly truth that leads to more questions than answers.

As Genevieve grows weaker, it all comes down to Alejandro to put an end to a battle between the forces of life and death and wilt and bloom—a battle that may just be the end of the world as he knows it.

[aesthetics + court info under the cut]

COLOR PALETTE .

The Blooming Queen’s hair as it is when the story starts: a rotting, brown-sweetened gold, like a bruised persimmon, pale orange undertones mottled with the hues of overripe peach flesh.

All the reds of an autumn forest, but especially the deep, bloody reds that certain trees produce—crimson with a cool tinge to it, a violet-indigo like shadows blooming at twilight.

The dry, wilted brown of fallen leaves; the papery chestnut of dying grass; the goldenrod that adorns fields in sways and swirls until first frost.

Dusk-light that pours like honey, a sighed warmth that pools into all the places where you have gone hollow.

The depthless dark of the Withering Queen’s eyes, like earth black with everything once-bloomed and dying; the burnished gleam of the wilt-prince’s eyes, dark like his mother’s until the light hits right. Then, they’re veined in the softness of mercy.

The orange ember-brilliance of Tselvya’s flames, of Genevieve’s hair, of chrysanthemums and marigolds throwing flamboyant blooms into the slow subside of midsummer sunshine.

THE BLOOMING COURT .

Butterflies and moths and beetles have domain over this land, where the flowers are bright and the berries overripe, sweet and heady and repugnant. The Blooming Queen dotes upon them, and they grow larger than they have any right to be.

The fae sworn to the blossom-queen adorn themselves in red, red jewels and red flowers and red life, carnage bloodied down the tips of sharp teeth and talon-pointed nails. They pluck the eyeballs out of freshly slaughtered game and feast on fruit bruised to the point of bursting, and all the flowers they touch bloom big and bright and radiant, incandescent—almost frighteningly alive.

Death will always be much too slow to come, here where life rots to the very core.

THE WITHERING THRONE .

The wilt-queen rules from a throne of bones and moonflowers, and her flesh is so brittle that she appears to be no more than a dead body propped up in a borrowed imitation of life. A single touch of her finger leaves spiderwebs of pale mold behind, dozens of white moths fluttering about her shoulders and settling atop the crown of fresh roses adorning her hair. As the moon rises and falls and rises again, the moths drop all around her, and the roses lose their bright sweetness, rotting into a slow, violet-brown mass, until the Withering Queen is draped in nothing but corpses.

The wilt-queen offers her white-clad followers all manner of delicacies over the course of their midnight banquets, and she eagerly partakes in the festivities herself, her dainty corpse-mouth red with the hearts of small, dead creatures. She caresses bony fingers—spindly like the stems of wilted flowers—down the edges of dewy blossoms and trapped prey animals before she drains all the life out of them, her face going from dead-eyed translucence to pink and flushed in the space between one exhale and the next. 

Birds and insects and rodents die at the hands of the Withering Throne, laid to rest in the soil, and the Withering Queen feasts. She feasts.

[imsparky2002]

Miraculous Death Note.

I recently got into Death Note: The Musical, and I love it! I found that most of my favorite tracks from the show are the duets between L and Light. As I listened to them, I realized that Light’s voice sounds kinda like Marc’s, and L’s voice is almost IDENTICAL to Nathaniel’s! And that got me thinking. What if I made a Miraculous Death Note AU where...

Marc is a anxious writer who feels that there’s no justice in the world. He sees Ladybug and Cat Noir as not doing enough to help the people of Paris, letting Hawk Moth run rampant. Everything changes when he receives a book that allows him to kill whoever’s name he puts into it. He uses the fake name of “Reverser”, and starts to remove those who he sees as corrupt.

Nathaniel is a intelligent and quiet artist who seems to be the only one in the entire city capable of finding out Reverser’s identity. While he doesn’t take care of himself, and has an odd way of speaking, he’s the best man for the job, and won’t stop until Reverser is found. He and Marc play mind games with each other, overanalyzing everything the other does, and it becomes an admittedly romantic game of cat-and-mouse. Marc wants Nathaniel to keep pursuing him, but to never catch him. Nathaniel wants the same thing.

Juleka is a teenage shinigami whose form is similar to that of Purple Tigress, except with sharper teeth, feral eyes, and real claws. She’s a Shinigami, a sadistic trickster with a love for gothic culture, black licorice, and carnage. A lot more playful and unhinged than Juleka Couffaine. She loves Rose, a peppier and cuter shinigami, and they’re adorable. She’s Marc’s shinigami and eagerly watches him spread death and despair with merely a pen.

