#i try to write these deep layered pieces and fail every single time.

[eenochian]

i know it’s stupid for me to be doubting my writing skills rn, like i’m literally getting more attention on my fics now than ever, but i’m just so unconfident in everything i’ve written lol. i’m putting out things that i’m happy with, but there’s always that voice telling me it’s shit and that i should just stop – and, it feels selfish, being insecure despite the support. like i’m not appreciative enough and i’m just being an attention whore. now i’m just sitting here, staring at a blank draft for the past 5 hours. i have the idea, i have people asking for the chapter, and yet i’m paralyzed trying to write.

[helliontherapscallion]

Memory Lane is a Desolate Place (The Ashes of Yourself Part 4)

Part 1     Part 2     Part 3

Spotify Playlist (collaborative)

Warnings: generational trauma, abandonment, neglect, mentions of the following: death, war, plague, famine, genocide

Word count: 2,536

(A/N): Wowza, a Philza-centric chapter! Ik this is a lot shorter than what I usually write for this series, but I’m just trying to ease myself back into this story. I have a lot planned for this, so stay tuned : )

Philza walked through the tundra towards his old household. For the past few weeks, he had slowly been cleaning up the outside area and the interior for the upcoming family reunion. The house, due to nobody living in it, had slowly become overgrown with various weeds and wildlife. He had previously been looking forward to the reunion, ecstatic to see his entire family in one place again, but now he wasn’t so certain that his previous excitement was still there.

Over his many centuries of life on this world, he had seen some truly disturbing things; including genocides that left many children without families, wars that ended in mutually assured destruction, famine that reduced many to skin and bones, great nations once prosperous and grand becoming mere ashes beneath his feet in the matter of days, and plague that ravaged entire populations. 

He had learned to ignore them as they passed, as they never affected him. Hardship was always present; time was akin to an arrow slicing through the air at mach speed, never stopping for anybody. To him, it was better to ignore than to be roped into something you couldn’t fix even if you tried. Those memories were shoved into the deepest, darkest corners of his mind only resurfacing against his will in the form of horrific, detailed nightmares. 

However, those memories were different. Those were never personal. 

The entire time he was walking, the sight of his youngest child’s charred body sinking into the deepest depths of the ocean plagued his mind. The memory was rooted into his mind, being seen in every waking second against his will. His feet led him inside on their own, his mind blank and his body feeling numb; it felt like he was dreaming with how much his subconscious was taking over. 

By the time he fully came to his senses, he was standing in front of (y/n)’s closed door. Just like his children’s other doors, their door was labeled with ‘(y/n)’ written in a child’s sloppy handwriting and splotched with random colors of paint. He could remember sitting with them when he first brought them home and telling them to choose their room and holding them up so that they could reach the door. 

“Alright, you get to choose your own room!” 

The young blaze hybrid paused for a moment in concentration, trying to decipher what he had told them. They hadn’t spoken much English at the time, blaze being the only language they could speak. Luckily, Philza had experience with children not knowing much English; Technoblade had been the same way. After some simpler phrases and a small game of charades, they finally understood what he was telling them. Their eyes lit up and they bounced on the balls of their feet excitedly, making him chuckle. 

In an instant, they zoomed down the hallway looking at the decorated doors as they passed. The names on the doors were indecipherable to them, merely chicken scratch compared to the calligraphy that they were used to seeing etched into nether brick. Not that they could read that either, the language was far too complex for a seven year old to understand. 

Finally, after Philza caught up to them and showed them the rooms that were open, they had chosen an empty room without a second thought.

“Good choice, kiddo,” Philza beamed, his hand going to ruffle their hair. He hesitated, feeling the unnatural heat resonating from their flaming head before slowly coming to a rest on top of their head. Surprisingly, the flames merely tickled his hand as they flickered about. The heat was pleasantly comfortable, warming up his cold hand in an instant. A strange, weak magical energy made his entire arm tingle almost to an uncomfortable amount. It felt as if he had just touched something packed with static electricity. 

They looked up at him with innocent eyes, silently pointing to another door in question. Philza followed their finger and saw that the door belonged to Wilbur, his name being painted in slightly messy spaced out lettering with small music notes surrounding it. Philza’s eyes furrowed before he came to the realization that they wanted to paint their door as well. 

His mouth formed an ‘o’ shape before he leaned down to grab their hand and lead them to the kitchen where he had written out the name ‘(y/n)’. It was the name that was shakily etched onto a slightly burnt paper and given to him by the kid themselves when he was walking through a nether fortress earlier that day. Strangely, they were the only inhabitant of the fortress, not even a wither skeleton roamed the twisting halls. The anonymous note, albeit a little difficult to understand (as if the writer themselves hardly spoke any English), begged whomever came across the child to take them in. So Philza, being the type to never leave a child in need, took them in. 

He sat next to them at the table and handed them a pencil. On his own piece of paper, he wrote out his own name, said it aloud, and pointed to himself multiple times. The child understood and shakily wrote out their name slowly, mimicking what Philza had written on their paper. This slightly shocked the winged man, he wasn’t expecting them to catch on this quickly. Not even Technoblade had caught on that quickly. 

“You’re… a really fast learner, kiddo.” He breathed out with a proud smile on his face. The child, not understanding exactly what he had said, saw his smile and matched it with their own bright one, their face lighting up in a brilliant orange. He felt his heart melt at the sight. 

He gathered some paint and paint brushes and led them back up to their chosen room. (Y/n) trailed after him closely, almost bumping into him when he suddenly stopped in front of their room. He lifted them up with one hand and held the palette with the other. The small child in his arm grabbed a paint brush and looked up at him hesitantly. 

He gave them an encouraging smile and nodded at the door, telling them to write their name and demonstrating by stroking a clean brush against the door. They understood, gently swiping their brush against the wood with their tongue poked out of the corner of their mouth and their brows furrowed in deep concentration. Soon enough, their name was sprawled out in dripping, brightly colored paint. They looked up at Philza for approval, and upon seeing his large smile and warm eyes, they looked back at their creation with pride. Their eyes flicked between Wilbur’s door and theirs, something was missing. 

Their eyes lit up in realization before they suddenly stuck their hand into the paints on the palette. A startled gasp left Philza’s mouth as his grip tightened on both the child and the paints. Before he could stop them, they had smacked their paint covered hand onto the door underneath their name. Paint splattered everywhere, splashing onto their body and his arms and face. He felt them jolt in surprise and felt the slight vibration of a blaze-like grunt rumble their chest. 

Despite the mess that it left and the fact that he’d have to clean it up, small chuckles left him before he broke out into full blown laughter. This had been the hardest he had laughed in years, the feeling being almost foreign to him. (Y/n) joined him in his laughter, the sound of their joyed, high pitched giggles being music to his ears. 

The two spent the rest of the afternoon decorating the door with small splatters and handprints. By the time they had stopped, Philza had drying paint splotches on almost every part of his exposed skin, hair, and feathers and (y/n)’s small hands were layered with colors and paint was similarly splattered on their body. 

Philza pressed his hand against the much smaller handprint on the door and sighed at the memory, his face stretched into a small smile. They had been so innocent back then, their eyes full of hope and naivety, their face not having a single mark on it. 

His hand dropped and the smile was wiped clean from his face as he remembered why his clothes were wet and his skin reddened with the unforgiving temperature of the tundra. He shook his head from side to side and squeezed his eyes shut, trying and failing to block out the memory of (y/n) laying scorched on the sandy beach struggling to gasp for the oxygen they were deprived of. 

He opened his eyes and forced himself away from the door, instead walking towards the bathroom and running hot water to warm up his shivering body. 

The shower was usually a place where he could sort out his thoughts and fully relax, however he was tense the entire time and his thoughts stung him like he was haphazardly tossed into a nettle bush. Once clean and warmed up, he stepped out and put on a dry set of clothes. To get his mind off from things, he quickly busied himself with housework. 

That, however, did nothing to distract him from today’s events and the scalding argument that he and (y/n) had. Their words had initially angered him, had he not given them everything they needed to survive? Why couldn’t they understand that he had a constant craving for freedom and adventure that was impossible to ignore? 

A mix of emotions poked and prodded at his brain as he contemplated the end of their argument. Their angry voice echoed in his head:

“You don’t know jackshit about me.” 

His mind flashed back to the shock and panic he had felt when they nonchalantly stuck their hand into the crackling fire. He had forgotten that they could heal themselves with fire; hell, he had forgotten that they were basically fireproof. He quickly came to the realization that he couldn’t remember a lot of things about them. 

“Do you have any idea how much you were gone from my life when I needed you the most?”

He wasn’t stupid, he knew he had missed a lot of their life. Every time he had gotten back from a journey, something about each of his children had always changed and significant milestones had long since passed. He had missed a lot of each of their lives, there was a lot that he didn’t know about them. “I’ll be there next time,” he had wove off a peeved Wilbur when the boy had confronted him about missing Tommy’s second birthday with the family. It wasn’t like he was lying to the older boy, no he fully intended to be there for each and every single milestone his children experienced. However, something always came up and he missed each and every single one. It was easy to make promises, yet it was increasingly difficult to uphold them.

“Wilbur was the one that raised Tommy and I while you were so focused on Techno and your stupid fucking adventures.”

Oh, Wilbur. His only biological child. The boy that had looked at both Tommy and (y/n) with such awe when they first were adopted. The boy that would defend and protect his family with his life. The boy that had once idolized him. The boy that he had left alone with his two youngest. The boy that dreamt of his own nation ambitiously. The boy that begged to die at the hands of his own father. The boy that he had plunged his sword through. 

He had never thanked him or even recognized him for the hard work that came with raising two preteens on his own starting at the ripe age of sixteen. His stomach lurched at the memory of his son falling limp in his arms. 

Technoblade had been his first son. Adopted or not, he loved him as if he were his own. The second he had allowed the piglin hybrid into his lonely household, it was like the curtains had been ripped open and light immediately spilled into the darkness that had shrouded his heart and mind. Once he was old enough, he had made an excellent sparring and adventuring partner. 

He supposed that Technoblade had been placed on a pedestal, but in his opinion, he deserved all the praise he had been given. He had learned to ignore the multitude of voices that danced around his mind deafeningly. He had learned and became completely fluent in another language within the span of two years. 

Philza paused as he realized just what he was thinking. Maybe (y/n) was right, maybe he did focus a little too much on Technoblade while they were growing up. 

But on the other hand, Technoblade was a gifted child in the art of battle. 

However, his other children were important as well. 

His thoughts constantly contradict themselves and come full circle repeatedly, being swirled around and bouncing off the sides of his skull. Oh, he despised how much of a whirlpool his thoughts were. 

“You were a shitty father.” 

Was he a shitty father? His mind strained back hundreds of years to his own father and the last words he had left him with. The memories of his parents were incredibly fuzzy, he couldn’t even remember their faces or voices even if he tried with all his might. He could only remember specific details about them. His father was always absent and exploring the globe while his mother stayed at home raising him. 

He could remember how terrified he was when everyone around him aged and he stayed the same. His mother (bless her soul) had passed leaving him home alone distraught on what he should do and angry at the fact that his father wasn’t there. Months had passed since her funeral and Philza hadn’t even heard from him, filling the immortal with blinding rage. When his father had finally come home with the strong scent of sweat and body odor, he had finally let loose what had been brewing in his mind. 

“You’re a shitty fucking father and an even shittier husband,” he remembered saying, “she died and you weren’t fucking there.” 

It was after that he had left the old man and his childhood home behind in favor of exploring the world. He wanted to see what was so alluring that his father was compelled to miss a majority of his life. After a while of aimlessly wandering and uncovering many treasures, mysteries, and friendships, he had quickly become hooked. It had become a coping mechanism of sorts; a distraction from the death’s shadow following his friends but never him. 

He felt as if he plunged through ice and into the freezing inky abyss below as he came to a horrifying realization: he was the person that he hated the most, the person he swore he’d never become when he first laid eyes upon Technoblade. He was exactly like his father.

Memory lane is a desolate place that he’s neglected for good reason, and now it was overgrown with unpleasant memories that forced him to realize who he’s become.

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[captainrexforever]

His Queen

Rating: T

Word Count: ~3k

Summary: You’re a little hesitant about wearing makeup due to a past experience. Din has no problem changing your mind.

Warnings: childhood trauma??, little bit of angst, fluff, steamy makeout

Note: After the amazing response I received on my last fic I decided to write another one. After all, these ideas are still going to be swirling around my head even if I don’t put them in writing. I hope you enjoy!

Sidenote: Imagine him looking at you like this *swoon*

“Are you sure we don’t have any additional rations in the crates?”

“No, the kid snuck into the stash last night. I didn’t notice until after he polished off the last of the rations.”

Din just sighs.

“I can make the trip to the market while you finish the repairs.”

“No, I’ll go, I don’t want you to deal with all the bantha shit that goes on at these markets.”

For some reason-don’t ask why-it’s incredibly attractive to hear him curse. 

It’s touching to hear the protective note in his voice, but you feel that you are well enough equipped to handle yourself. As a teenager, you had been taught the essentials of self defense by a family friend.  

“It’s alright. I’ll have my comm with me and it won’t take long if I just place an order for delivery of the rations.”

“Alright, if you insist. Be careful.”

“I will.”

He stands from his kneeling position on the floor, where he had been checking the netting beneath the bench for any additional ration packets. You prepare to leave, patting down your pockets to make sure you have your credits, your blaster, and your comm before you set off. When you look up again, he’s standing in front of you, a tilt of his helmet betraying his inner thought process. A smile tugs at your lips.

“Looking for a goodbye kiss?”

He sighs again, and you’re certain he’s rolling his eyes beneath the helmet.

“Ner verd’ika, you are a tease.”

You giggle before raising your hands to the sides of his helmet, eyes fluttering closed as you tilt it upwards. With an accuracy born from hours of practice you lean forward, raising on your toes to press a quick kiss to his lips before allowing the beskar to fall back into place. He lets out a disgruntled huff, his hands falling to your hips and tugging you against his torso so that he can rest his forehead against yours.

“Be careful.” He repeats.

“Always.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s surprising how many people can squeeze into the small marketplace, vendors and townsfolk chattering away as they bargain for an agreeable price. Animals bellow in the distance, adding to the noisy buzz that fills the crowded streets. 

You find yourself enjoying the bustling atmosphere, welcoming the stark juxtaposition to the quiet serenity of the Razor Crest. Before you can become too distracted, you steer your feet towards the largest area of the forum where several shops display food and beverages. 

After placing an order of rations and directing the shop owner to deliver the crates to the spaceport, you find there are a few spare moments to wander around the market before returning to the ship and tending to the delivery.

After traveling with Din for some time now, it has come to your attention that each planet you visit boasts a unique variety of wares. The citizens of this particular planet seem to possess a fascination with water-colored mugs and delicate embroidery. Not that you are complaining, everything that greets your eyes is absolutely gorgeous.

Upon rounding the next corner though, you stop dead in your tracks. Before you stands what is obviously a cosmetics shop. Holoimages are projected against the walls of the stand, each image featuring breathtaking models who-to your immense surprise-don't have you feeling even a dash of envy. What has you so enamored is the crowd of young women that peruse the shop. They are obviously a group of friends, but what shocks you the most is the presence of their mothers. Each parent is eagerly pointing out cosmetic items and encouraging the younger women to apply the samples that are provided. Bitter tears bite at the surface of your eyes, and you blink furiously in an effort to keep them contained.

As a young woman you had constantly been dissuaded from wearing makeup, told that it wasn’t appropriate at your age. You feel pathetic, chastising yourself and turning around with the intention of returning to the ship. But you don’t get very far, a feminine voice floating past your ears.

“Miss, Miss? Would you like to join us?”

Not wanting to expose your current state of turmoil, you scrub frantically at your tear-stained face, hoping to avoid further humiliation. When you feel presentable, you turn slowly, coming face-to-face with a girl that stands even shorter than you. Practically an impossible occurrence at your height, Mando would have teased you if he was here.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you were by yourself, and well, on our planet it’s tradition for women to join together and add to their makeup collection on this particular day. It’s like the New Years of cosmetics.” Her eyes are shining, and she seems so genuine that you feel silly for your earlier judgement. “Although I am almost certain you are just visiting, my friends and I would be honored if you would join us.” Almost as if on cue, her friends rush up behind her, pleading with you to stay for just a little bit.

“Well, I…” Din will be expecting you back soon, and you don’t want to worry him.

“Pleeeaaaase!” They all beg, drawing out the word as they stare at you.

“Alright, just for a few minutes.” He won’t mind, you think to yourself. He and the kid can catch up while you are gone anyways, they haven’t been able to spend much time together lately.

The girls’ smiles are blinding and the first one grabs your hand, pulling you along as they all return to the stand to continue shopping. “I’m Tasha, by the way.” She beams. You smile back, sharing your name as well.

“What will you purchase?” Another girl questions.

“Oh, actually I don’t wear makeup.”

“You don’t?” They looked like you just told them Life day was made up.

“No, I....I never learned how to apply it.” That was close enough to the truth.

“Don’t worry, we’ll show you how!” Then Tasha is beckoning her mother over and soon they are exchanging ideas so quickly that you lose track, only picking up on fragments such as “transition”, and “complementary shade”.

“Could you please sit for a moment?” Tasha’s mother inquires, gesturing to a chair that rests next to the booth.

You’re a little hesitant, the assortment of items that they are both clutching in their hands has you yearning to turn your back and run.

Take a deep breath, it’s just a little bit of makeup, it’s not going to kill you.

After your flight instinct recedes a little, you move to sit in front of the older woman, trying not to flinch as she gently dabs several types of cream-like products on your face. She tuts here and there, discarding some of the products that she is holding as she works through all of the samples. Eventually, she finishes, holding out a wipe as she gestures for you to wipe your face. Once that is accomplished, she’s attacking the various assortment of products that Tasha is still holding. You idly wonder if it’s sanitary to be layering so many products over the sensitive skin of your face, but assume that it is probably alright if this is a common practice for most women.

What feels like hours later, after your face has been contorted into every position imaginable, your eyes weighed down by what seems to be a boat anchor attached to your eyelashes, Tasha and her mother proudly declare that you are ‘finished’-whatever that means. Then Tasha is holding out a bag of products for you to take. You eagerly accept the bag, feeling quite mature all of a sudden, and swagger over to the counter to pay the clerk. To your immense shock, Tasha’s own mother is sitting behind the register, and when you approach she insists that the items are ‘on the house’, refusing to accept any form of payment.