Luka is Juleka’s brother and a mellower shinigami. He looks upon humans with more compassion and envy. His form is similar to that of Viperion, albeit with a cobra-like-hood, real fangs, and a long reptillian tongue. He falls for Marinette, who he knows is actually Ladybug. He often tries to rein in the wild antics of his twin sister.

Also it’s all still in highschool, very gay, very dramatic, and lots of death! First, here’s some songs that prove how similar the main two sound to Marc and Nathaniel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GWfvuZai2ZY

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6bbreJTtQPg

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhYXk6sn2EQ

And here’s what Juleka and Luka would look like as Shinigami.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NPPOwxCUI8&ab_channel=KappaBird

As usual, reblog, reply, post and ask for thoughts on the content, and I may return to this. @artzychic27 @msweebyness 

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

I’m hereeeeee 😍

Could I please request Skade training/mentoring another seer with sex in the woods?

Thank you ❤️❤️

Hi my Fae Bae! I hope you enjoy this. I had a lot of fun writing it.

Warnings: Mentions of death, minor injury, blink and you'll miss it blood play, oral (f receiving, duh), mention of weapons. Word count: ~1100

“It is no use!” You groan in frustration, throwing the sword to the ground and kicking dirt over the sigils you’d carved into the earth. “I don’t see anything!”

“But you will.” Skade urges. Her fingers card playfully through the ends of your hair. “Destiny brought you to me, you and I will do great things together. I’ve seen it.”

You sigh, taking her hand and pressing soft kisses to her knuckles. Your eyes soften as you stare into the intense blue of hers. “I am not as powerful as you, if I have any power at all…”

Skade grasps you by the front of your cloak, pulling you to her with a smirk. “It was you that removed the Nithstong from the outside of my cell, you that helped to free me, you that plagues my visions.”

She isn’t wrong. Since you had arrived in Alton, Wessex alongside Uhtred’s men and seen the carnage left in Skade’s wake, it was like an invisible string had pulled the two of you together. Her eyes never once left yours as Sihtric bound her wrists together.

It mattered not to you that she had slaughtered the priests, or cursed Uhtred. The coarse language that spilled forth from her lips served only to stoke the fire within you, burning with white hot intensity for her. She claimed to be a seer and you wondered if perhaps it was a bewitchment that caused your heart to race whenever you were in her presence.

Dread gnawed at your gut when you reached Dunholm and Skade was imprisoned. You knew that Brida and the others meant to do her harm, and now that she was a part of your life you were not prepared to be without her.

Come nightfall, you’d carefully lifted the keys from Jackdaw and snuck to her cell. Ripping the goat’s head that had been staked outside it from the ground and tossing it to the side, you’d made short work of unlocking the barred door, pleading with Skade to be quiet as she’d laughed and urged you on.

You had only intended to take her as far as the treeline and then let her go, yet were unable to resist when she’d asked that you come with her. You’d agreed on the condition that she lifted whatever affliction she’d placed upon Uhtred. His state was weakening rapidly and although you were intending to leave the company of him and his men, you had no wish to see him die.

Since then your days had been spent attempting to harness the power that she claimed you possessed, under her watchful guidance. Your nights were spent under the stars, between each other's thighs. Skade was unpredictable and utterly chaotic, but it excited you. You were a moth to her shining light.

It frustrated you how slowly your abilities were developing. You could feel something there, bubbling just beneath the surface, yet it was just beyond your reach. You secretly worried that, given time, Skade would tire of your lack of ability and desert you. When you grew angry at not being able to manifest your visions or get your incantations to take, it came from a place of fear; fear of losing her.

“What if you are wrong about me?” You ask, your brows pinching together in concern.

“I am never wrong.” She tells you confidently, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, which you chase eagerly. “There is a reason I told the men not to gaze upon me in Bloodhair’s camp, it is because the only person worthy of looking upon me is you.”

You gasp as she scratches at your neck, the sharp sting quickly soothed by the lave of her tongue across the broken flesh.

“I can taste your power.” She whispers.

You thread your fingers into her long flaxen hair, kissing her hungrily, backing her up against the trunk of a tree.

She moans, her nimble fingers dancing along your sides as you break away from her mouth to press your lips against her neck and collarbones. Her scent is rich, a mixture of earth and spice which is heady and intoxicating.

You lower yourself to your knees, ignoring the way that the twigs and stones of the woodland floor bite into the flesh of them through your skirt. Carefully, your fingertips push Skade’s dress upwards, pressing soft kisses to every inch of flesh that’s revealed to you as you make your ascent up the path of her legs.