With a blush, you suddenly realize you have no idea how to apply any of the products yourself, but before you can even open your mouth, the older woman is sliding a piece of flimsy towards you. A detailed assembly of holoimages decorates the flimsy, demonstrations and instructions outlining the correct application technique for each product. There are tears welling in your eyes again, but you blink them back and circle the table to engulf the woman in a heartfelt embrace. She accepts the action with an affection you can only describe as motherly, patting your back gently until you pull away, then fixing you with a radiant smile.

Suddenly your heart drops into your throat, and your own smile fails. You can’t return to the ship looking like this! Din will be appalled that you delayed your departure from the spaceport to indulge in a personal shopping trip. Tasha’s mother frowns, watching as you suddenly turn frantic, scanning the nearby vicinity like a child who has been caught stealing a dessert cube. You reach for the packet of makeup wipes that sits upon the table, hastily rushing to explain the thoughts running through your head.

“This makeup is lovely, but I can’t return to my…” kriff, what should you call him...“friend looking like this.”

“And why not?” You are taken aback a little at the tone of your voice. She’s not angry, though there are hints of disapproval and surprise laced into her words.

You stammer for a response. “He...I…” Your brain sputters as you try to conjure the right words.

“Oh, I see. He’s that kind of friend. Well, if he doesn’t like the way you look, then you seem like the type of person who will have no trouble putting him back into his place.”

She continues speaking even as your jaw falls open.

“However, I heavily suspect that won’t be necessary.” The knowing grin that spreads across her face is like that of a loth-cat that just caught a canary.

“....” You can’t manage to utter a single word, trying to force down the blush that is rising to your cheeks.

“Here, take a look into this mirror.”

Woah, is that your face? Whatever had been applied to your eyes had caused the color to pop, drawing attention to your now piercing gaze. Every feature appeared to be enhanced, and you couldn’t help but note that your jawline seemed capable of cutting through duraplast, like a vibroblade through bantha butter on a hot Tatooine day.

“I look...wow.”

The older woman chuckles gently. “You look amazing dear. Embracing your natural beauty is important, but you shouldn’t be afraid of enhancing it either. No matter what, your inner beauty always speaks louder than any outer appearance ever will. Now go catch that man of yours. I’m sure he will agree with me too.” She ends with a pointed wink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shadows stream past you as you jog back to the Razor Crest, hoping you are not too late to meet the merchant who is delivering the order of rations. Of course your luck is worse than you expected, and not only is there no merchant in sight, but it seems that Din has already finished the repairs. Kriff. Well, you’ll just have to return to the shop and apologize to the owner before pleading for another delivery opportunity. Then, after you settle that, you will need to prepare an explanation for Din. 

Kriffing hell.

 How do you always manage to get yourself into these situations?

“And here you had me thinking that you might have finally ditched me.” Din startles you, but there is a teasing lilt to his voice.

How is he still in a good mood? Wait, where is he?

“Up here.” He’s chuckling now too, probably at your apparent confusion, the bastard.

You look up and place your hands on your hips in disbelief of what you’re seeing. A shake of your head does nothing to help you understand what exactly is going on. At the moment, Din is flying figure eights in the air using his jetpack, the kid tucked securely in his arms while he squeals in delight. You shake your head again, looking down at the ground as a rush of affection floods your chest. The damned Mandalorian can be such a romantic without even realizing it. 

As of late, it has been difficult for either of you to discreetly purchase jetpack fuel at a decent price. Yet, here he is taking the kid for a ride, probably because he looked into those big brown eyes and couldn’t resist indulging the kid in a quick flight.

Their maneuvers continue for a few more minutes, and you wonder if you should head back to the market while Din and the kid are still occupied. Abruptly, you decide to take a seat inside the Crest for just a moment before jogging back to the store. It’s not until you scale the ramp that you notice the newly delivered crates resting inside the storage netting.

“The delivery arrived before you did, so I made sure that it was unloaded onto the right ship.” If you weren’t so relieved you might scold him for scaring you like that. Then again, he probably enjoys sneaking up on you. You scowl goodnaturedly, he’s lucky you lov--. Oh no, no, no.

No, no, no, no, no.

No, no, no.

No, no.

No.

He’s lucky you love the kid. That’s right, that’s what you meant to say.

Whew.

You move to rub your forehead, then realize that you’re still wearing what feels like fifteen layers of bantha paste and an entire canister of glitter on your face. Uh-oh. Has Din seen your face yet? You don’t think so. Your back is still facing him, but at any second he’s bound to step in front of you and notice that you’re all decked-out in makeup. 

Despite the kind words from the woman back at the market, you feel yourself begin to panic. What if he thinks you look silly, or worse what if it changes his perception of you? 

His footsteps advance forwards and you hold your breath, only for him to continue towards the kid’s hammock. It’s then that you realize the kid has fallen asleep in his buir’s arms, obviously worn out after his latest adventure. Din is exceedingly gentle as he sets him into his hammock, rocking the child for a few seconds to ensure he remains fully asleep.

As you bask in the sight of a soft, caring Din you don’t realize he’s turning around until it’s too late. He lets out a punched out sound once he is face-to-helmet with you, and although you are never sure where his visor is pointing, you know without a doubt that it is currently directed at your face. 

Neither of you move, gaze fixed firmly on the other for several minutes as a lingering tension brushes at your spine. Before you can explain yourself the lights flicker and plunge the hull into darkness, gloved hands and a beskar covered chest suddenly slamming into you, pinning you against the nearest wall so quickly that your back aches a little from the force of the impact.

“Kriffing hell.” He manages.

Oh, you definitely shouldn’t find that as attractive as you do.

“Is this what you were doing all afternoon?” His words are followed by a resonating clang, and you find yourself begging whatever deity is above that he is about to kiss you senseless. Sadly, he seems too interested in pressing a kiss to your neck while he whispers shamelessly into your ear. It’s a close second though, and you're definitely not complaining, especially when the position allows you to drop a hand down to squeeze his perfectly sculpted ass.

He lets out a growl at your feistiness, sucking at your neck in a manner that is sure to leave a visible hickey. “Maybe I should send you to the marketplace more often if this is how you’ll return.”

You let out a pleased mewl at that, proud that you are able to elicit such a passionate response from your usually stoic companion. “Sounds...sounds good to me.” Your reply is breathy, and there is no way that your lungs are supplying sufficient oxygen to your brain right now. It doesn’t help that Din has decided to wrap one of your thighs around his waist, your body erupting into flames at the suggestive positioning.

“Look so good.” It’s muttered between butterfly kisses, his lips charting the skin of your neck like it’s a flight path. “So pretty.” Another scorching kiss on your neck. “My sweet girl.” It’s half spoken-half growled against your throat.

A moan is ripped from your throat at that last sentence, and your free hand is scrabbling for purchase in his hair, using your touch to coax his lips to meet your own neglected ones. This man is going to be the death of you, you’re sure of it. He’s mewling into your mouth, half-chuckling because he knows how much you appreciate that specific action, then he’s pressing his tongue in as well, sliding it across yours as he dares you into a battle of dominance. You can’t help but indulge him, fingers tightening in his curls as you allow yourself to be a little more aggressive, pushing into his mouth as you lead him on a merry chase. Even in the most intimate of acts, Din is ever the hunter and he takes control in a record amount of time, knotting his hand in your hair so that he can position your head in whatever manner he desires. The whole act is absolutely delicious and your toe curls as you wedge yourself even closer to his armor-clad chest.

“I sure hope you have more of that stuff.” He mumbles against your lips when you both separate for a breath.

“Huh?” You finally manage after gasping down a breath.

“It makes you look like a queen.” He elaborates.

There’s no point in arguing with him, especially when his mouth returns to yours to shut down any rebuttal you might have.

It’s safe to say that any of your hesitations towards wearing makeup were cleared up after that particular incident, and you learned a couple valuable lessons that day. The most important being to buy extra makeup wipes for the Mandalorian himself. Let’s just say Din was an...enthusiastic kisser.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ner verd’ika: my little warrior

Buir: (mother or father), in this case it pertains to ‘father’

Life day: the equivalent of Christmas in the star wars universe

[hljkr]

♤Red Lips | Ledger!Joker

red lips | ledger!joker

suspect(s): joker x reader

the crime committed: enamoured and charmed, moonlit late-night endeavours that were passionate with entwined bodies and intense orgasms. but there was just one thing missing from it all...

evidence: a lil’ swearing, titty grabbing, mentions of genitalia, suggested smut, intense kithes, joker’s kinda needy so ;))))), daddy kink, low key glove kink because I HAD to, y/n has a thing for scars and joker’s face (who doesn’t??), a like... pinch of angst??

- i had to do it to ‘em

(ok i really tried with this and by that i mean i spent a few hours on it with lousy editing buT this is my first time writing anything even slightly suggestive and with j so i hope this isn’t too bad??? just enjoy it ig djdshds)

Bunching the soft material of the blanket closer to your face, you let out a muffled whine as the insistent ringing of your annoying alarm clock rattled your eardrums and pulled you back down into reality and into a saddening state of consciousness. A shitty way to start the day after a blissful night only a few hours before. Last night had taken its toll on you physically, the bruises decorating your skin and scratch marks adorning your body were evidence enough but you loved and cherished every single one of them. Sighing contentedly, you thought over how amazing it was to be fucked into submission by the love and joy of your life, although he’d never explicitly ever put such a label on you. Even then, the sex was proof enough that he harboured some kind of feelings for you and that was enough to satiate your rapidly growing obsession with the killer clown all of Gotham feared.

Maybe falling in love with the mad man was a mistake, maybe he wasn’t good for you as all the city loved to preach. But who were they to ever have a say? They would never know him like you did, but admittedly even your knowledge of him was limited to what time he woke up and what time he returned. He’d never told you his name, would refuse to remove his protective layer of greasepaint no matter how much you begged and even his age was unanswered for. But what you did know was that he was your J and you’d do anything for him.

Nearly everything for him.

J was a complex and interesting person- his mannerisms and body language always screamed one thing only in the public eye but with you, he was (slightly) more careful, more passionate and while in front of everyone else he’d never be caught dead acting this way but with you, he was generous in multiple ways many could never even imagine him being. You considered yourself privileged to know the criminal mastermind of the city had a soft spot for you. And although you barely knew him, you weren’t afraid to be vulnerable with him. You’d gladly let him into your life and indulged him in your past and your secrets and gifted him your heart as well. But there was one thing that you could never deal with, and it was his lips.

The scars were gorgeous in your eyes, they only added to his already attractive appearance and made your heart leap from even looking at them. You loved to gently trace your fingertips over the smooth faded lines gracing his cheeks while he was resting, admiring them and have pride seep into your chest knowing how strong and resilient he was going through something so obviously traumatic and not allowing it to stop him from doing anything he wanted. But you didn’t lie to yourself, the things he wanted were questionable but you didn’t let it get the best of you. Being intimate with the green-haired clown, the sight of his scars made your arousal and lust for him reach heights you’d never experienced with any ordinary guy. His entire physique had you on your knees for him every day of the week without a fail.

But his lips, covered in the hauntingly familiar red paint that made you shiver at the thought of even touching with your lips. The amount he licked his lips in a day smudged and moistened the paint to a slimy consistency and it made shivers travel down your back. It made you weak in the knees in the worst way possible. For this reason, you absolutely refused to kiss him. And because of this rule, J was not a happy camper.  

♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎

“Come on doll, why don’t you give your-a, J a little kiss?” The Joker cocked his eyebrow, staring down at you from the doorway as you absentmindedly flipped through the TV channels trying to figure out what to watch.

“Because it’s nasty, all your shitty paint is sweaty and wet and your lips are probably slimy from how much you lick them,” you scrunched your nose at the thought of it, shaking your head as you turned to face in his direction. He was visibly unamused and rolled his eyes.

“You're being drama-tic,” he groaned, adjusting his infamous purple coat and stalking towards you, “It’s just a little peck, princess, would it kill ya to show me a little loving?”

“Yes.”

Glaring into his empty eyes, you rose from your spot on the bed and stood in front of him. Your arms were crossed to try attempt to stand your ground, hoping that your stance would make him back down slightly. But this was J you were talking about and your sanguine theory was quickly disproven. Rolling his eyes, his hands immediately circled your waist and pulled you flush against his body. His sturdy chest was pressed against yours, allowing you to feel his steady heartbeat while yours was embarrassingly pounding out of your chest.

“Mmm, come on, doll,” his face was drawing closer to yours, sweat beginning to build up from the nerves. You’d probably fucked a million times and sucked his dick twice that, but kissing felt like a whole other... unpleasant territory.

“J,” you whispered, sucking your bottom lip between your teeth as you carefully considered your options. From close up, the red greasepaint seemed even more gooey and sticky and you visibly winced. There was no way you were going to kiss him, not with that mess all over his mouth.

Pressing a hand against his chest, you gently pushed him back. It was far enough for him to be an inch or two away from you. Unwinding his muscular arms from around your weaker body, you turned towards the door before looking back at him and giving him a sultry stare, “if your scars are anything to go by, you’re sexier without the greasepaint... just saying.”

♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎♔♥︎

A few days later, you were leaning against your kitchen counter and in desperate need of caffeine. Dumping the heaped spoon of coffee grounds into your mug, you idly stirred the drink as you peered around your home. It had been a while since you stayed the night at your house, mainly deciding to spend your days and nights with Joker wherever he decided to spend his time. This time, he’d insisted you stayed at your own place due to some stupid bank heist he was planning with his thugs and explained that ‘he wouldn’t tolerate any distractions.’

Sighing in boredom, you picked up the mug by the handle and carefully waddled over to your couch. Placing the cup onto your coffee table, you plopped down onto the couch and kicked your feet up onto the armrest. The first thing you did was turn the TV on, instantly turning to the news channel to see if J had been true to his word the previous night.

“We have just received reports of another one of The Joker’s-”

Scoffing in disbelief, you pulled yourself up on the couch before turning to another channel- not wanting to listen to how J had lied to you about his escapades only a few hours earlier. Whenever you saw him next you were determined to give him a piece of your mind, you decided. Bringing the boiling hot beverage up to your lips, you gulped down the caffeine that scorched your tongue and burned your throat as it trickled down into your stomach.

It wasn’t any secret, you despised J’s criminal ways and his cunning schemes and all the bad things he loved. You would never force him to stop, your main concern his safety and the thought of him teasing you with his gun and the thought of the sensation of his cool knife brushing against your skin made you hot and bothered. He was quick to calm your doubts and worries, reassuring you that the evil genius could never be killed or caught for long because he always had you to come back to.

Unfortunately, due to him knowing your qualms he tended to lie about his whereabouts to purge you of sleepless nights and restless days spent brooding over him.

“Asshole,” you whispered under your breath, going to take another big mouthful of the drink when it was promptly slapped out of your gasp and tumbled onto the carpet. It narrowly avoided your couch and was a hairs width of coming in contact with your skin.

“You-a, know you love me, Doll,” J’s rough dark voice came from behind you, every hair on your body standing on end as the reality of the situation dawned on you as your back straightened up in fear, “maybe a kiss will-a, make me feel better after you were so rude to Daddy.”

Breath hitching at his creative choice of wording, your core tingled from the excitement his words brought you. Nervously biting your bottom lip between your teeth, you froze as you felt J’s gloved hand sneak around to your front and rest just above your tits. The promise of his hands hidden behind purple leather touching you made you squirm in your seat.  The delicious mix of fear and elation you felt began to cloud your better judgement, knowing deep down you should confront him about what he said but wanting to allow yourself to get carried away with him.

“A kiss? Nothing else?” you softly spoke, turning to face him with half-lidded eyes and an intense fire burning in your gut. Your eyes went to his at first, slowly analysing the rest of his features. The change didn’t register with you at first, your desire fogging your mind and didn’t allow you to see past the image of the regular J you were accustomed to.

“Is my-a, face as sexy as you imaged, Doll?”

Confusion coated your face, eyes frantically wandering around before they widened in awe at the tantalizing sight presented in front of you. His usual white and red paint had been wiped away, small traces of his black eye rimming paint remaining. He was understandably in a rush on his way to your place, but you looked past that as you took in the face of the person you loved.

Crashing his lips against yours, his chapped lips moved with vigour as he swallowed your needy whines and moans that sent heat to his hardening cock. His hand dropped and squeezed your breast painfully hard, but it made a gush of wetness leak from your deprived pussy. Twisting your erect nipple between his fingers, he pressed harder against your plump lips and easily coaxed out more sweet noises from your swollen lips.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands lifting to grasp his green strands of hair and tugging hard on them, relishing in the grunt he lets out from the sapid stimulation. You felt like putty in his hands, ready to do anything he wanted just to please him. You wanted to ride his cock and see stars, satisfy him in ways that would have him cumming in seconds. And now without that muck coating his lips, your swollen pussy and kissable pink lips were more than willing to give him everything.

“On-a, all fours with your ass in the air, Princess. Daddy wants to have a little fun with his little girl before he-a, has to get back to work.”

[leturtz]

100 Pounds of Me Gone

Finally, this morning, September 19th 2020, I officially weighed in 100 pounds down from my starting weight in January. The past month and a half had been really rough for me. As the world was slowly coming out of COVID-19 lock-down, I had signed up to return to school and I knew my job was going to return to normality soon. My weight loss had dramatically slowed down and every time I faced the scale a feeling of frustration overwhelmed me. A half a pound here, stay the same, a half pound up... my body was just not having it. I also stress ate a whole bunch at night time. I’d go my whole day eating well according to my calorie plan and then when it came to sitting down to relax after a shower at night, I was binge eating way too many calories. I felt a huge lack of motivation despite the fact that I still pushed to exercise everyday. I found myself eating out of my stress and stagnant anxiety during the night time and then crying my eyes out right after. I knew logically it was about letting go of the past day and moving forward. I felt struggle, but I kept setting out everyday to attempt to do better on my diet. Like I said though, that repetition of struggle lasted for almost two months! The past week, I’m back to my strong motivated self, and it feels unspeakable. I returned to work on Monday, which genuinely was such a huge part in helping me return some sanity. I got back my schedule and also, work was a crazy workout for four days receiving shipments and carrying boxes back and forth. I had finished each day with a minimum of 20,000 steps which was an incredible feeling. I’m a perfectionist, (thanks, Dad) and it has made life more difficult for me layering unrealistic goals with rigid allowances on top of anxiety and low self esteem. The anxiety would be exasperated when I didn’t consistently keep up with 5-8 pound losses per week. I knew the weight loss would eventually slow down, but it was definitely a learning process to allow myself to accept that. That’s the essence of this journey though; understanding and learning to accept that you will go up and down, that this is not something that can be rushed or over-done. To assure the longevity and healthiness of your weight loss, it’s imperative to allow yourself to indulge sometimes, allow your self ups and downs but to keep the understanding that you have to push on. I think this lesson is utterly poetic for my entire life. Like I had previously stated, being a perfectionist, not only was my weight loss journey harder, but every goal and form of progression in my life was more difficult. I struggled with this very “black and white” form of thinking where if I didn’t do everything seemingly “perfect,” I would feel overwhelmed and defeated. It was at those moments of not feeling like I performed well enough that I would just roll over and give up. This was a piece of my journey that affected how I navigated through my depression, anxiety, and just my general success in life. My weight loss journey is not over, and truly will never be entirely over. For the rest of my life I plan to stay healthy and be mindful of the food I’m eating and why. However, today I am 100 lbs down, and I fall more and more in love with myself every day that passes. Do not misconstrue that for being full of myself, because that is absolutely not the case. I spent more than half of my life so far, feeling disgusted by myself and my body. I will never be done celebrating this incredible shift in my being. A lot of people try to reiterate that I was beautiful before as well as now, and I know that it’s an entirely true statement. I know weight does not determine a person’s worth, but for me, losing weight and becoming entirely healthier was the most pivotal decision of my existence. I found happiness through exercise and being mindful to what I put in my body. I better understood acceptance, patience, endurance, strength, determination, and most importantly my ability to do all of these things. I’ve gotten to know myself, in the most deep and spiritual ways, and I continue to grow every day. None of this translates to “I no longer struggle,” absolutely NOT! I still have bad days, I still have anxiety, but I am happy. I am capable of managing my anxiety and any obstacles that are thrown in my way. I have transformed and every single time I speak of this, happy tears stream down my face. If you could have sat passenger to the demons I have faced since I was 13, you could really feel the impact. My passenger all along was my mother, who genuinely is unlike any other human being on Earth. There are no words for what we have been through together and the impact all of this success has on us emotionally. It was a learning process for her as well. No one gives you directions on how to be a parent, we all do the best we can as we go along. I think that’s what I admire most about my mother was her ability to keep an open mind, to maintain patience, to learn and apply newly learned knowledge as her daughter continued to struggle. She never gave up, and there will never be a tangible currency in this world to repay her for the support and love she has given me. The last thing I want to talk about is my best tip for beginning a weight loss journey. When you start, I feel that it’s important not to focus on the food that you eat. I think what’s most important is to start moving and to keep consistent with doing it 5-7 times a week. The trick is to make exercise a part of your life and not just a chore. I think when we tell ourselves to accept a strict exercise regimen and strict diet plan overnight, you are way more likely to fail or give up. For me, when I started, I walked the treadmill everyday for 30-40 minutes and ate whatever the hell I wanted. It felt good to exercise, and it made eating what I wanted feel a bit better too, almost justified, if you will. In time, as I started to lose weight, I felt naturally inclined to gain on my progress by eating less. I started to “rough” calorie count. I used rough estimates and didn’t write anything down. Eventually, I started writing down the calories that I estimated. Today, I weigh almost everything that I eat, I cook a lot of my own meals, I count my calories religiously, and I think the most important part about all of it is that I gradually obtained this new lifestyle. 

Baby steps. If I can, you can, too.

[talpup]

Chaos: Kitten Day

This is a pure smut piece that’s connected to my fic Chaos.  While not the sum total of smut in Chaos this happens to be written in such at way that it can be enjoyed as a one shot.

Don’t know if it’s the way my brain is wired, me being dyslexic, or what; but I just can’t write straight up reader inserts. That said, my work is meant to be self insert. It’s just that you’ll be putting your name in place of a name instead of in place of y/n.

***If you prefer reading off AO3 here’s the link for that: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20155333/chapters/52984345

Chaos Summary: The day Aizawa Shouta betrayed his Love was the day the Daimon lost everything that mattered in his life. Now, with her awake from her slumber and memory wiped, he has another chance at having her and being happy. There’s only the small problem of heaven wanting his Love dead, and hell wanting control of her. And her promise to protect and help another. Oh! And her remembering what he did.But Shouta has waited so long to have her back. Has planned and taken measures to see his Love protected. He won’t loose her this time. He’ll do anything to keep her safe, and stop her from remembering his betrayal. Cost and consequences be damned.Though it really is a shame that the cost just might bring about Chaos. (PLEASE mind the tags!)

Flinting inside the cabin, Shouta choked on his sigh of relief.  He stared at the sight before him, mind blanking out for a few seconds.

“Kitten. Wha--” Shouta cleared his throat.  “What’s this?”

He could hear an unaccustomed strain to his voice; but fucking hell, with an image like that greeting him, who would blame him.  He growled at the idea of someone else seeing his Love like this.

Reyanna let out a needy purr.  “Master.”

That single, drawn out word sent blood rushing straight to his cock.  Legs unable to hold him, he fell back a couple inches to lean against the closed cabin door.

Reyanna felt nervous. Silly. But Shouta wasn’t laughing.  Nor was he rebuking her.  In fact, if the hungry look in his dark eyes was any measure, this was doing all the right sort of things for him.

She crawled as seductively as she could to him, the fluffy tail attached to her garter belt tickling her thighs.

Shouta watched her in lustful appreciation.  It wasn’t just the cat ears and long tail that swished against her ass.  It was the subtle cat themed lingerie that, like the ears and tail, matched her hair color.  It was her nails, carefully painted to look like claws.  It was the collar, and the tags that hung from it.

Fucking hell.  It was the tags.  That sound...  He never would have imagined that a sound other than Reyanna’s voice could do such things to him.  But the tinkling of those tags.  Tags that he hoped had Kitten inscribed on them…

She stopped in front of him and sat on her haunches.

Eyes on those wonderful tags, Shouta reached out needing to know what, if anything, was on them.

As he had hoped, one of the tags did have Kitten etched in it.  But the other…  What he read on the other tag was far, far better.  Pet of Aizawa Shouta.

Who would had thought that four little words could make Shouta’s cock leak so much pre-cum it wet through to his pants.

He didn’t try to hide the darkened spot, instead breathing out his appreciation in a drawn out rasp.  “Fuck.”

Reyanna licked her lips, struggling to hide her smile of glee. It was working.  Her plan was working.

“It’s Kitten Day, Master.”  Her hands climbed up his leg, nails digging in just enough.

“Oh?” Still somewhat dazed, it was all he could muster.

She nuzzled against his thigh giving him a look that made him feel both predatory and protective.

Her hand traced teasingly close to his trapped erection.  “It is.  And because of it, I was hoping you would let your Kitten celebrate.”

He gave her a small smile, thinking that he would gladly give his Love whatever she asked. At least he hoped he’d be able to. He doubted he’d be capable of a long, slow lovemaking; not for the first couple of rounds at least. But with the way she was licking at the damp spot in his tented pants, it was safe to say that she wasn’t in the mood of soft and sweet.

He pushed off the door, standing over her on his own power.  His hand reached out again, this time tracing over the cat ears.

“Such a good girl.  Surprising me like this.  Is this why you took it upon yourself to plan this time away for us?  Cause you wanted to play?”

She nodded against him.

He leaned back and tilted her chin up.  “Answer me properly, Kitten.”

“Yes, Master.”  Reyanna mewled, hips swaying side to side.

Damn. He needed to be in her, pounding away, now.

“I want to play.  Please, Master.  It’s Kitten Day.  Please, let your Kitty play.”

“Shush.” Shouta hushed.

He swiped the pad of his thumb over her lips.

Reyanna nipped at the digit.

Shouta smirked at her feistiness.  He pressed the tip of his thumb between her lips, encouraging her to take it in.

She did.  Eagerly swirling her tongue around it as she sucked.  Her eyes lifted, locking on his.  If her plan was to work, she had to keep him distracted.  The easiest way to do that was to keep him unbalanced by being both good and bad.

“Such a sweet, obedient Kitten.”  He murmured.

He pressed down on her tongue, relishing her moan.  His other hand pet between her cat ears.

“So pretty and good for--”  Shouta hissed.

He quickly pulled his thumb out of her mouth and inspected it; but the bite wound had already healed.  His eyes meet hers.

“Not so sweet and good after all.”  He remarked in stern amusement.

Reyanna crawled backwards, stopping in the middle of an area rug. “Please, Master. I want to play.  Please. Let your Kitty play.”

Shouta slowly stalked after her, eyes and mind focused solely on his prey. “Naughty Kitten’s don’t get to play.  They get punished.”

And boy, was he going to punish his little Minx.  He felt a thrill at just the thought of it, his cock twitching in the confinement of his pants.  He was too busy imagining all of the things he was going to do to her that he failed to sense the trap even as his foot stepped onto the rug.

Reyanna nervously licked her lips.  She was so close to catching her prize, she could taste it.  She just needed him to take one more little step.

“Master’s mean and cruel.”  She pouted.

Shouta chuckled darkly.  “Hardly.  But if you like--”

His sinister smile fell.  He had taken another step.

Reyanna now wore the sinister grin.  She had her prize.

Shouta scowled.  What the--  He was trapped.  How the hell had he stepped into a daimon trap?  Why was there a daimon trap?  Had someone found their secret hideaway?  But how did they manage to get through all the barriers he had painstakingly put in place to keep his Love secure?

He looked about, instantly on alert for danger.  That was until he glimpsed Reyanna’s proud expression out of the corner of his eye.

“Anna. What did you do?”

“I told you, Master.  It’s Kitten Day, and I want to celebrate.”

“By trapping me?”  He accused.

She shivered, desire growing at the heated irritation in her Lover’s deep voice.  And he said she was hot when angry...

She slowly crawled backwards.  “Well, I--”

Shouta rushed toward her.

Reyanna yelped and scurried away.

He slammed into the traps invisible barrier.

She glimpsed his cuts and bruises before they disappeared, healing with only a small bit of blood left behind. “Shouta!  Are you okay?”

“No.” He snapped, ignoring the dull, fading ache in his cheek.  “I’m stuck in a fucking daimon trap.  Let me out, Anna. This isn’t funny.”  When she didn’t move, he growled out.  “Now.”

Damn it!  Didn’t she realize how dangerous this was?  What if someone did happen to find this place and get through the layers of wardings?  With him stuck in here…

“I will.”  Reyanna promised.  “Just as soon as you hear me out and agree.”

Shouta’s lip curled.  “Now is not the time to be making demands, Anna.”

“Now’s the prefect time.  Why do you think I went through all of this?”

Shouta blinked.  His unclear mind finally piecing it all together.  She had planned this.  That was why she had been kneeling on the floor, dressed like that. Because without the distracting surprise of such a tempting treat, he would have instantly sensed the trap hidden beneath the rug.

He had censured and demanded release to no avail before finally hearing her out.  Her request had made him all the more aggravated and horny.  Yes. Even trapped and furious, he was still rock hard. How could he not be when she looked like that?  When practically every move she made made the tags hanging from her collar tinkle.  Damn. He wanted to hear those tags jingle to the tune and tempo of his rocking hips as he pounded into her.

Reyanna wanted to be in control.  To dominate Shouta in bed for once.

Of course he had said no, even though his cock had traitorously twitched at the thought.

And now they were here, with Reyanna sitting on her haunches just out of reach on the other side of the trap, fingering herself.

“Come here, Kitten.”  Shouta commanded, though his voice had long since lost its stern authority.

Reyanna responded by moaning.  Her fingers curled finding that special spot inside her.  Teasing herself, she pulled them out, rubbing her digits between her sopping folds.

It was a delightful torture to watch.  One that both weakened Shouta's resolve and made him all the more demanding.

“Do it again.  Let me touch you.”

But she did neither of those things.  Instead, she pulled her fingers away completely.

Shouta eyed her slick coated digits, his tongue darting out to lick his lips.  “Bring them here, Kitten.  Let me taste you.”

“You get nothing till you agree.”

Shouta felt himself waiver.

“Do you agree?”

“Suck your fingers clean.”  He ordered.

A sinister smirk pulled at her lips.  She lifted her hand, tongue leaking out.

Shouta stared, his own mouth pooling with saliva, hungry for the taste he knew and loved.

Right before her fingers touched her outstretched tongue, she pulled her hand away.

He opened his mouth to reprimand, but was struck silent when she traced her glistening fingers down one of her breasts and around a pebbled nipple.

He watched in panting desire as she cupped her breast and lifted it, dipping her head to lick herself clean.

The lewd slurping sound was torture enough; but when she trembled and moaned around her nipple, it ripped a strangled whine from Shouta’s throat.

Her eyes locked on his, shining with wicked delight.  She pulled off her nipple, giving the tiny dark peak one last flicking lick.

Shouta swallowed, tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.

“You’re missing out, Master.  We could be having so much fun if only you agreed.”

His eyes raked over her as if considering, but in the end he remained silent and immobile.

“Come on, Shouta.  Pick up that cord and tie your wrists together.  I’ll make sure you enjoy it.”

He huffed, and turned away, strengthening his resolve.

He could make her feel infinitely better than she could alone.  It was only a matter of time before she gave up this nonsense of having control and freed him, begging him to fuck her.  It was a strength of wills.  All he had to do was hold out longer than she did.

“Fine.” Reyanna sighed.

Her hand slid slowly down her body, fingers once again pulling aside her underwear.

Shouta’s eyes immediately focused back on her.  Damn it!  She wasn’t playing fair.  He growled in frustration when two of her fingers disappeared from sight.  Eyes locked on her pumping fingers, he lowered further into his squat, trying to get a better view.

Reyanna smiled, tempted to tease and suggest he might have a better view if he laid on the floor.

She had purposefully planned it this way.  Stopping her striptease after taking off her bra and stockings.  Pretending to get the idea to play with herself.

“Damn it, Anna!  At least take off your underwear so I can see you.”

Reyanna rolled her head back with an exaggerated moan, her hips bucking into her hand.

Fuck! Shouta silently cursed.  He was weak as hell.  She made him weak.

“Come on, Kitten.  I want to see see you.  Let me see your pretty pussy. Please.”

Her fingers stopped pumping.  She pulled them free and once again lifted her hand.

Captivated, he watched her lick a long stripe up her fingers then push them into her mouth, sucking them clean.  His tongue rolled against the roof of his mouth feeling neglected and starved.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, making a show of pulling off her sodden underwear.

Unable to resist, Shouta reached out to her perfectly presented ass.  His hand hit the traps invisible barrier, the sizzling burn making him hiss and yank his hand back.

Looking over her shoulder at him, Reyanna righted herself and tisked. “Naughty, Master.”

“I just wanted to touch your tail.”

“Which one?”

“Let me out, Anna.”

“Tie yourself up.”

He pursed his lips, sulking.

Reyanna took up the fluffy cat tail that still hung from her garter belt and brushed it against a pert nipple, shivering.

Shouta growled, a wave of jealously washing over him.  He was the only one who should make her shiver like that.  If he couldn’t use the tail to tease her, than it shouldn’t be used on her at all.

His eyes darted to the panties she still held.  “Give me those.”

“What?” She asked, twirling the underwear around on a finger.  “These?  Tie yourself up first and then maybe--”

The underwear went flying.

Reyanna moved to catch them, but they flew just inside the area of the trap and she quickly pulled back before she crossed the line.

Shouta moved so fast that he was almost a blur.  First he made for Reyanna, readying to grab any part of her that crossed the line of the trap. But when she stopped, he went for the panties, snatching them out of the air before they could continue their arching trajectory that would’ve seen them out of his grasp.

He buried his face in them, breathing deeply.  It was one thing to have seen how damp the crotch of the fabric was, but to feel their wetness…  His mouth pooled with saliva.  His tongue darted out, licking wide, flat stripes up the slick soaked crotch, uncaring of the drool that dripped down his chin.

“Really, Shouta?”  Reyanna watched with a wry smirk of amusement.  “You’d rather do that than submit.”

Shouta pushed the crotch of the panties into his mouth, shamelessly sucking her essence from them.

She shook her head at his antics.  “And what are you going to do when you suck them dry? I doubt you’ll be able to hold out for long now that you’ve had a taste.”

He paused, having not considered that. Thankfully, his small whimper was muffled by the underwear stuffed in his mouth.

“If you take up that cord and bind your wrists together I’ll give you a taste from the source.”  She tempted.

Shouta watched her warily, tongue lapping at the fabric in his mouth.  Damn.  She was an evil little Minx.

“What’s the matter, Master?  Don’t think you can take what your Kitty has to give?”

He pulled the panties from his mouth.  “You’re a brat.  And I’ll see you pay for weeks, if not months on end.”

Reyanna smothered her concern.  He wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.  Even before she had come up with this plan, she had known he would retaliate and punish her in the most delectable fashion.

“Come on, Shouta.  If you’re secretly worried, I already told you all you have to do is say the word Pup and the cord will disintegrate.”

“I don’t need a safeword.”

“Everyone needs a safeword, Love.  Even before the humans came up with such a thing, you always paused to ask how I was and if I needed break.”

That was different, Shouta thought.  That was him not wanting to truly hurt the woman he loved.

Reyanna smiled slyly and went on.  “Unless you’re worried for a completely different reason.  That you’ll like it so much you’ll want to do it again.”

Shouta scoffed.  “Unlikely.”

“Unlikely, but not impossible.”

The erection in his pants had become painful.  And while he wasn’t above sucking her juices from her panties, he was above jerking himself off; especially when his Kitten was standing right there naked and eager to have her way with him.

“Fine. But you have to promise never to do anything like this again.”

“Trap you or take control?”

Shouta growled.

“Fine! I promise.

“And no more striptease or playing with yourself.”  He added quickly.

Too happy over having won, she smiled. “Agreed.”

Shouta squatted back down, picking up the rune inscribed cord.

“Also, I’m--” He cleared his throat.  “I’m going to need to tend to me first.”

Her eyes lowered to his tented pants.  “I can most definitely do that.”

He sighed, looping the cord around his wrists.  “One more thing.”

“Shouta! This is about me having control.  Stop trying to bargain piece by piece to steal it back.”