She shivers under your touch, hands clawing at your shoulder blades, and you suck in a shaky breath as you are met with the sight of her cunt, wet and wanting as it always is.

Burying your face between her thighs, you lap at her enthusiastically, delighting in the way she squirms and cries out above you. The taste of her against your tongue is sharp, though not unpleasant. You have tasted stone fruit that isn’t as fine as what’s nestled between this seeress’ legs.

“Your mouth is magic…” She moans out, as you circle her bud precisely with the tip of your tongue, watching her eyes become hooded with lust as her mouth falls open.

Your grip on the tops of her legs tightens, holding her open to you as you alternate between licking stripes through her folds and suckling at her pearl.

Her cries of pleasure increase in cadence and she tenses, trembling slightly. You know she is close, the pink that dusts the apples of her cheeks always seems to signal when she is about to reach her peak.

You focus your attention entirely on the bundle of nerves that sits at the apex of her, and let out a groan of satisfaction when she finally falls apart, tasting the warm wetness of her arousal in your mouth.

You gaze up at her, a pleased smile on your face as you take in her satisfied, blissed out expression. Rising to your feet, you pull her against you, your heart swelling at the way she immediately relaxes into your body.

Your eyebrows raise in surprise when, after a few moments, she produces a blade from her sleeve.

She pulls back from you a little, staring intently at you as she presses the sharpened edge to her palm, and the words she speaks next quell all fears of her ever leaving.

“Bind yourself to me.”

[topnotchquark]

Uhhhh you guys want some Bezz x Cele fluff? Because I wrote 1800+ words of Bezz x Cele fluff. Yes it's Boarding School au man wtf we live in a society of course I wrote the Boarding school au.

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

Bezz pokes at the scab just above his knee. It's freshly formed, he had absorbed impact from Pecco running into him on the field during practice yesterday. His kneepads had mostly protected him but caused the skin to rub off at that particular spot.

Bezz had always had the habit of picking at his wounds, more out of boredom than anything else. When Cele was around, he would simply ask him to stop torturing his own body like a little moth in the hands of a rambunctious toddler, but Cele had been away for three days from school for a family thing. The wedding of some distant cousin combined with some medical check that Cele needed in the city. His dad had come to pick him up and Bezz had walked with him to drop him off and to say hello to Cele's dad.

3 days shouldn't feel like a lot and Bezz had a thousand different things to do, what with the upcoming national level games season and schoolwork dictating his every minute, but he still thought about Cele. He missed sitting next to him for all meals, he missed Cele coming upstairs to see him after lights out, he missed how he would agree without much resistance when Bezz wanted to sneak out at night, he missed Cele foraging for fruits in the woods and bringing them back for everyone to eat, he missed running into him in the corridors during classes, and of course he missed him on the field because Jaume was too young to be a good practice session replacement for the team. 

Bezz is about to wreck carnage absent mindedly on his wound when Luca comes out of the phone room and pats Bezz on the shoulder.

The boys get to call home twice a week from a room divided into little booths, the attendant in the room sat there to note your name down and tell you to put the phone down when your time was up.

Bezz makes his way to the booth in the far left corner that Luca just left, he nods to Pecco in the other corner who is on call and dials his dad's number that he knows by heart. They talk about his preparation for the upcoming season and his dad tells him about things in the garage, next he calls his mum and she asks him about school and classes and practice and his little sister screams a quick hello to him and when he keeps the phone down with quick exchanges of "work hard" and "miss you" and "I love you" his heart feels a bit wonky. It's been years away from home but he still hasn't fully learnt how to squash that feeling.

Before keeping the phone down he makes a split second decision and calls Cele's mom, another number he knows by heart for some reason.

"Oi Bezzechi, you've been hogging that phone forever, put it down!!" The attendant shouts at him, his brows furrowed.

"Yes sorry please please please just one moment" Bezz quickly pleads as he waits for the line to connect. The attendant tells him to make it quick as Cele's mom answers. She sweetly asks Bezz how he's been doing as she calls Cele over to hand him the phone.

"Marco, is everything okay?" Cele's newly matured voice implores. 

"Uhh yes why wouldn't it be?"

"You're calling from school."

"Ah. Yes yes. Just wanted to tell you to, uhhh, yeah come back soon cele practice isn't great"

"Is Jaume not good"

"No no he's fine. Just. You know......"