His wrist were tied and lifted against his chest. All he had to do was bite the tail end of the cord and pull to tighten the wrapped loops and secure the knot.

But instead of doing that, he eyed her pointedly. “One more thing.”

“What?”

“The collar stays.”

At her smirking nod, Shouta took the end of the cord between his teeth and pulled before he lost his never and backed out.

Reyanna undid the trap and led him to the bedroom.

“How do you want me, Kitten?”

She paused, eyes skimming over the bed.  It was suddenly all so real. Shouta was actually going to let her do this.  Take control and dominate him in bed.  She was making Aizawa Shouta, feared daimon and ex-General of hell submit.  No.  She wasn’t making him submit yet. Even now he was still controlling things.

Shouta smirked, eyeing her smugly.  “You have thought this far ahead, haven’t you?”

She scowled at him.  “Of course I have.  Get in the bed and lay on your back, head on the pillow.”

Shouta's cock thrummed at the command.  Damn, he had been hard for so long it hurt.

He climbed into bed and paused.

“Are you sure you don’t want to undress me first?”  He asked, eyes looking up and down her naked frame.

“Yes. I’m sure.”  Her eyes darted to his ass.  Did she dare?  Her hand slapped across his ass.  “Don’t question your Kitten again.”

Shouta jerked at the spank.

He felt at war with himself.  On the one hand it made his dominant self growl; but the stinging jolt also made his aching cock throb all the more.

Her hand connected with his ass again.  “Hurry up and lay down.”

More pre-cum to leaked out of his angry cock.  The wet spot on his boxer briefs and pants spread.  He told himself it was because he had been hard and ignored for so long.

He laid down and rolled onto his back.

She got into bed and knelt beside him.  “Comfortable?”

He relaxed his head into the pillow and nodded.

Reyanna smacked the outside of his thigh.  “Use your words, Master.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now lift your hands for me.”

Shouta swallowed thickly, his uncertainty welling up again.

Reyanna picked up on this and lowered down. “Do you trust me?”

Shouta stared up at her beautiful face.  He felt the urge to roll them over and rub out his release against her nakedness.  He felt the shameful temptation to say that stupid safeword.  Not just to free his hands so he could push her down and pound into her till she was a drooling mess; but because he was nervous.

Her hand brushed his hair out of his face, the other tracing down his chest and dipping under the waistband of his pants.  “It’s a simple question, Shou.  Do you trust me?”

He nodded, lost in the feeling of her loving touch.

“Words, Shouta.”

“Ye--yes. I trust you implicitly.”

“Good.” She whispered placing a gentle kiss to his cheek before tenderly kissing his lips.

He lifted his head, pressing into the kiss, looking to deepen it but she lifted back up.

“Hands.” She commanded.

Shouta lifted his bound hands, allowing her to tie them to the headboard.

She smiled down at him, fingers lightly running over the line of his stubbled jaw.  “There’s a good, Master.”

He shivered at the praise.  Fuck! Curse his weakness for her. And why was she still calling him Master?  She hadn’t said it in a taunting way that sought to humiliate. Maybe it was because she was inexperienced?  But none of that mattered, not when his need had become markedly more painful.

“Anna. You promised to tend to me first.”  He said, hating the slight whine he heard in his low, gruff voice.

“I did.”  She soothed.

Her hands nimbly undid his belt.  Pulling it free, she looped and jerked it taut.

The snap that cracked through the air made Shouta tense.  More pre-cum dampened his clothes.

She smirked down at him in such a way that made him worry she was going to delay and use his own belt on him till he begged for it.  But she didn’t.  She didn’t even place the belt aside for later use.  Instead she blindly tossed the strip of leather away and undid his pants, pulling them and his boxer briefs off in one go.

“Fuck!” Shouta cursed when his aching cock sprung free.

“Poor, Master.”  Reyanna cooed, palms running up his thighs. “Such a big, angry cock.”  Her hand wrapped loosely around his length.  “Does it hurt?”

Shouta growled at her too light hold.

She pressed a knee between his, thrilled at how quickly he widened them, making room for her between his legs.  Lowering down, she licked a flat tongue over the head of his cock, moaning at the rich, heady taste of him.

“You taste so good, Master.”  She kissed the base of his cock, her loosely fisted hand slowly pumping his length, her other hand cupping and massaging his balls.  “So good.”

His body trembled at the stimulation, his hips bucking involuntarily.  He bit the inside of his cheek bloody, trying to summon his usual control.

“Take it in, Kitten.”  He ordered, sounding far more composed than he felt.

Her hand closed around his balls, squeezing just shy too tight.

“Fuck!” Shouta’s body went rigid.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Master.” She eased her grip on his sack, pressing a soft kiss to his trembling thigh. “Be good for me, least I show you what happens to bad Master’s who test their Kittens.” She felt his cock throb in her hand at that and smiled up at him deviously.  “Oh?  Did Master like that?  Being disciplined and chastised by his Kitty Cat.”

Shouta gritted his teeth, feeling his cheeks warm.  He turned his face into his arm trying to hide his blush before she saw it.

It was then that he realized why she was still calling him Master.  It had nothing to do with her inexperience, or mocking him.  She was doing it because it still did all the right things to him, creating something similar to the Pavlov's dog experiment. It was probably why she had kept the cat ears and tail on, and had easily agreed to the collar staying.

He was too shocked by the realization to be upset.  Instead wondering how the hell she was so good at this. Sure she knew all his buttons.  Sure, she had fought for and earned the occasional bit of control in bed, him letting her ride or blow him as she pleased.  But this… This was different. This was mind and sex play near or at his level.

Reyanna’s hot, wet mouth swallowed his cock and all coherent thought left Shouta's mind.  He groaned feeling her esophagus spasm around him.

She hummed, ignoring her gag reflex and the tickle of his pubic hair against her nose.  She pulled off him, her hand pumping till she caught her breath.  Then she began in earnest.  The sound of her tags hanging from her collar, jingling a rhythm that matched the bobbing of her head.

One hand worked what she could comfortably fit in her mouth, the other stroking his hip and thigh.  Her tongue dragged along the underside of his cock stimulating her salivary glands.  His cock came alive in her mouth, telling her he was close.

“Fuck.” Shouta cursed, feeling his balls tightened. “Be—good—and swallow—it all.”  He panted.

Though she didn’t stop, her eyes snapped open, locking on his.

The dark hard look she pinned him with made Shouta shiver in wanting and worry.  He bit his lip fighting back moan, and grunted, cumming in her mouth.

Reyanna did swallow it all, but she didn’t stop there.  She kept on swallowing and sucking till he came two more times.

Damn. It hurt so good, Shouta thought after he had cum for a third time.

When she continued, his cock stiffening again despite the ache, he pushed his hips down into the bed, trying to free himself from her hungry mouth.

“Anna. It’s too much.”

She lifted off him, licking a wide circle around her mouth cleaning the drool and cum off her lips.  “Forget the safeword already, Shou?”

“I’m not saying that thing.”  Shouta spat.  “I don’t need it.”

“Then it’s not too much.”  She countered.

A momentary look of unease crossed his face before he was able to pull himself back together.  He scowled at her fiendish grinned.

“What’s the matter, Master?  Didn’t you ask me to swallow it all.  I’m sure you’ve got more to give.  And I’m so very thirsty.”

His half hard cock bobbed in the air.

“Looks like there’s a part of you still eager for more.”

He opened his mouth to tell her that wanting and eagerness wasn’t the issue; but instead hissed, hips caught between bucking upward and pulling back when she licked his overstimulated dick.

Her hand bunched up his shirt, the other following in its wake, nails leaving red lines that quickly disappeared.  She bit and sucked up his torso, littering him with claiming marks that where gone by the time her face was level with his.

“But you’re always so insatiable.”

“I’ll never get enough of you.”  He confessed, lifting and tilting his head to kiss her.

She pressed two fingers to his lips.

Shouta growled in frustration. “Let me kiss you, Ann—fuck!”

She eased the pinched of his nipple, rolling it lightly between her fingers.  “Such a bad Master.  Still thinking he can tell his Kitty what to do.”

Damn it!  He was going to make his little Minx pay for this.  He pulled against the cord around his wrists, cursing himself for not making it loose enough to slip out of.  He thought of the things he was going do to her when he was free, causing his cock twitch against her thigh.

Reyanna sat up and straddled his chest.  “Lucky for you, I promised you a taste from the source.”

Shouta eyes lit up.

She tapped her fingers against his lips, and smiled down at him.  “You can’t get in trouble for giving orders if your mouth’s to busy to talk, now can you?”

He shook his head, a ready, willing reply falling from his lips.  “No, I can’t.”

“Hmm. Seems someone likes this idea.”

Her fingers left his lips, tracing down his neck and chest.

He watched her fingers travel the short distance down his chest to where she was sitting on him.

“Do you, Shouta?  Do you like that idea?”

He licked his lips, wishing it was his fingers dipping between her folds.

Focused on the sight in front of him, he didn’t notice her reaching back till the stinging slap hit his thigh.

“Yes!” Though he wasn’t sure if he was answering her query, or responding to the pleasurable pain of the spank.

“Say it, Master.  Tell me you would like me to sit on your face and let you eat me out.”

Oh. She wanted dirty talk, did she?  That he could easily do.  But then he realized that it wouldn’t be as easy as he had first thought.  That he would have to phrase his words carefully.

Reyanna smiled at his hesitation.  Good.  He was learning.  She knew he wasn’t ready to beg; but if he could state what he wanted without demanding it…

“I--” Shit! He had almost said want.  Was want too commanding a word in this instance?  Best not to use it just to be safe.  “I would like it if you sat on my face and let me eat out your sweet pussy.”

“There’s a good Master.”

Her moves became tentative as she moved to straddle his head. Without him guiding her, she was unsure of her placement and how far down to lower onto him.

“Um. Is this good?”

His small grin of excitement grew.  Silly Kitten, he thought in amusement. After all this, she became uncertain now.

“Lower, Love.  I can’t reach you way up there.”  As if to prove his point he lifted his head, stretching out his tongue.

She lowered a bit, breath hitching when his tongue connected with her.

Shouta moan, feverishly licking at her glistening wet folds.  Damn, it felt as if he had waited years to taste her.

“Lower, Kitten.” He gave her another lick, adding as an after thought. “Please.”

She sunk down some more, but he still had to strain his neck.  His let his head fall back, groaning at the loss of her soft, sweet cunt.

Remembering to be mindful of his words, he said.  “If you’ll allow, watch my hands.  I’ll fist them when you’re good.”

Her eyes left his to look up at his open hands.

“Do you approve of that, Kitten?” He asked, eager to begin.

“Alright.” She mumbled.

Damn it!  Why had she thought that sitting on his face was a good idea?  Sure the position was one of dominance; but she could only drown out her embarrassed uncertainty and muster so much boldness.

His hands fisted and she stopped.

Whether it was her display of lacking confidence that emboldened him or his near manic need to feast on her after being denied for so long, Shouta began without her say.  It wasn’t as if he needed her direction on how to best please her.

Once she started grinding against his face, moaning his name over and over, he knew she was close.  But he was too lost in the act it think about trying to get away with edging her.  Instead he slowed and lightened his ministrations after she came, letting her ride out her orgasm.  Anything to lengthen his time between her legs.

Holding onto the headboard, she rose off of him.

Shouta growled.  He lifted his head, tongue stretched out, licking after her.

Reyanna grabbed his hair by the roots and pulled his head back.  “That’s enough.  You’ve had your fill.”

She moved back, till she was straddling his hips.

Shouta’s head fell back into the pillow.  He licked a wide ring around his mouth, wearing a wild, toothy grin.

She would have felt self-conscious about the amount of slick covering his face if he hadn’t appeared so frightfully happy.

Reyanna wiped at his shining face.  “You’re a mess.”

Shouta turned his head and licked her hand.

Her eyebrow lifted, but he didn’t care.  It wasn’t as if he could use his own hand to wipe away what his tongue couldn't reach and lick it clean.

Letting his behavior slide, she smoothed back his plastered hair.  “You did so good, Shouta.”

Shouta sighed, nuzzling into her caressing touch.  He felt a momentary contentment that came with knowing he had pleased his Love.  But, it quickly vanished under his own throbbing need.

He pulled at his restraints, wanting, needing to touch her.  The wood creaked under the strain, bringing to mind the time they had broken the bed.  He hadn’t found it nearly as amusing as she had, and had taken to inscribing strengthening runes in all of their furniture. Something he now regretted.

He bared his teeth, pulling harder.

“My sweet, handsome Master.”  Reyanna cooed, kneading his straining muscles till they eased.  “I think it’s time for your reward.”

Shouta's ears perked at that.

She smiled down at him.  “You’ve been so good, I think you deserve a treat.  What do you say to me riding that big, fat cock of yours?”

His body thrummed with excitement.

It struck him then that she was using his methods on him.  That he had unwittingly taught her how to dominate him by dominating her all this time.  But he couldn’t find it in himself to care.  Not when she said he would be getting his treat.

Reyanna bit hard at the tender spot of his neck.  Her nails raking down his side drawing droplets of blood before the scratches healed.

“Ah! Fuuuck!”  Shouta’s body tensed, quivering in pain.

It hurt so good.  It felt so damned good.  And knowing what was coming next.  And still being high from feasting on her, her taste still on his tongue...

“Tell me what you want, Master.”

“I want you to ride me.”

“What’s the magic word?”

“Please.” He said, without hesitance or shame.

Shouta groaned, head rolling back when she slid down onto him.

There was only one thing he loved more than eating Reyanna out and it was this.  His dick inside her.  It didn’t matter if it was a fast, rough fuck or a soft, sensual lovemaking.  He lived for being buried in her.  But it wasn’t just the feeling of his cock stretching her out, making her insides fit him perfectly.  It was the closeness.  He rarely felt more connected to her than he did when he was literally connected to her.

As soon as she rose up, he bucked his hips, burying himself in her again.

Reyanna pulled off him completely.

Shouta moaned at the loss of that connection.

“You do that again and you’ll be stuck watching me finger myself.” She warned.

He snarled at her, but she was unimpressed.

Needing her tight wet warmth enveloping him, he apologized.  “Sorry.”

Needing him as much as he needed her, she sunk back onto him.

“Fuuuck.” Shouta exhaled.  How was it that she felt even tighter?

The pace she set was slow and steady, but quickly built.

Shouta threw back his head.  It was difficult enough to keep his hips still, but the noises.  They were impossible to silence.  No matter how hard he gritted his teeth the sounds bubbled out.

She was bouncing on him now.  Impaling herself on his cock.  The sweet jingling of her collars tags a new and welcomed addition to the harmonizing sound slapping flesh and wet squelching that usually accompanied Reyanna’s singing moans.

He began thrusting up; and not wanting to stop, Reyanna pressed down on his stomach.

Shouta's hips bucked up, grinding into her core.  “More, Kitten. Give me more.”  The stern flash of her eyes reminded him of her warning and he broke knowing he couldn’t have stopped from thrusting if he tried.  “Please.  Please, Anna. Fuck me.  Fuck me harder.  I need you, Love.  Please. Fuck me.”

It was hearing him beg that sent her over the edge.  The walls of her pussy clamping down around him, making his hips stagger.

She fell onto his chest panting.

“Such a good boy.”  Her lips brushed his jaw.  “Such a good Master for your Kitten.���

Shouta's body seized.  His teeth gnashed together, lips curled.  A strangled long, deep moan reverberated through him as he shot his load into her still spasming cunt.

After a moment, she reached up and pulled at the cord, undoing the knot.

As soon as the cord loosened, Shouta pulled his hands free, burying them in her hair.  The cat ears sliding off, forgotten.

“Did you enjoy--”

Shouta silenced her with a kiss, wrapping his arms around her.

She tired to push off him; but he growled, tightening his hold.  His arms were sore as hell, that wasn’t letting his Kitten go.

“I’m just going--”

“No.”

They were a mess.  All she wanted was to get them a damp washcloth. “Shou, I--”

“Stay.”

“At least let me off of you so you’ll be more comfortable.”

“I’m good.”  He said, thinking that this was perfect.

He felt her relax into him and eased his hold, stroking her plastered hair.  “So, is there really such a thing a Kitten Day?”

“Don’t know.”  She mumbled into his chest.  “But there should be.”

He hummed in agreement, eyes drifting close.

“You seemed to enjoy yourself.”

His fingers halted in her hair.

“Maybe a bit.”  He conceded.

“Does that mean we can make it an annual thing?”

Shouta’s eyes snapped open.  He looked down at her.

She gave him a devilish smile and bit him hard.

“Fu—You little Minx!”  He rolled them, pinning her to the bed.

“Please, Master.  Let your Kitten play again next year.  I promise I’ll be good if you do.”

It was his turn to give her a grin, one that had far to many teeth.  And she absolutely loved it.

“I’ll consider letting it be an every other year thing. But first, you have to show me just how good you can be.”

I write for my own enjoyment, but edit and post for yours.  If you enjoyed reading this at all please comment and let me know.  It’s the only thing that encourages me to keep editing and posting.

Thank you to those who have left hearts.  And a special thank you to those who have left comments or re-blogged.  They really mean a lot.

An extra special thank you to @inorganicone2230 not only for this updates idea but their encouragement and friendship.

[vesuviannights]

2 + 6 + 44, Asra and Muriel with a female mc? I haven't been able to find any really good threeways with asraa and Muriel and HOLY SHIT your drabbles are amazing so if someone is going to make it work it's you!

Hello!! I’ve decided it’s Poly Week. I will only exclusively be writing poly requests. Have fun, and don’t forget to send me an invite to your funeral.

Asra/You/Muriel. Female/afab reader. Lemon.

You return home from a long day, expecting Muriel and Asra to already be asleep. What you find instead is that they are waiting for you, Asra on his knees, stroking himself while Muriel makes the most delicious noises that awaken your own arousal and pull you in.

Prompts: “Prove it, then” and “Yeah? Gonna look into my pretty eyes when you come?” from this post. (I couldn’t make the third one work sorry!!)

**

You step into the doorway of the bedroom to find them by the bed, Asra on his knees before Muriel, sucking him off with slurps and groans and movements that are in no way graceful or apologetic.

Muriel’s hair is tied back from the day’s work, but it’s falling in pieces all over his face, into his dazed eyes as they flutter open and closed from the sensation. His bottom lip is between his teeth as he leans back on his hands and gently thrusts up into Asra’s mouth.