"Hmmm. I get it. Listen Bezz, I need you to help me okay I have some stuff with me when I get back okay"

"Yeah sure. Listen I gotta go okay this man will cancel all my calls for the next month okay. I miss you, bye."

"I, uhh, I miss you too Marco, bye"

Bezz doesn't spend too much time thinking about Cele's request. He's probably sneaking some food into the dormitory which isn't allowed and the weird luggage checking procedure makes it so that you just have to be extra careful with the contraband.

The next day when Bezz comes down to dinner after practice and evening study he finds Cele already in the dining hall. He hurries over to him and immediately wraps him into a hug, slapping his back and ruffling his curls.

"I thought you wouldn't be here till tomorrow! Who dropped you off?"

"My cousin, he was on his way back to University so I came back early. Listen, Marco......"

Whatever it is that Cele wanted to tell Bezz is cut off by Pecco, Luca, and Franco gathering around him and asking him how was home and he better be up to speed for the morning practice tomorrow and what did the doctor say and if he found any cute girls at the wedding.

All throughout dinner Bezz notices Cele fidgeting nervously, pushing his food around as Luca talks about the rival regional teams they will be facing and the specific characteristics of every player he can recall.

Post dinner, the boys walk back to their house building in a group, Cele quickly dipping into the dormitory on the first floor as the rest make their way up to the rooms.

Before Bezz can go back downstairs to ask Cele what's up, Pecco reminds him to finish his trig homework lest he be skinned alive by the teacher and Bezz enlists the help of both Luca and Pecco to get through the exercises.

It's an hour past lights out when Bezz is finally done and before he has a moment to lie down Cele comes into the room. His eyes look a bit crazy and the pockets of his jacket are puffed up weirdly but before Bezz can ask any questions Cele starts yanking at his arm to get up.

"hurry up Marco!!!" Cele hisses, straining to keep his voice low

"Okay okay damn let me put on my shoes"

"Take the torch please" cele whines.

Bezz raises his brows but doesn't protest much. Torches are reserved for the big expedition sneak outs, the ones you have to plan for, the ones away from their usual haunts, torches are a liability, they draw the attention of the school guards. Bezz still takes his and hides it in his pocket.

They silently get out through the windows on the ground floor, holding their breath and watching their step so as not to alert the guards. Bezz has been sneaking out since pretty much his first year in school, so much so that he can navigate most paths in pitch black darkness. When Cele and Bezz became friends he started bringing him along, gently teaching him to be mindful of his arms and head and stepping around in a way that makes less noise. Cele wasn't the most graceful when it came to slinking around, but Bezz was okay with that as long as they were together.

The moon was shining above their heads, almost fluorescent in its brightness.  Bezz glances over at Cele's determined face, his lashes casting spider leg shadows on his cheeks. Cele's pale skin and dark hair seem almost ghostly and Bezz's heart feels so funny. He swallows to keep his wits intact and focus on the path.

"Wait Cele are we walking towards the lake?" Bezz realises that he's been straining a bit to keep up with Cele.

"Mhmmm"

"Wait wait wait no you have to tell me what's up you've been acting too weird."

"No Marco we can't talk here we will get caught please we have to go" Cele pleads with him and suddenly takes Bezz's hand in his to rush him along. Bezz feels too shocked at Cele's sudden gesture and simply can't find the words to protest. They walk for a few minutes where all Bezz can think about is the warmth of Cele's soft hand in his. Bezz thinks self consciously about the calluses on his palm and whether they feel weird for Cele to touch. Cele's plam, soft and smooth and warm and alive and real to the touch and somehow Bezz feels that whatever is real in him is emanating from that part of his body that is holding on to Cele.

"Here. Come." Cele lets go of Bezz's hand Bezz feels a little deflated. Cele walks near a tree and picks up a cardboard box and brings it to Bezz.

"I have rabbits."

"......you...what" Bezz thinks he hasn't heard him right. 

"There were rabbits at the wedding venue but I don't think they were being treated right so I picked them up"

"Cele what even.... how did you even steal them and oh my god is this area even safe"

"I didn't steal them Marco!!!!! They are young, kind of, I think they are almost babies, it was just three of them"

"Diobono three is a lot! Have they eaten?"

"I had left some lettuce, and I have more, I need your help feeding them"

"Okay okay fine, let's find a place to sit"

Bezz finds that inside the cardboard box there is a little pet carrier covered with a blanket. Cele pushes in some food through the metal gate grills but the bunnies seem to be asleep for now. 

"What's the plan cele?"

"There archery lawns have a place for rabbits. I will leave them there. I trust the school gardener, we used to have rabbits in my first year at school, he's good with them."

"You think nobody will notice three rabbits appearing out of nowhere."

"They will but they won't know it's us"

Bezz can't help smiling at the response. Cele trusts it will all be good so intently that Bezz can't help be infected by the same disposition.

"Do you want to hold them?" Cele offers.

"Uhh yeah okay yeah."

"Just be relaxed, okay"

Cele opens the metal grate a little and ushers Bezz to put his hand inside.

A warm delight runs through Bezz when he touches the soft fur. He feels them moving with their breath and gently gently strokes the fur. A smile breaks out on his face, wide and luminous under the moonlight.

"It's nice, no" Cele says as he watches Bezz's face.

"Yes, I didn't expect them to be this soft"

They sit a bit longer, trying to feed the bunnies, talking, trying to come up with stories about these rabbits that will convince people to keep them. 

Bezz asks Cele to hold on to the box and make no noise as he navigates a path to the Archery Lawns. Cele takes a minute to leave them in the enclosure, worrying about them. Bezz's reassurance a little ineffective as he says his goodbyes, leaving more lettuce and some broccoli in the carrier.

When they finally start walking back towards the Dorms, Bezz takes Cele's hand in his, his confident decisive gesture in sharp contrast with the nerves he feels inside. Cele offers no protest and holds on. Bezz feels breathless thinking about how similar Cele's beautiful hand feels to the soft rabbits he just held a while ago. 

[cat-alyzing]

Lilyclaw (fusion of Goldenflower and Tigerclaw) ideas at this time:

Daughter of Sunfall and a wanderer which keeps her as the sister of Lionheart. Her mentor was Pineheart tho and him leaving hurt her A LOT. Fueled by a mix of self hatred, bullying by her new mentor Thistleclaw, and him leaving she starts hating outsiders. When she’s just brought into camp the prophet Goosefeather receives a vision of her bathed in dawn light on one side and the other covered in blood, this about the way she could’ve been.

At the beginning of the story as Bon comes into camp she is a scratched queen with a swollen flank but battle hungry look in her eyes. She had just come back from a battle with the unconscious deputy Splotchedtail in her jaws. He soon ends up dying but Spottedleaf finds a lily petal in his mouth clueing her in on his true murderer

LOTS OF REPRESSED LESBIANISM. The clans at this time are a little sexist, have a lot of double standards, super xenophobic, and push a heteronormative idea on most cats. In a better life where she was taught or had some cat to guide her she could’ve been much more of a code changer like Bon but instead she followed the trail of tragedy. Her and Spottedleaf flirt a lot, but Lilyclaw always leaves feeling trapped in her partnership with the still undecided mate of hers.

Soon she has Lynxkit (Swiftkit) and Leopardkit (OG Lynxkit) named for the powerful cats and after her foster mom Leoaprdfoot. Sadly Leopardkit dies soon after complications caused by her fighting while so pregnant, and Lynxkit barely makes it. She is angry grieving mother and Bon ends up overhearing the fight she has with Spottedleaf.

Her ideology is based on wanting a better world where she can be free but also hating it from her past traumas. She wants the clans to fuse so more cats like her with a mixed blood can be seen as just as good but also being aggressive towards half blooded cats for the aggression she faced for her parentage. Hypocrite on purpose.

At some point when she’s joined Star Leopardstrike she has Moth, Hawk and Tadpole who are all renamed. Can’t decide if she has them with Leopard as a symbolism of their pact or some other cat. Either way the kits are just older then newborns when Lilyclaw has the battle that ends her life. They still become rogues tho after a raid is done on Riverclan by a group of Bloodclan cats including Sasha but they are tracked down and taken back, over this time the river floods on their way back and Tadpole dies.

She was never given 9 lives. While Starclan is very nuanced in this they do not want the clans to unite so they refuse her. The note of Scourge dying bc of their atheism is instead towards her as Starclan says Lilyclaw has no extra lives. She’s ripped in half in the fight after far for blood is spilt, taking Fireheart’s live that canon Scourge did and dying to the two brothers attacking her. Scourge gets their iconic kill by splitting her from throat to tail a move so horrific it spawns many tales, writings, and depictions for many generations.

From her death, carnage, and death she brought to the clans she did cause change but not by her owns paws. But instead by the paws of the cats who destroyed her. Her daughter Dawnclaw takes her suffix and spreads the other side of her mother that was fiercely loving, powerful, and so so hurt. She is one of the strongest voices to never let a cat with so much potential to be powerful go down a bloodied path like that.