You watch from the door way, throat dry, suddenly too hot for the layers you had donned for the winters evening. Shrugging off your cloak, your scarf, you place your hand on your abdomen and begin to move it downward, unable to wrench your eyes from the scene before you.

You watch as Asra reaches up to cup Muriel’s sack, rolling it between his lithe fingers, and Muriel’s response is to thrust—suddenly, a little violent—up into Asra’s mouth. Asra pulls back with a gasp before he can choke. Muriel manages to sputter out an apology but it’s clear he isn’t really paying attention to much else except what is occurring to his stiff, damp cock.

The sheets beneath him are bunched in his fists. He is keening and moaning and grunting, egging Asra’s every whim and movement on. Asra has himself in his hand, stroking himself with long, taunting movements. You can spot the bead of pre-cum at his tip, and lick your lips as you imagine the taste of it. It is this, more than anything, that finally sees a whimper escape from your throat before you can swallow it back.

Muriel hears you first, body jerking at the sudden noise, but as his eyes settle on you the tension leaves his body almost as quickly as it appeared, and his eyes darken several shades at the sight of you touching yourself beneath your trousers, your hand moving your arousal round, fingertips circling your clit.

He growls and thrusts into Asra’s mouth, and this time the magician takes all of him. You can see the bulge of Muriel in his throat, and he holds it there while stroking himself until he has to pull back for air with a gasp. His lips close back around Muriel’s tip, swollen and red, before pulling off with a soft pop.

Asra turns his gaze to you, arousal and mischief dancing in his eyes.

“You were meant to be back much earlier,” he murmurs, his voice a little throatier than normal.

“I—” You swallow a moan. You’re still playing with yourself, can’t seem to stop, even though Asra has stopped all of his own movements on both himself and Muriel. “There were customers. And paperwork. And Julian doing something dramatic in the square.”

Muriel snorts. “Of course he was.”

Asra stands and walks to you, ignoring the indignant and impatient growl from Muriel at being left high and dry. He cups the back of your head, kisses you with all of his usual intensity, coupled with the taste of Muriel that he is now sharing with you. His hand joins yours between your legs, edging you on as you slip two fingers into your aching hole.

“Poor Muriel has been suffering this whole time,” Asra tells you.

“You’ve been waiting for me?”

“Always. Come over, my love.”

Asra pulls your hand out of your trousers, ignoring your protests as much as he ignored Muriel, and pulls you back over to the bed.

You lean forward and kiss Muriel in greeting, tongue sweeping into his mouth. He sucks gently on it, just the way he knows you like, and your knees buckle underneath the weight of you.

He catches you against his chest, murmuring his delight at your response, and slowly lets you slide down his body until you are on your knees beside Asra, Muriel’s cock bobbing impatiently between the two of you.

“Is Asra going to let you come?” You ask him, all innocence.

“I was waiting for you,” Muriel answers evenly, not taking your bait. “I can come whenever I want.”

“Oh? Whenever you want?”

“Whenever I want.”

“Prove it, then.”

You take the head of him between your lips, suckling gently, humming so that the vibrations travel through onto him. When you feel him twitch, when you hear him attempt and fail to stutter out your name, you know it’s time to push on and take more of him.

Asra settles down beside you, legs wide, one elbow propped up on the bed so he can watch you as he strokes himself with lazy movements. He is smiling, murmuring his encouragement, telling you both how wonderful you look.

“More—more, please—” Muriel growls, begs, through clenched teeth. “I need to be deeper, I want to feel you all around me.”

You can never take Muriel’s full length into your mouth. He’s a little too big, and you’re not as practised as Asra in that area, but you always try, because you know he loves the feel of being so deep inside of you, the sight of his length bulging in your throat as you struggle to hold it there, and it’s something he doesn’t get very often.

You hollow out your cheeks and relax your throat, taking him in until you can no longer breathe, but it’s still not the whole of him. You hold him there as he strokes your hair with shaking hands, while he grunts to you his praise of how good it feels. Asra shudders beside the two of you, and you look over to him with your watering eyes.

Muriel wants the attention though, that look, and he takes your face between his palms and pulls you off his cock to tilt your gaze up to him. He curses at the sight of you, breathing heavy, strings of saliva still connecting your lips to his swollen head.

“I love to see you like this,” he tells you, thrusting gently into your hands as you take him once more, cupping his sack, pulling his cock with firm strokes. “Pretty eyes all wet for me, gasping for breath. I—” He grunts, has to pause to tighten his jaw. “I love it when you try to take my cock so deep.”

“Yeah?” You grin up at him as you draw his torture out, thumb sweeping over his tip. His cock twitches in your hand, and he groans in response, his entire body trembling from the anticipation. “Will you look into my pretty eyes when you come?”

He nods, the movement jerking and barely-there, like an afterthought to everything else. You part your lips to present your tongue to him, the head of his cock resting there as you stroke and cup and pull until he finally erupts with a growl, fists bunched in the sheets behind him as he comes all over your tongue in white-hot spurts.

You moan in approval at the salty taste of him, the heat that shoots through your body as some of his seed misses your waiting, greedy little tongue and hits your chin and your cheek. You close your mouth to swallow and lick your lips, savouring the taste.

The action is barely complete before Asra digs his hand into your hair and turns you toward him, kissing you with a merciless, delving tongue that sweeps up Muriel’s taste as he groans and rocks against your thigh, his own orgasm tearing through him.

He comes all over his hand, and yours as you reach forward to help him along, and in the heat of it all—the sounds of their groans, their praise, the sight of their flushed faces—you barely even care that you didn’t even manage to take care of yourself, that the walls of your pussy are still fluttering and begging for something to fill them, something to milk dry.

Asra finally pulls back from kissing you to leave a single kiss on the tip of your nose. His thumb swipes along your bottom lip and the corner of your mouth, wiping away the spots of Muriel’s seed that you hadn’t caught with your greedy tongue.

“I like it when you come home late,” Asra tells you.

Muriel shifts, falling back onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t.”

“Maybe while Asra is teaching you dirty talk,” you say, curling your hands around his knees as you look him over. “He can teach you a little about delayed gratification.”

Muriel moves his mouth in a way that looks like he is silently mocking you, but the smile that curves one side of his lips after tells his true feelings.

Asra has already stood to move off, and a few moments later you hear the sound of running water in the bathroom. Your body, without the haze of lust and the sight of Asra fucking Muriel with his perfect, pink lips, seems to remember your day. The length of it, the tiresome bother of the people, the late hour.

So, instead of following after Asra to clean up and prepare for bed like you know you should, you crawl up the length of the bed to stretch out beside Muriel. He murmurs his approval, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he takes you up in one arm and pulls you into his chest.

The two of you fall asleep like that, Muriel’s fingertips tracing your spine through the fabric of your shirt, the sounds of Asra’s shower pattering like a soft rainstorm in the background.

[hiddendreamer67]

The Graves of the Twins

Summary: Patton is grieving the loss of Roman, yet he can’t help but feel sympathetic to Remus, who in life was a menace but in death looks so alone as his grave stands forgotten.

October Prompt #28: Grief.

Warning: This ended up being a fairly serious angst piece about grief. Personally I didn’t cry but y’know, you’ve been warned. People are dead but the death itself isn’t depicted.

Check out more writing at @hiddendreamerwriting

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All of the traditions were being followed- the windows were opened. The mirrors covered. The clocks stopped. The family took every precaution, wanting to be careful lest the spirits get lost on their way out the door. The twin caskets lay side by side, the contents said to be too horrifying for viewing, after the car crash had marred both individuals nearly beyond recognition. As such, it was a closed wake. Mrs. Prince wept, sobbing over all that she had lost as the onlookers failed to comfort her. What could they say?

No parent should have to bury their child, let alone two.

The funeral was dreary, as many often are. The church candles cast the speakers in a pale light, and their attempts at bringing up joyful memories of the deceased got mixed results. For Roman, it seemed never-ending. For Remus, they knew better than to speak ill of the dead.

Later that morning the caskets were lowered. The sun was shining, a cruel sort of irony as the dirt was piled onto each dead teen’s resting place in turn. This was a long process; most of the bystanders left, off to the reception in the hopes of returning to some sense of normalcy. Mrs. Prince was ushered to the car by her daughter, the family of four shrinking to half that overnight. After she left, most of the lingering crowd felt comfortable enough to follow. 

Only Patton stayed behind, watching every trace of his love vanish six feet under. He only left when the workers were finished, giving him a gentle pat on the back and telling him to “go home, son.” Patton did, wishing he didn’t. It was lonely at home. His parents comforted him, trying to console him with their words. It didn’t fill the emptiness in his heart.

Why? Patton kept asking in his head, looking up to the ceiling for answers. Why did you do this?

Patton wanted to know the truth. He wanted to live forever with Roman until they were both old with a dozen dogs, and eating strawberries in the summer and sitting by fireplaces in the winter. Instead Patton was stuck with this stark reality that none of that would ever occur. 

It wasn’t fair.

Patton didn’t return to the cemetery again that week. It was too painful. In fact, he didn’t return that month, either. It was easy to pretend for now that the Prince family was just on a very, very long vacation, and any day now Roman would sweep Patton up in his arms and tell him how much he missed him so.

After all, Patton certainly missed Roman.

 Finally, Patton knew it was time to return to the graves. He had to confront his fears and see for himself what had become of him. The path up to the top of the hill was well-trodden, the tragedy having struck the small town hard. There was a thin layer of the first frost crinkling beneath Patton’s shoes. He got to the top, taking in a sharp breath at the sight of the two headstones lying before him. First, on the left:

Roman Alexander Prince

1999-2017

There’s one more angel in heaven

Patton’s lip quivered, recognizing the quote from the last musical Roman had ever performed. Adorning his headstone was a wreath of roses, red in his favorite shade. Several other bouquets were placed at the grave, well-wishers giving the spirit their sympathy. Patton sniffled. He really had been adored by everyone he met, hadn’t he?

Unable to look any longer, Patton’s gaze turned instead to the grave on the right:

Remus Bartholomew Prince

1999-2017

Rest in Peace

Patton paused, looking over this headstone once more. It was so… impersonal. More than that, Patton glanced between the two graves, noticing another clear difference: not a single person had left flowers at Remus’ grave.

In life, Patton had only known Remus as a nuisance, Roman’s obnoxious younger brother who sometimes spouted the wildest, most horrible tangents. He was revolting, in every sense of the word, but that was only the side that Remus had shown to the world. What if there had been more to him? What if Remus had just needed time to grow out of his childish ways? He and Roman were brothers, surely that meant there was something redeemable in them both?

Patton wasn’t certain, and now he never would be, but he certainly wasn’t about to talk bad about the dead. At the very least, the sight of the graves brought a new pang to Patton’s heart that he hadn’t expected. A pang of sympathy to the …. Maybe not unloved, but less loved Prince sibling.  

Patton glanced at the single rose he had brought, which looked a bit pathetic compared to Roman’s wreath. He had brought it for his love, but with a quick prayer that Roman would forgive him Patton knew what he needed to do. He knelt before Remus’ tombstone, placing the rose at the foot of the stone.

“I’m sorry the world wants to forget you.” Patton whispered, laying a soft kiss on the headpiece. 

The next time Patton came, and every time thereafter, he brought two roses. One placed amongst Roman’s garden, and one laid at Remus’ grave. Patton felt better about this, making certain both spirits were honored. He would sit between the two patches of dirt, talking to one and then the other. It was difficult sometimes to find conversation for Remus, as Patton didn’t want to build up a version of Remus in his head that would be inaccurate to life, and he had never known Remus well. So instead, Patton would talk about himself. He’d tell them both how he was doing, what had happened that week, what people he saw.

“I’m applying to colleges now.” Patton informed them. He picked at a string in his pants, uncertain. “I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but mom thinks it’s best to get a head start at community college and figure it out from there.” He took a deep breath, looking at the pieces of stone. “She also says I should go to my Aunt’s house. She says all this time in a cemetery is depressing.”

Patton didn’t see it that way. After all, the people he cared about most were here.

“I don’t want to go.” Patton bit his lip. He sat back, a gentle breeze blew through the cemetery, ruffling Patton’s hair. “I don’t think I’m ready to let go.”

The graves didn’t answer.

“How am I supposed to move on, anyhow?” A frustrated Patton ranted, not noticing the way his voice cracked. “How is it that everyone has just- just forgotten you’re here? Mrs. Prince never comes anymore, your own mother. Why not? Why doesn’t she care? Why doesn’t anyone care?”

Tears pricked at Patton’s eyes now and he let them fall, watching the clouds drift idly through a sky that was far too blue for the melancholy nature of this world.

“They say grief takes time.” Patton’s voice was soft now, afraid the words wouldn’t come out if he spoke too loud. “Logan was explaining the stages to me the other day. I guess I’m in bargaining now, because I would give anything to bring you back.”

“...anything?”

Patton bolted upright, pressing his glasses to his nose as he took in the mysterious stranger that was only a few feet away. He scurried to his feet, heart racing at the realization he hadn’t even heard them approach.

“Who are you?” Patton asked warily.

The stranger didn’t answer, instead looking over the headstones in turn. “Which one?”

“I beg your pardon?” Patton took a few cautious steps back.

“You said you would give anything to bring him back.” The stranger gestured to the graves. “So, choose one.”

Patton didn’t understand the question. Or rather, he did, but what the stranger suggested was impossible. “It’s not nice to make fun of the grieving.” Patton frowned.

“And it’s not nice to play with fate.” The stranger replied. “If your Roman were alive, the grief would consume him. He would not be the same Roman you once knew. Indeed, the same would fair for Remus, who would be compared to his dead brother’s accomplishments to the end of his manic days.”

“They were a set.” Patton slowly realized. 

“And if you were to bring both back…” The stranger gave a disappointed click of his tongue. “They would tear each other apart.”

“No they wouldn’t!” Patton immediately protested. “They were brothers. They loved each other, deep down.”

“I’m certain they did.” The stranger shrugged, crossing his arms. “But their squabbling crashed one car, it would only be a matter of time until they crashed into another. It’s safer this way.” 

“Don’t.” Patton hissed, once again defensive of the twin’s legacy. “Don’t you dare try and turn this tragedy into some sort of miracle. They didn’t deserve this. People can change.”

“People are ignorant, stubborn-headed fools.” The stranger adjusted his gloves. “Anyone who changes is just displaying a new facade so others are blind to the hideousness beneath.”

“Stop it!” Patton protested. “Stop saying such things, they’re not true! Who are you anyway, to insult the dead in such a crass manner?”

The stranger paused, looking up with a considering expression. “Well I daresay speaking of Remus at least in such tones would be a wonderful addition to his legacy. He would find my attitude humorous.”

“You don’t know a thing about what Remus would have wanted.” Patton assured him.

“Well, I should hope I would.” The stranger gave a sad sort of chuckle, pushing up the brim of his hat. “I was, after all, his only friend.”

Patton paused, waiting with raised eyebrows for a further introduction or explanation. He received neither.

“Would you tell me about him?” Patton asked, his quiet inquiry not unlike a child.

“Certainly.” The stranger agreed, settling into the grass. Patton followed his lead, sitting down so that they both were looking at the graves of the twins.

“In exchange, I can tell you about Roman.” Patton offered.

“I think I know enough about Roman Prince.” The stranger scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Maybe you don’t.” Patton argued. “I thought I knew Remus.”

The stranger gave him a considering glance. “That was an almost adequate hypothesis. Very well, but keep the ‘juicy’ details to a minimum, if you please. We don’t need to wake Remus’ spirit from his slumber.”

Patton turned a shade of pink at the mere indication of indecency. “I- I won’t.” He stammered. “It’s not, ah, it wasn’t like that.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” The stranger agreed. “We can tell ourselves all sorts of lies, like how the sadness of grief will never leave or that it is better to waste your money buying flowers for dead children.”

Patton listened to the way the stranger spoke, noting only now that he must have come to grieve too. Why else would he have come here? 

“I may be a lovesick fool.” Patton said. “But I’m not the only one.”

“Oh?” The stranger raised an eyebrow.

“Mhmm.” Patton nodded, his eyes glazing over a moment. “I see what you were doing now. You think it’s easier to grieve if you focus on how their deaths could benefit you, never allowing yourself to think about how it hurt you.”

The stranger was quiet a minute. “Grief is all in your head. It just needs to be suppressed.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Patton shook his head. He was getting better at that, letting his negative emotions run their course. “Grief hurts us, but it heals us, too.” 

“Does it?” The stranger hummed noncommittally. “You don’t seem to be doing much healing.”

“Neither do you.” Patton deflected. “How often do you come here?”

The stranger didn’t answer. He shifted, sitting sideways to the graves now. Patton followed his lead, sitting back to back. The wind rustled the trees at the edge of the cemetery, the branches creaking. An eerie but not unpleasant sound.

“Was this your first loss?” The stranger asked, surprising Patton.

“Yes.” Patton nodded. “You?”

“Second.” The stranger held up two fingers. “My father died when I was six.”

“I’m so sorry.” Patton offered his sympathies.

“Don’t be, you didn’t kill him.” The stranger huffed. “I don’t need sympathy. I have enough of it.”

Patton could understand that. He leaned a bit further against the individual. He sighed, the aching coming back to his chest as he glanced again at the graves. “Does it ever go away?”

“...no.” The stranger admitted. “But sometimes it hurts less.”

[rey-can-write]

I won a silver key for the regional Scholastics Art and Writing Awards 2019!! I’m so happy!!

I definitely think this is one of the best things I’ve ever written so far-- and I love that I’m getting way more in touch with the dark, morbid side of my writing. It can be so much more powerful when I don’t try to keep it light and friendly. I hope to keep getting better and win a gold key next year!! 

Here’s the piece I submitted to the Scholastics short story category in 2019! Enjoy-- but read the tags before you do. Lots of potential triggers. Be safe y’all! And if you like my writing, feel free to check out my commission post here.

Silent Witness

© Reynard De Spain, February 1, 2020

If I had lungs with which to breathe, the layer of dust that coats my embroidered mouth would make me cough. If I had a nose with which to smell, the musty, old aroma of the shop would sketch itself inside my nostrils in permanent ink. If I had eyes with which to see, my pupils would be stuck wide and desperate, drinking in the dim light of rusting lamps and the muted sunlight that shines through the curtains. Every day I watch the customers come and go. From the comfort of my shadowy shelf perch, I can see glimpses of the world and its people. I am falling apart. My threads are worn and I’m stained with blood, tears, tea, and memories of times long lost. I’ve been through the world and seen its methods of torture, its cruelty. I know well what it can do. But always I was immobile, eyes staring only ahead, shining with the pale glassiness of pupils that have never held life. My lips have settled into a peaceful smile, deceptive of how wise I’ve become.

I am nothing but a relic, a well-worn symbol of the past. I feel as if I’ll fall apart the next time I’m picked up, if I am ever picked up again. I haven’t been held in a lifetime. 

My woven shirt and pants are tattered and tired. The material is stained with drops of old, old blood, faded to a rust so faint you’d never know. No one would ever know the way the boy cried. No one would know how tightly he had gripped his doll as the fresh blood dripped down his wrists like rainwater. They wouldn’t be able to hear the tinny sound of metal ringing as the razor slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, beneath his bed. They wouldn’t see the deep scars he’d always have, long lines just inside the forearms he always tried to hide. But I did. I saw. I heard. I felt. Yet I could do nothing. 

I remember when the boy used to be happy, though. I also remember bright sunny days, picnics outside with fresh watermelon juice and iced tea spilling on my legs. I remember ants exploring my face as I lay forgotten in the grass, and strands of the boy’s brown hair sprawled out over the soil like oak tree roots drinking up contentment and joy from the fertile land. I remember hanging limp from his fingers as he stared in amazement at the elaborate golden engravings on the ceiling of an opera house. I remember late summer nights when he would stay awake past bedtime and whisper to me in the blackness of his room. I remember tea parties and apple sauce and long, lonely days of just the two of us in an empty house and I remember the way his childish voice would ring throughout the abandoned halls and his laughter would bounce from room to room and echo back as if there were ghostly friends there to join in the play. 

Then I remember when the arguments really started. Shouting matches down the hall, Father throwing plates at Mother during dinner, Mother’s swollen lips and black eyes, Father’s alcohol breath in my nonexistent nose during good-night kisses. The boy always said the cake tasted too sweet then. He’d still eat it, but the icing was too sugary, the vanilla too rich. I remember the sound of slamming doors would always make him flinch. Moments of cowering in the closet, soft humming to get the boy to stop crying, door slamming and he’d grip me tighter to his chest. Cracking open the bedroom door and stepping around broken glass and spilled gin. Creeping out the window to run into the clearing behind the house, behind the grove of trees and just out of sight. Forget about it all and play. Climb trees. Laughter in the air and bare toes slopping through squishy mud after spring rains. 

Mother barely spoke to the boy after a while. She’d talk, but briefly. Only sometimes kind. There were so many yelling matches. The shrieks of anger and hatred would reach the young man’s ears through the thin, wooden walls of the house. Through the noises of the arguing and doors slamming and plates smashing and blows landing, he would sneak to the bathroom and steal Father’s razor cartridges. I’d watch him come carefully back into the room from my place against the soft pillows on his bed. The sheets used to feel so light and comforting, like clouds from which the two of us could see the whole world below. They just felt like sheets now. I carried the razors for him sometimes. At least, I imagined I did. Their sharp edges would press up against my cloth surfaces as he snuck the both of us to school in his red backpack. I saw a lot of red those days. I once saw him cry, trying and failing to scrub faint stains out of his shirt sleeves. 

I loved playing with him. We used to go on such adventures, he and I. When he was young, we’d explore the whole universe together. As he got older, the games changed. Sometimes he’d pretend I was his best friend. We’d talk and laugh and have sleepovers every single night. Sometimes he’d pretend I was his girlfriend, sometimes his boyfriend. We had a wedding once-- or was it twice? Sometimes he’d pretend I was Mother, or Father. I didn’t like those games much. They were sad. And he would cry and hit me. And then he would cry and hit himself. 

After he died and they took him away, all his belongings were thrown into a box and given up. I was crushed by the haphazard cleanup but I was lucky enough to get a last glance at the bedroom. The sheets were stained with blood as they pulled them from the mattress. The boy’s body had looked that way too. 

I have no one to tell these things to. No one to play with, no one to watch grow up. The shelf where I sit is dusty-- no one touches it often. I am forgotten. But I do not forget. 

[fistsoflightning]

rue the day

we will regret this day. let us hope we live long enough to do so.

notes: shadowbringers lvl 79 quest spoilers ‘extinguishing the last light’ just in case, slight drk spoilers!

new writing post format because i likey screenshots! it also makes it easier to put my writing tag on my tags page lol

words: 2647

Under the relentless and horrific pain the Light brings, Zaya falls, their own aether warping and twisting the soft night above them into a harsh, eternal day. The Light brought together is stronger than they alone—an outcome long predicted, but Zaya is nothing if not hope—according to one Tataru Taru—so Zaya pushes forth in against the unbearable light.

That hope has done nothing but kill us slowly; what use is it in face of despair?

A flash of crystalline blue light and the relief from the screeching Light by way of wailing wind forces Zaya to get to their knees, eyes barely lifting off the ground to see the Exarch, a stalwart figure in deep red and black against the backdrop of eternal light. His stance is relaxed; resigned, almost, but not to the inevitability that the final Lightwarden will be them. With how he walks soft upon marble to soothe their horns, it cannot be the death of the final Warrior that he expects.

He waves his staff towards them—a staff charm hangs on one of the boxy holes near the top, red rubies and fire twisting with his blue aether—and it is as if the air clears. Light channels like the Lifestream between the two of them as Zaya pulls their head up higher and higher, watching the translucent blue crystal of the Exarch’s arm flake off and become an impure white midair.

“At journey’s end,” he speaks in a lilt Zaya has not remembered in a long, long time. “An opportunistic thief makes off with the hero’s prize. A paltry way to end a chapter, I concede.”

The winds rise higher into the barrier of aether the Exarch has made, the patterns on the barrier climbing into the skies as Alisaie begins to slam her fists against it, begging the Exarch to stop, to think for a damned second about what he’s doing before it’s too late.

“Yet your tale will continue, and my role in it will be scarcely remembered.” He continues with his final words despite Alisaie’s protests, signing the last line on his death sentence as light swirls and swirls around in his eyes, his arm, his chest. Zaya starts to lift their hand up to the trail of Light, pulling the strength needed to draw aether into themselves again when—

“Worry not.” The Exarch tilts his staff a little lower, and again the flow of Light tips back to him, and Zaya is forced to watch as the black of his skirts and hood are tainted with white ink patterns. “Whatever should become of me, I will be happy and free, safe in the knowledge that I have played my part.”

How could you say that?! A voice screams from the abyss worlds away, pounding against a wall of light. What about those that you left? The ones still waiting for you?

Zaya lets Light drip down their face as the flame grows fierce in their chest. What else is there to say? To do? Their strength is all but gone, and without enough focus, they cannot try to play martyr for another. Just like the last time you had to be saved.

The Exarch, smiling and wistfully happy under his hood, pushes more magic through his staff. The eternal winds pick up around them faster than before, and the Exarch, too caught up in his final moments, fails to account for the wind and his identity. Fading red hair and whitened tips fly free from their confines, the Exarch’s eyes closing in a moment of surprise, and the final piece it takes is—  

His ears. There’s a scar on the left one, from when Zaya “accidentally” shot their bow at him while racing for the crystalline dust required to open the Tower; he’d never had A’dewah heal it despite the chance of it ruining his ear, for it was a “reminder of a good friend”.

All suspicions proved, Zaya takes the greatest leap of faith.

“G…” Light bubbles in their throat, hissing as they force a strained voice to sing an unfamiliar tune. “G...raha?”

G’raha’s eyes shoot open, both irises now crimson like the false moon that once circled the tower, and tears start to well up as he finally gets the ramifications of his actions while hidden away. Instead of pulling his staff back, however, he pushes forward , calling greater winds as Thancred, Y’shtola, and Urianger gasp at the sight of a fellow Archon they knew a long time ago. His ears twitch at the sound of their pained gasps, but he does not look back.

“Thank you for fighting for this world. For believing.” G’raha lets unstained tears fall from crimson eyes like moonlight as the light begins to wrap around his head in thick, transparent feathers. His words are practiced—it is easy to tell by how he does not forget or stutter, but it cannot be said that he is emotionless when he pauses. “Fare you well, my friend—my inspiration. ”

And Zaya is so overwhelmed by the weight of his lie, the weight of his heart poured out in less than twenty words, the sheer misfortune of them meeting again wholly and truly now , at the brink of his death, that they look down—just for a moment, but they do.

Never look away.

A gunshot rings out as quickly as G’raha can expand the barrier between the two of them and the Scions, and the Light comes rushing back towards Zaya, leaving G’raha the way he was before this whole ‘absorbing the Light’ mess. He falls forward, coming close enough for Zaya to reach out and brush his ear as blood seeps through his robes, metal staff and charm meeting ground in an ugly clang. The sound of something breaking brings back horrible memories, filled with a different kind of light and wound and sound as a metal shield meets smooth stone, aether swirling about just like the Light does now.

G’RAHA! The flame bursts a crack into that invisible wall of light deep inside and blinding them with a rage long forgotten and retrieved. The fire is so overwhelming, so unfamiliar now that when they look up again from G’raha’s bleeding body, Zaya meets eye to eye with Emet-Selch, holding a Garlean gun pointed at the scales between their eyes.

“To think he went through all this trouble for the sake of a single hero. It’s almost admirable in its absurdity; reminds me of a fool from long ago…” Emet-Selch steps closer, around and over G’raha’s weak body. “My, my. Have you heard a single thing I’ve said just now?”

Zaya can barely hear him over the din of Light that’s returned with the loss of sobbing winds, but they somehow muster the energy to shake their head. He clicks his tongue. “No matter; you will forget anyhow when your grand scheme falls flat. Look at you; already on the verge of turning, eater .”

Emet-Selch laughs bitterly as Zaya pieces together the bloodstained pieces of the puzzle to find that the damned Ascian in front of them went back on his word; a liar in every right. Some “Angel of Truth” he was.

“I wonder; should I end your misery now to have one of your precious friends here end the land? They’d be plenty strong, especially with the shock of aether your death would provide.” Zaya follows the Ascian with their eyes as he slowly makes his way to kneel in front of them. Under his robe, a glimmer catches their eye; a… Crystal of Light? It gleams honey gold with the aether of the earth around them, despite how twisted its become.

Syhrwyda’s crystal? She’d never give it up, unless…

Emet-Selch catches Zaya’s gaze while looking at the Scions; they’re shellshocked with every right to be so. “Oh, seen these before, have you?”

He pulls back his short fuzzy coat to reveal seven necklaces with seven crystals of Light hanging from them, motionless without wind. “I had to, you know. They’d attacked me even before I could plead my case! You’ve been the first so far to listen, to care enough to try.”

Emet-Selch kneels, eyes and mouth tilting in a taunting sort of way, layered with the calculating look in his eyes.. “I understand you have a ‘Shadowhunter’ friend back home. ‘Tis only fair for me to take due payment for the lives of my brethren.”

Due payment? DUE PAYMENT?! The flames burn up everything and anything that Zaya has left of their restraints, letting both Light in and Darkness out as they rise to their feet, light aether swirling around them into feathers as Zaya loses sight, loses touch, loses focus.

Emet-Selch rambles about truth and despair and the Rejoining in a blurry mess as Zaya tries and fails to stop the turning, lurching ever closer to the Ascian, who is so convinced that they were down for the count that he turns his back. Lightning—all purple and indigo rather than cobalt blue—leaps to shock the Ascian, and he jumps. A surprising action, but Zaya drinks in his surprise and speechlessness all the same.

The speechlessness doesn’t last all that long, but it’s the look of his face that counts. Emet-Selch composes himself, and Zaya is so very tempted to leap forward and punch him hard, not accounting for how much energy it would take or risk it would incur; this liar is one worthy of punishment with a double-edged sword.

Make him regret this. Something… not entirely of the abyss speaks to them, angry and defiant in every right. It twists words in the wrong way; it can’t be Fray, but Zaya is not of the right mind, and certainly cannot care at this moment.

The bastard smirks when he looks at Zaya, looking deep at their soul and emotions as if there was no such thing as privacy , thank you very much.

“Ahh, the irony. What Vauthry achieved through bliss and ignorance, you will achieve through despair and anger.” Sparks fly towards him, but they all fade before possibly reaching his hands. Zaya’s sight grows shaky. “But I have overstayed my welcome. I shall look forward to seeing you bring the world to its knees.”

Zaya faintly hears an ‘again’ under the simmering problems raging in them, but he tuts as they strain to focus again, teetering back and forth on the line of no return. Emet-Selch snaps G’raha out of existence—surely he did the same to Syhrwyda, Tehra’ir, Lumelle, everyone else before them—and floats himself high above Zaya’s angry reach. Only for now; just a few seconds more and Zaya will have wings , like they’ve always wanted to be free and wild and glorious —

“I pity you, I do.” Emet-Selch’s bitterness and regret cuts through the thickest of Light induced thinking, voice like seeping poison on Zaya’s tired mind. “Your friends are now your foes; if you do not kill them, they will kill you.”

And in that, Zaya picks up on the faintest ‘I’ve been through this, too’ lined with lightning and rain.

“In the dark depths of the Tempest, I have an abode. Seek me out when it becomes too much to bear.” The edges of the Ascian begin to fade into teleportation magicks as Zaya’s body sways, aether expended and flame turning to embers. “There, you may complete your descent into madness with some dignity, far from prying eyes.”

“Till then, I bid you farewell… eater.”

As Emet-Selch dissipates, the anger that’s been fueling their control goes too, and they fall onto the floor, writhing as Light fully takes hold in lack of a balance; the embers are barely there, even when Zaya sees Thancred and Y’shtola and Ryne through light-stained vision, even when Alisaie’s bruised hands lift them up, even when Ryne starts to tear up at the light hardening over skin.

Don’t you dare give in, not when this is… not when we are so close.

And from the depths of the pit of ashen embers, something small and fading rises up to rush through and claim more aether from Zaya to form, gleaming a purple-pink as it forms right over Thancred’s shoulder.

We aren’t finished yet, are we? We aren’t going to accept defeat this time, are we? Fray murmurs as they quickly kneel besides Ryne, channeling a spell meant to seal and freeze aether. Their helmet is already fading, and Thancred stares onwards as the blue and black scales are revealed from underneath the helm.

You have those you can yet save. Those we have already lost. Remember, for all of us, the times we’ve had, the stories unfinished. Fray’s whisperings chase them back into safety, into a deep dark that has always been there, and Zaya, sick and tired of fighting, lets go for what could be the final time, etching the faces of their family as their final memory.

Zaya wakes in a fit, a full moon later. The room; empty, save for the sleeping figure of Thancred by the window where the Crystarium plants have well and truly died from the repeated change in light. The pain and weight of the Light still pounds behind their eyes, waiting to be freed from the confines of Fray and Ryne’s ministrations to end Norvrandt once and for all.

Nhaama’s tits, they’re surprised they’re even alive and mortal anymore.

They should go back to bed, before Thancred wakes up and sees them up and around. He’d alarm the rest of the Scions to their state, and they’d all come rushing back to the most dangerous place to be; near the Lightwarden, near the civilization that holds their last hopes in Lyna, Ryne, the Crystalline Mean, and the Crystal—

Just as quickly as Zaya had laid back down, they shoot back up, remembering the gunshot, the blood, the roar of Light and the older parts of their soul as Emet-Selch…

Zaya lets their feet guide them to the door, looking back only once to make sure the door clicking shut does not disturb Thancred, as it has many times before. Their blue robe, stained an inky white, rests over his back—after Zaya is sure it will not do any damage to Thancred’s aether too, and instead they wear a large cloak as they slink towards the aetheryte plaza unnoticed. They would much rather sleep forever under the light of the Crystarium, wait for a cure to the Lightwarden affliction, but...

They have something left to do.

Thancred wakes up two minutes too late. A robe is draped over his back (still somewhat warm), and the door is left ajar, letting voices from further down carry into the spacious inn room.

“Was that…?” A young lady asks in whispers.

“That was the one who came here on a stretcher!” A child whisper-yells back.

Thancred, despite the aches in his bones and the stiffness of his muscles, shoots up from his seat, takes the tattered robe in hand, and runs out the door. The Light above is blinding now, with how long Zaya has slept, and if they were to leave without Ryne’s help, it could most certainly mean death!

“Hells open, heavens weep… Zaya?!” Thancred begins to call as he rushes through the Pendants, past the clerk with worried eyes and past Bragi into the aetheryte plaza just as a flash of teleportation magic goes off. “Zaya!”

He can’t follow them—he never could keep up, much less now —and by the time he calls for help… where will they be? In a grave? In the Empty, seeking death? Already a Lightwarden? Gods, how many times has he lost them now; Ifrit, the Praetorium, the banquet, to Doma, to another world …

He cannot—will not let this be another bygone.

By the time the other Scions return to the Crystarium under Lyna’s call, the Light above is burning their mistake into their skin.

[honeybee-hannahh]

Without you | Calum Hood

Summary: Calum helps you clean up your childhood house, after your mom passes away. 

Warnings: Mentions death of a parent. 

Word Count: 2k 

Author’s note: Flash backs are in italics. 

“Am I speaking with Lisa’s daughter?” a cold voice asked from the other end of a phone call “yes this is her, can I ask who is calling?” you asked hesitantly “I am your mother’s doctor here at Penrose Hospital in California, we are calling to inform you that your mother's condition has worsened and we think it would be best if you came in so we could talk about the next step.” your stomach dropped you immediately knew what he meant, while she hadn't been sick for long, you knew she wasn’t getting any better but you never expected it to happen this fast. 

You were there the day she passed away, in the bleak hospital room, surrounded by a few friends. No longer sure if she could still hear you, but you always stayed. You watched as she took her last breath. It had been less than two months, since you had found out she was sick. You never knew just how sick she was until the day you came home and found her passed out barely breathing. Your breathing stopped as you raced for your phone dialing 911 before you even had a second thought.  And now less than two months later she was gone. Just like that everything changed.

Death comes as a shock, and is almost never expected in someone who is only 48 years old. You spent the next month in bed, hardly moving to shower or eat, unless Calum forced you to. You felt empty, numb, everyday felt like a thousand without her. You never thought that at 21 you would be motherless.

“Are you sure you’re ready to do this?” Calum asked squeezing your hand lightly “you can take a few more days love.” you close your eyes taking a deep breath, it had been a month since you had been outside of the house Calum and you shared “no I’m ready, I need to do this.” you took a step towards the front door of your childhood house, your  hands shaking as you reached for your keys to unlock the bright red door. You stood in the doorway of the house, letting the memories rush back to you.

*7 years ago* “Calum did you take my phone?” you yelled tearing the living room apart, all you could hear as a response was him laughing which was more than you  needed to hear, to know that he had taken it. You rolled your eyes walking into the kitchen “Jason said he can’t wait to see you again, sweetheart.” he mocked sticking his tongue out. “Not funny Cal,” you reached for your phone taking it out of Calum's hands. “Ew why is it so warm?” you yelled almost dropping it onto the kitchen counter, Calum laughed holding his sides, “you did not put it down your pants again.” he shrugged “you’re so gross.” you yelled lunging for him.

You could feel the tears start to well in your eyes, Calum lightly placed his hand on your shoulder snapping you out of your thoughts. “Are you okay?” he questioned “yeah, - yeah sorry, I just we have so many memories here. I mean I grew up in this house, my whole childhood is within these walls,” you took a few steps inside running your hand along the wall it had been almost a year since you were here last “I fell in love with you inside this house.” You stopped walking to turn and look at Cal who had been looking at the pictures that were hanging on the walls now covered in a thin layer of dust. “You will always have these memories my love, they will always be with you when you need them the most. Just like your mom will always be with you from now on, she’ll always be right by your side. ” he wrapped his arms around your shoulders holding you tightly against his chest, you let your head loll back against him, allowing yourself to relax for a moment. “Do you remember when we bought jiffy pop and burned it on the shove,” he asked, you let a soft laugh fall from your lips “I had never seen your mom so mad before, the house smelt like burnt popcorn all night.” “You know she never let me cook popcorn on the stove after that night, i honestly don’t think she trusted me to cook ever again.” You smiled thinking back at the fond memories that this house held.

You ran your hand along the smooth wall of your childhood bedroom, the bright blue paint was cool to the touch, you begged your mom when you were 13 to paint it anything other than the god awful hot pink color it had been.

“Mom please I’m a teenager now and I don’t like pink anymore it’s such a baby color and I want to have a cool room, please pretty please.” you must have begged her on end for weeks before she agreed to finally let you paint your room blue. You never knew there were so many different shades of blue, the first day you both went to the paint store you couldn’t pick one single color, you must have come home with at least 10 different shades of blue. “Cal do you think deep sky blue or do you think cornflower would look better?” you had narrowed it down to your two favorite shades, “I think they look exactly the same.” he mumbled distracted by the video game he was currently playing, you lightly pushed his shoulder, “pick one please I can’t make up my mind.” You pouted handing him the paint samples. “Cornflower.” he said simply before turning his attention back to the video game.

You sat down on the cold wood floor opening the drawer to your night stand, you started filling the box next to you with memories you pulled out a large stack of polaroids, letting the memories of unforgettable nights flood your mind. Countless notebooks filled with poems, and stories of how you thought my life would be, books you started to write but never finished. You closed the first box placing the tape along the top. Calum knocked lightly on the door, making you jump slightly, “I found something I think you’ll want to see.” he gave you a small smile and offered his hand helping you up. “I was wrapping up the pictures from the living room and I found these.” he handed you a stack of cards, your  breath caught in your throat, you knew what they were, it was every card your mom had written you from my first birthday all the way up until your most recent 21st birthday, you moved back towards the couch collapsing completely, letting your tears fall freely for the first time that day. “I can’t believe she kept them all.” Your voice was hardly a whisper as your body shook. Calums strong arms wrapped around you, holding you as if he was trying to put all your pieces back together. “Every year she would make sure to mail my card to our house so that I would feel special, when it came. When I moved out she refused to send me a card, told me that I could have it the next time I saw her, I always thought she just wanted to see me more. I didn’t know she was keeping them this whole time.” Your hands shook as you opened each card, almost as if you were scared that the wrong touch would cause the cards to fall apart in your hands, You carefully read and reread each message that was perfectly handwritten in cursive. Calum’s hand lightly wiped the tears from my cheeks.

“I think that was the last box love.” Calum said walking towards you, “it’s so empty, Cal.” Your legs dangle over the edge of the island, eyes scanning the bare room, that once held so much life and joy but now only held sadness of what used to be. You watched Calum as he walked around the now empty kitchen, taking everything in as if he was trying to commit every detail to memory, this might have been your childhood house but Calum spent so much time here when you both were kids, it’s almost like his second home. It can be hard to make a house feel like a home, but your mom never failed to welcome every single person into her home. You still remember when you told her about Calum and yourself dating, you had never seen her so happy, she always thought that Calum was the kindest and most respectful young man. He will always treat you right, I know he will, she told you the first time she saw Calum and yourself together she told you the way she knew he loved you, was in the way that he looked at you, even when you were  just simply talking. He never takes his eyes off of you, she told you.

Calum and you stood outside of your childhood house for the second time that day. The moving van had long left, filled with boxes of clothes, books, pictures, and other various items that you had found while cleaning out the old house. Calum's arm was lightly draped around your shoulder as him and you stood there. You smiled as a tear ran down your cheek, “I miss her,” the tears burned your tired eyes as you ran your hand through your hair, “god, I thought I was ready for this. I thought I was ready for everything to change, I’m not ready to accept that she’s actually gone.” you let out a shaky breath. “She was such an amazing person, she would have given you the shirt off of her back, she always had a way of making people listen and understand what she was saying. It’s not fair that, it’s not fair that she’s gone.” you shook my head “It should have been me.” you mumbled, Calum moved standing in front of you, lifting your chin lightly so that you looked him in the eyes. “No it shouldn’t have been, it’s hard to see that right now, I know the guilt of surviving when you think you could have done so much more is overwhelming. But you did everything you could have done, you spent more time in her hospital room and with her doctors that you did at home. You did everything you could do and more.” “It doesn’t feel like I did, I feel like I could have done something else.” You looked down at your hands, playing with the ring on your right index finger. “It’s okay to feel that way right now, but you have to understand that you did everything possible to help her.” Calum said reaching for your hand, giving it a soft squeeze. In that moment it was almost as if time had frozen, the way everything stood still,the wind stopped blowing and not a single car passed as we stood outside the house. You don’t know how you got so lucky as to have Calum in your life. He was your best friend from the first moment you met him, he had stayed with you though so much never giving up on you or us for that matter. You don’t know where or even if you would be here without him but one thing that you knew for sure was that your mom was right when she said Calum loved you.

[outlyingthoughts]

Portrait of Livia: Summer 19

Livia;

There are millions of babies born each year, on a planet rotating on itself in an ever expanding universe, an ever expanding population on a pressure-cooker-like planet. Infinitely small on the human scale, and yet our daily interactions, anxieties, priorities remain overwhelming. Weirdly sometimes all things and concepts stop making sense, like words you repeat a little too much, syllables and letters mashed up seem irrationally meaningless when we give them too much attention. In the same way, all the things and concepts that makes us, all those pains and losses sometimes lose sense when we overthink them, millions of breaths and tears shed but when laying mind clouded, nothing makes sense anymore.

When our minds trip on reality, the game is to wonder what is more irrational: giving up on years of socialization and society overall because nothing really matters or pouring too much meaning and fear in a life and future that is infinitely smaller than all things around us? Atoms, on their own, mean so much more than us, tiny pieces of matter that constitute the universe, far more significant than all the thoughts that will ever cross our lost neurons. Because life and things of the nature will irremediably travel across ages and spaces without me, you, us: humanity and what we give meaning to, society and expectations don’t really mean anything.

Obsessed by our irrelevance, we kill our souls over our empty meanings and fill our brains with more worries. As irrelevant as we are, the pain and wounds of being a living mortal remain the most vivid reality of our lives. One occurrence in an infinite number of realities and hypothetic dimensions, we end up here. Silver lining in the elevator, the higher we get, the more my heart presses against my chest, the fear of height and breath-taking view leave me at loss of words. Far away from home, in a city that goes too fast, we take a break from our priorities, gaping at the Tokyo view.

There are moments in our everyday life, where we just stay silent, either scrolling aimlessly and endlessly or lost in our own mental universes. In any case, I know I could remain in this floating in between. Alone and yet you’re here because with time you became an extended part of my brain. Seating in that in between, I watch the busy night from a rooftop and you’re tensely silent.

Night views make me happy, they used to remind me of lonely yet blissful nights on my balcony back in middle school, now they remind me of our first year at uni and falling asleep to the peaceful Den Haag skyline . For years, I dreamt of bigger and farther away city escapes, cutting shapes of metal in the neon darkness of megacities. One common dream of living in New York and I adopted yours of visiting Tokyo: You have a special bond with Japan, it ties you to the music you love, to love in general and million memories.

There’s a kanji on your shirt and your heart on your sleeve when you tell me about the things that make you happy. In this massive universe you’re drowning into, you absorb its darkness and exhale soft words that make us all feel okay, there is a nostalgic tint in the way you love nature that evoke great forests and empty spaces, magnificence of the Nature and how tiny we are. A recurring theme that darkens your mind is how insignificant we are, how manipulative are the things around us, tricking us into believe things, walking on eggs unsure of how truthful is our understanding of our surrounding; afraid of our own conspiracy theories, you smoke to forget but it drives the doubts further. Another friends of us once said: “what if weed is controlled and taboo within our societies because governments know it brings people to enlightenment or at least allows them to see the wider truths?”. I don’t want to know for sure as it’d either mean that we’re sickening our brains or current governments are sickening, or maybe both are true? See? tripping and overlapping realities, maybe the Matrix is the reality ? And while I try to flee from my own mind games and thoughts labyrinth, you dive deeper on a trip to the truth, as aching as it is, a desire for fairness and justice powering you. 

No matter what, you find a way to escape, there is a distance in your eyes and a thousand kilometers in your silences, road trips to yourself because we’re too aware of the current climatic crisis to afford actual trips to peaceful northern landscapes. Still, from the Hague or Tokyo, we can distinguish the stars, trap their shapes into constellations that we don’t really want to believe impact our lives and shape our beings. Yet in a mystical search for meaning, looking at the stars to decipher our nonsense existence actually provides a bit of cohesion; us so small and useless and celestial bodies so big and widely stretched out yet still useless, one maybe guiding another, at least did: didn’t the great explorers use the sky as a map to walk or sail the earth? Ask Christopher Columbus, maybe we should blame our current US “world domination” on the stars that guided him to the Americas. Still, maybe we can’t afford to put all the fault “in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings”. Maybe that’s why the world around us is so fucked up, maybe we all escape somehow, us from shitty environments we were brought up in, our world leaders escaping from their responsibilities and the heritage of past centuries’ rise of capitalism, ruins of colonialism, rejection of minorities and normative discourse preventing us all from seeing larger truths, starting from the Western centered way we were taught in school to the coming crises challenging to our generation and ignored by current leaders.

Apart from the miracles of Nature, art also connects you to the rest of your world, tears bled into ink then sung in studios: music; proving you that other people feel such ways. I relate to this feeling, but this is not about me. The primal surge that music creates in most humans makes it hard to not add a layer of personal thoughts to its discussion. And you know how personal it can be, as you make playlists for every single one of us, like a teenage lover in the 80s, you pour your love onto us, one carefully chosen song at a time. Playlists as effective coping system. Memories roll before your eyes, just like the modern Japan landscape before ours right now. Sometimes, you’ll venture to tell me how music makes you feel and it’s probably even more elevated that how high we are, on the rooftop of a skyscraper; just like music, architecture is an art you are sensible to, and soon this manmade landscape will make you ache with nostalgia, it’s odd to think that for years, you’ve dreamt of visiting this country, blissful waves of hope and bright future where you can move freely and visit this place for the first time. Now your first time here is almost over and like a song attached to a person about to eclipse from your life, a twinge in your chest shuts you out of our world, deep into yours. Calm and peaceful because there’s nothing we can do against time flying faster than our hearts, you surrender and try to envision what artists think when they write those sad songs you add into our playlists, your curiosity in people’s thought is another escape from your own racking brain.

Sometimes, I’ve felt lost in time and spaces, consumed by the fear that no one’d ever feel nor understand that aching pressure in my chest and pinches in my guts: empathy and intense feelings due to my surroundings and people I love. Yet one day you told me you knew how I felt because you felt the same way, overwhelming pain that seizes one’s soul and tears it down with nostalgia and empathy.

It was a suffocating but clear night back in my old room, in my old life, on a summer break that felt like a too-long pause on the sideline of the highway I’m living on now. We were on the phone and gazing out, I was trying to collect in my head memories dripping of bliss, epiphany of why I’m so much happier now, because I know I have you all and you told me: “I get my happiness through you all”. Told me that your parents don’t understand why you keep talking about your friends but it’s because you live through them. I’ve rarely felt this happy in my life, because never had anyone phrased something i relate this much too. And I knew staring into the dark, that as far as I was from our new home, as hard as being surrounded by the ghost of my past was, the bond that we had created over the nine past months was an everlasting one, if you will, full of sisterhood, care for each other and faith in friendships. As much as it’s hard for you to believe in and trust people, we have a lifetime to work on our insecurities.

No matter the dozens of atrocities we see, whether they are corrupted leaders showing you the worst of humanity or couples fighting their ways to hatred, making me fail to understand love, somehow an intuitive faith for the future convinces me that we’ll be alright as long as we have faith in our friends and loved ones. You swiftly swing from one side to other on your seat deep in your thoughts as deep as I am in my fears of loveless life. Sharing and caring, as hard as it gets, is the only cure we found so far. You’re a sponge and hopefully we, your friends, provide the sun you need to cast a brighter light on your life, because we all care about you, all of us that have stuck around, here to stay as long as the stars and pressing global warming will allow us to.

Still swinging on the metallic chair of the rooftop bar, eyes deep into to the dark, you sip a peach flavored tea, small reminders of home. The wheels turn fast and hard behind your eyes, they calculate, divide and jump into conclusion by the minute, and I wonder what is dividing your Libra soul again. There’s guilt in your aura, it’s in the weight crushing your shoulder, in the way you carry your pains around. Under pressure, we all want to pop the champagne bottle that you are, release the bubbles, let you be bubbly and pure like this foamy and rich liquid instead of the tame version of Livia you serve us because you’re afraid of the million powers you hold in. Being so intense in a world empty of meaning makes you absorb the surrounding’s emptiness, only confusion appears to cloud what the world sees in you, full of light and brightness: dark only because of the world we live in. A paradox you say it yourself.

In the thousands lives and adventures that we’ll have, I know there’ll be this question hanging out from your eyes, one that questions what you are and what world we are in. Unsettling in my small certitudes, we know there is still a whole world we have to tear down to make room for our vision. The struggle is the path, the hardened way to our glistening futures, and as you reflect all the energy of Tokyo, boiling under your skin, I know there are neon lights to film, pavements to run onto and lyrics to shout from the top of my lungs. And stories to tell my kids on how “your mom and aunties Livia & Zeineb went to blah blah or used to make random ass movies” or whatever is our next adventure, we’ll tell them. 

[grimelords]

I’m all caught up and presenting my August playlist just in time for September to end! Disco! Italo-pop! 90s gangsta rap! 3 hours worth of music for everyone!

Good To Me - THP: The most surefire way I’ve found to track down a great song you’ve never heard before is to look up every single sample on the Duck Sauce album. It has quite literally not failed me yet. This song is great, and being so used to the sped up sample in Goody Two Shoes this song sounds like the expanded chopped and screwed version to me which is even better.

Who Do You Love - THP: The other thing about THP is they’re extremely hard to search on Spotify because it thinks you’re trying to type ‘The’ and suggests 'The Beatles’ which is helpful.

Beleriand - The Middle East: I started rereading The Lord Of The Rings this month, and even got so deep in it that I started reading the Silmarillion for the first time and I suddenly remembered the time The Middle East wrote a song about Melkor and Angband and all that. Maybe the best Lord Of The Rings song I’ve heard almost exclusively for the drum work in the intro before it really settles into its Tolkein vibe.

Dead - San Fermin: I love this song but god I wish it were louder and more out of control. The sax sounds great but every other part isn’t nearly as turned up to 11 as it should be. The problem is that everyone in this band is such a professional they don’t know how to play like the maniacs this song deserves!

Tuesday Fresh Cuts - Bree Tranter: I’ve been looking up what all the members of The Middle East have done since they broke up and the best thing I’ve found is Rohin Jones writing music for a Dulux Paint commercial after the verse in Ninth Avenue Reverie about the guy who sniffs paint every night and dreams about being dead. Anyway as far as I can tell Bree Tranter is the one that’s had the most consistent and normal output since they broke up. This song is very much an ultimate night driving type song, except the lyrics are really not great but you can ignore that for how great it sounds, especially near the end when it really gets into a meditative state.

Ted, Just Admit It - Jane’s Addiction: Continuing my Jane’s Addiction phase, I really love this song. This is such a great brooding piece of music before it finally explodes into the declaration that sex is violent. Kind of a shame that it’s a serial killer song because he’s right about everything. Sex IS violent, the tv DO got them images, etc.

Fire Back About Your New Baby’s Sex - Don Caballero: I think this is probably Don Caballero’s most popular song, and with good reason. It’s among the most straightforward of their backward-ass songs and gives you a good grounding in how to understand the total chaos that is everything else they’ve done.

Ballad Of Circling Vultures - Pageninetynine: The entire last half of this song, when it slows down, is one of the best things I’ve ever heard. It feels like the entire mix begins to close in around you as it gets darker and darker before a door slams and you wake up somewhere else entirely.

You’ve Never Been Alone - Andrea Balency: I was watching this live video of Mount Kimbie https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N6co64HYurg and they’ve got like a full band now! They’ve been slowly expanding from a duo and I suppose it makes sense because their last album really sounded like a band playing in a room rather than two guys on computers. Anyway it turns out the woman in their band is Andrea Balency and this song of hers is very beautiful and you can see exactly why they asked her to join.

The Conspiracy Of Seeds - 65daysofstatic: I was going through Circle Takes The Square’s performance credits on discogs (very cool hobby) and found out they’re credited on this 65dos song and was shocked that I didn’t know that already. It feels like they pretty much split the song down the middle and did half each, which is great!

Spanish Sahara (Deadboy remix) - Foals: This song isn’t on Australian spotify as far as I can tell, so if you’re in the UK I think you can listen to this. Otherwise it’s on youtube for everyone here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lk24ujPN4Lo This is probably one of my favourite pieces of music ever, it’s such a beautiful remix even though it’s not particularly far from the original. It just does the work of focusing the vibe down to a laser point. I love how mechanical every part of it is contrasting against the dreamy vocals and organ, until it almost feels overloaded with hats and clicks in the highest points before it focuses down again and introduces the bassline alone. Then the last section! The stabbing insistence of the synth driving the whole thing to a fever pitch.

T69 Collapse - Aphex Twin: I’ve never been huge on Aphex Twin because all his songs sound like you pressed the demo button on a keyboard and then turned the tempo way up but I really like this one, almost exclusively for the bassline the comes in in the second half after the big space-out breakdown. It’s groovy! It’s the most I’ve ever liked the evil man!

Kansas City Star - Kasey Musgraves: The Kasey Musgraves album everyone was going wild for didn’t really do much for me but this cover is so fantastic, the slight melody change she’s done to the chorus is such an improvement and really makes it soar. Also google is good because right now the 25th image result for 'kacey musgraves’ is a deviantart pic where someone’s photoshopped her to be extremely obese called Kollosal Katy. Not really related to the song but I thought it was worth mentioning.

Pyramids - Frank Ocean: A big group of friends and I went to karaoke a couple of weeks ago and the version of Pyramids they had didn’t even have the second half! If I can’t subject everyone to ten full minutes of me doing it badly then what’s the DAMN point?

Aqua - Eurythmics: I heard this song on NTS and was instantly in love with the lyrics. Don’t touch me, don’t talk to me, throw me in the water, watch me drown! It’s that simple!

gonk steady one - Autechre: I went and saw Autechre when they were here a few months ago and I’m still thinking about it because it was like a multiplayer dream. They insisted on total darkness and everyone just kind of stood still or sat down for the whole show in the dark while an endless wave of sound from another dimension washed over us all. Then eventually the music stopped and the lights came on and I never actually saw Autechre the whole time I was there. I’m still working my way through their fucking 8 hour long new album but this is an early highlight. I don’t know how to explain this but it sounds good. It sounds like music by and for aliens that we can listen to and understand a small part of.

Poor Kakarookee - Venetian Snares: I was listening to this song and thinking the other day there’s a certain subset of Venetian Snares songs that sound like that bit from Parks and Rec where Adam Scott is like 'could a depressed person do THIS?’ and is holding up his deformed little stop motion figure from the deformed little stop motion movie he’s making. This is absolutely one of those songs. It’s a great song but it’s one of those songs.

Future People - Alabama Shakes: For a long time the only Alabama Shakes song I’d heard was Don’t Wanna Fight because it was just so good I figured there was no need to go further, which it turns out was extremely wrong because this whole album is completely killer. I just can’t believe her voice. The album version is great but the live version really shows it off https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JbR999N5MiALa 

Mia Mania - Giani Morandi: I rewatched all of Harvey Birdman a couple of weeks ago and finally looked up what the song is in this clip https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1xkhqce43mA because it gets stuck in my head all the time, and the only version I could find is this one with vocals which sounds even better!

Capriccio - Gianni Morandi: Then I dug deeper and started looking up the rest of this guy’s songs and totally loved it. There’s nothing better than digging around and finding what you think is some obscure artists before looking them up and finding out they’re incredibly famous and like the Italian Neil Diamond.

Parli Sempre Tu - Gianni Morandi: This is my favourite of his just for the insane pitch shifted vocal at the start, what an insane piece of sound for 1964! I’m desperate to know how they made it.

Forgotten Children - Mouse On The Keys: I suddenly remembered Mouse On The Keys the other day and thank god. They’re an instrumental band that’s two pianists and a drummer that looks like its jazz because of the instrumentation but is really more like post-hardcore in execution.

Can’t Get Right - Ghost-Note: I normally don’t go in much for this sort of drum clinic type music for musicians only but the central groove in this is just so good. It feels like two completely different songs playing at the same time, except if that sounded good. I found it because the bass genius Mono Neon played on it, watch the video and see if you can tell which one is named Mono Neon https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVw1b4gVYrU Also one of the guys seems to be playing a vibraphone that is a midi controller which I have never seen before in my life.

Shoot Myself - Venetian Snares: Venetian Snares has such a great melodic sense and it feels kind of underappreciated just because of how much his percussion is at the forefront of every critical appraisal. In songs like this where the drums are more restrained you can really feel the melody and harmony shine through, the layers of cascading synth lines piling up louder and louder before returning to the jazzy organ near the end is just such a beautiful moment.

Bad Boy - Den Harrow: This song sounds like an 11 year old wrote the lyrics and I absolutely love it. The best and most sexy lyrics: “Some dress Valentino, others wear t-shirts to show what a shapely bust they’ve got.”

Summertime - Barney Kessel: Barney Kessel the jazz guitarist that I only found out about this month did a bossa nova album when bossa nova was the biggest thing in the world and it’s so so good. He also does some very interesting playing on it that’s a lot closer to surf rock and rock n roll than anything else I’ve heard of his. This is also a good example of that thing when Stereo sound was brand new where every single instrument is panned hard left or right which is a treat in headphones.

Slice Of Heaven - Dave Dobbyn: It’s kind of a shame that this song never really gets better than the intro but when the intro is this good it’s fine. I remember this song from when I was a kid because it’s on the soundtrack to New Zealand’s first ever feature length animated film, Footrot Flats which I watched a lot.

Sailin Da South - ESG + DJ Screw: The hardest part about putting any one song from 3 N Tha Morning Part Two on a playlist is they’re not designed for that and it sounds awful and cruel to cut them off like that. So really instead of listening to this song listen to the whole album and turn purple.

Right Action - Franz Ferdinand: I think Franz Ferdinand deserve better than the sort of one hit wonder status they’ve got, because they’ve got a lot of great songs and this is one of them, and probably the danciest summary of the Noble Eightfold Path I’ve ever heard.

The Thing That Should Not Be - Metallica: I have done zero research but to me the 80s feels like the decade when HP Lovecraft and the Cthulu mythos really hit the mainstream. Dungeons and Dragons and all that. Anyway apparently Cliff Burton was a huge Lovecraft fan and they would all read his stories in the tour van which is a funny thing to imagine. Metallica have five or six Lovecraftian songs and the bulk of them were written after Cliff Burton died which is sort of touching in a way. Paying tribute to your friend by invoking the nameless horror that sleeps in R'lyeh.

Waters Of Nazareth x We Are Your Friends x Phantom - Justice: Justice’s new album is so good because it’s sort of halfway between a remix album, a live album and a Best Of. It’s essentially a studio live album, or maybe just a live recording straight from the soundboard with no crowd noise. Either way it’s great and leads to incredible three way mashups of their best songs like this one.

Mr Ice Cream Man (feat. Silkk The Shocker) - Master P: I was thinking about how you don’t really hear about Master P these days, but according to the first result when you google 'richest rappers’ he’s doing fine with a net worth of $227 million, which is more than Eminem. So good for him. Even if his music hasn’t really lasted I’m sure his many, many business dealings will leave him in good stead for the rest of his life. I’m just going to copy and paste some phrases from his wiki article here because it’s truly ridiculous: “He has since parlayed his $10,000 initial seed capital investment into a $250 million business empire spanning a wide variety of industries” “As a businessman, Miller was known for his frugality and keeping business expenses down and profit margins high” “He has since invested the millions of dollars he made from his No Limit record company into a travel agency, a Foot Locker retail outlet, real estate, stocks, film, music, and television production, toy making, a phone sex company, clothing, telecommunications, a jewellery line, auto accessories, book and magazine publishing, car rims, fast food franchises, and gas stations.” “Miller also has his own line of beverages, called "Make ‘Em Say Ughh!” energy drinks" “first rapper to establish a cable television network.”

The Party Don’t Stop - Mia X: Anyway via Master P I found Mia X, who sings the hook on Mr Ice Cream Man, and her album is actually good as fuck for an 80 minute No Limit album, mostly because it’s so packed with guests (it feels like everyone else on No Limit is on here, including guys with great names like Mo B. Dick and Kane & Abel, but also Mystikal and Salt N Pepa are here!) that you never get tired of the flow, and the production is nicely varied too.

Shut Up - Stormzy: This is like Stormzy’s biggest song and I’m dumb as fuck because I haven’t heard it until now when I was listening to Functions On The Low and found out he used it as the beat for this song. What an absolute thrill to see this perfect beat back in the limelight thanks to the man bringing grime back to the limelight!

All N’s - Mia X: I wanna talk about the beat on this Mia X song because it’s incredible front to back. (Lyrically this song is fucking great, especially the chorus) but the vocal synth bass sound is just amazing, and the hook melody is the damn 'there’s a place in France where the naked ladies dance’ melody. Every part of it’s insane.

Milk - Kings Of Leon: I got into a real groove this month and learned how to play this whole Kings Of Leon album on guitar for some reason. So now I’ve got that knowledge. But I forgot just how incredible this song is. It’s a testament to how if the music is good enough and the performance is good enough the lyrics can be absolutely anything. By the time he says “she’ll loan you her toothbrush, she’ll bartend your party” I’m already crying.​

listen here

[doobler]

Monster AU - The Lich King

"Hey."

Ryan looked up, eyes wide. Michael loomed over him and the very air seemed to escape out of the room. He put away the knife he was sharpening and sat up straight. This was the first time in weeks that the oldest Lad had said a single word to Ryan. After showing his true malicious form, Michael acted like he didn't even exist.

"Michael. What's up?"

"You're old, right?"

Ryan tilted his head slightly, trying to smother the look of utter confusion on his face.

"Yeah?"

"Like. Real fucking old?"

"... Old as time itself. Why?"

Michael inhaled deep through his nose, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. From his low angle, Ryan could see a vein beginning to bulge in his neck.

"I need your help with something." Michael replied after a moment.

"... What kind of help?"

Slowly, the façade faded. Michael's body shimmered out of existence, exposing the stark ivory bones underneath. The pits of his eye sockets lit up with a crimson glow. His bones rattled faintly as he stood up taller, his teeth grinding as his eyes shined brighter. Power emanated from his stance.

"I need you to tell me where the fucker that did this to me is. So I can fucking kill his ass."

-----

Ryan wasn't a fan of getting caught and Geoff's lectures. At his request, he and Michael moved to the roof to remain out of earshot. Michael seemed intent to remain in his natural form.

"Where's this coming from all of a sudden?" Ryan kept his voice low out of habit.

"I've been thinking," Michael focused his gaze on the horizon, soaking in the beauty of Los Santos at midnight. "If you're so fucking... Chaotic and dark and whatever and you're old as fuck, you gotta know which Lich did this shit to me. I wasn't the only one, I know there are others. You have to know."

Ryan ran a hand through his hair, a heavy sigh punching out of his chest. He wracked his memory, millennia upon millennia of information. I didn't take long to recall which Lich and where he was with the utmost confidence. Creatures of that nature very rarely did a good job lying low.

"... What if I do know?"

"Hah! I fucking knew it!" Despite not having visible eyebrows or facial tissues, Michael's eyes seemed to narrow accusingly. "You do know."

"And?"

"And what? I'm gonna fucking murder that piece of shit."

"You can't--"

"Geoff told me how to kill a Lich."

Ryan held his breath, mulling it over. On one hand, he was immortal, as was Michael. Liches were powerful but they had a weakness. For all he knew, Michael had none. On the other hand, the accursed facing their cursers usually spelled trouble. The conflict could end in doom for both parties. Plus, it was Michael after all. He'd no doubt make Ryan swear not to interfere so he could regain his honor and secure victory by his own design. Ryan's own immortality was inconsequential.

"Fine. I'll help. But only on one condition."

Michael couldn't physically grin but the light of the city shifted somehow, making it appear like he was.

"Yeah?"

"I need you to write something for me."

-----

Geoff made his way from room to room like he always did every night. He checked on Jack, dropping a soft kiss on the Gent's cheek while he read. He popped into Gavin's room, trying to ignore the horrible mess, and wished him good night. He ducked into Jeremy's room, admiring the Lad's current project (spray painting every weapon he owned a hideous Rimmy Tim palette), and smiled against the younger man’s lips.

When he looked into Ryan's room, he wasn't surprised to find it empty. He was either moping in the shadows or out, both of which were normal.

However, Michael not being in his room this late at night was suspicious.

"Mikey?"

Geoff crept inside, a sense of dread filling his chest. Michael's room was immaculate as per usual, his bed perfectly made, his desk free of clutter, his closet neat and organized. The whole room smelled faintly like lavender.

Sitting on the bed was a sheet of paper. Geoff picked it up and began to read.

"Dear whoever the fuck finds this,

This could be the last thing I ever write. Ryan and I are going to find that Lich cunt and pound him into dust. I don't know if killing him will break my curse or kill me too so Ryan made me write this like a final will and testament.

My time with the Fakes has easily been the highlight of my life. I've never felt like I was a part of a family as I have here. Falling in love five times over was also pretty clutch. You guys never made me feel like I was lesser, like I was a freak. This has always been a home to me and always will be. Even if this kills me, my heart and soul will stay with the Crew. If I'm able to haunt you fuckers, you know I will.

All my stuff should be divided fairly between all of you. I do want Gavin to have my rocket launcher and Jeremy can have that leather jacket I always wear, but everything else is free game. If my bones stay behind, I want Ryan to do some magic space demon shit with it, make matching bone necklaces or something.

I have no regrets, except maybe not saying how much I love you guys nearly as much as I should have. For that, I'm sorry.

Your friendly neighborhood skeleton,

Michael V. Jones"

Geoff grit his teeth, fear and apprehension stabbing its way into his chest. He contemplated telling the others but that would only cement the idea that Michael would fail. Instead, Geoff folded up the letter and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt, right above his heart.

"I'll reach into the pits of hell, drag you out, and slap the ever-loving fuck outta you if you don't come back," Geoff uttered like a prayer. "That's an god-damned fact."

-----

Michael was floating.Up, down, left, right, forward and back. None of it existed. There was only the never ending darkness, swirling like a smokey miasma around him.

A strip of light suddenly cut through the curtain of black. Michael steered himself towards it, peering through the gap. There was a barren cliff with sad looking grass overlooking a massive Gothic castle. Michael hopped through the break and landed on his feet.

"That was simultaneously really awesome and fucking horrifying," Michael gasped, trying to calm the quake in his bones. "I could see the end of the fucking universe in there."

Ryan shrunk back into his human form, dusting off plumes of inky smog from his body.

"Yeah there's a reason why I don't make you guys travel like that. I wasn't really designed to be a taxi service."

"So where are we?"

Ryan walked to the edge of the cliff, sinking onto his haunches. He studied the castle below, eyes darting in all directions.

"Pretty sure we're in Germany, somewhere around Schwartzwald. I think," Ryan sniffed at the air, as if the smell would give him an answer. "Fuckers like this one prefer the dark and gloomy and isolated aesthetic. No better place for that than the Black Forest."

Michael nodded, pretending that he understood. Ryan stretched out his arm and pointed to the heart of the castle, just below ground.

"There's a massive room right in the center. He's there, right in the middle."

Something akin to a growl escaped Michael's mouth.

"He's doing it all over again," Michael snarled. He unsheathed the sword he'd brought, his grip making the leather handle groan. "Pulling in fighters and damning them to a life of pain, all for some fucked up depraved entertainment."

Before Ryan could stop him, Michael lept off the cliff, landing hundreds of feet bellow without breaking a sweat. He marched his way through waist high greying grass and scraggly foliage, an aura of rage blossoming from his body. Ryan sighed, dragging a hand down his face before hopping down to join him.

"Michael, slow the fuck down," Ryan called, jogging to keep up. "There's no need to storm the castle, I can phase us through the ground."

Michael stopped in his tracks, holding out his hand without looking back. Ryan shed his human form once again, becoming a swirling mass of smoke. He enveloped the undead skeleton like a smoggy blanket, clipping through the ground and sinking deep deep below. It didn't take long before they broke through soil, bursting out of a layer of stone into the clearing beneath the castle.

It looked just as Michael imagined it would. Cylindrical in shape, the room was wide and immensely tall. The walls were made of dark stone while the floor was only dirt. At one curve of the room was an ornate throne, built high with the bones of fallen warriors.

The Lich.

"You return to me at last, mighty Mogar," The Lich's voice was like nails on a chalkboard, grinding clawed fingers on the edges of your soul. "I have been waiting for the return of a warrior of your caliber--"

"YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD, YOU CUNT SON OF A BITCH!!!"

Michael screamed, whipping out his sword and charging. The Lich raised his hand and a small legion of skeletal fighters rose from the dirt. Michael didn't stop, batting away the first few swings with no effort at all. He ducked under one blade, parrying the next, his bones illuminated by flying sparks. Ryan made to join the fight, only to stop when Michael yelled.

"Stay the fuck back, Haywood!" He bellowed, kicking one of the undead square in the chest. "This is my fight!"

Ryan sighed. He stayed in his natural form, keeping himself small and fading into the shadows to watch close by. The Lich stared him down, no doubt sensing his overwhelming presence.

"You've brought me an Elder?" The Lich croaked, raising a boney finger towards Ryan. "I will accept this mighty gift and retain immortality."

"This is between you and me, bitch!" Michael yelled back, landing an upward stroke of his sword. "The only gift I've brought is gonna be my sword in your fucking throat!"

Michael stood firm, knocking back every hit thrown his way. He didn't flinch when a flail barely missed his head, nor when an arrow sang through the air and sunk into his femur. He kept his stride, making short work of his enemies. They kept coming, though, the crowd thickening the closer he came to the throne. Ryan slowly edged forward, making sure he was nearby in case the tide turned.

"I'm gonna free all these bastards' souls!" Michael called over the roar of battle. Another arrow lodged itself into his clavicle. "They're gonna be free of your curse and you're gonna turn to fucking dust!"

Michael didn't land a single blow on the warriors, firmly playing defense. It took Ryan a while to figure out his strategy. When he did, a tremor ran through his heart.Michael didn't want to harm the fallen warriors that were like him.He took arrow after arrow, staggering under the few blows that landed. A massive crack spiderwebbed down his pelvis. Thick black blood oozed from his wounds. He kept going, his head held high, his eyes burning like twin suns in their sockets.

Finally, Michael was at the throne.

He stood up tall, an air of pride keeping him still as stone.

"Any last words, motherfucker?" Michael growled, raising his sword. The fallen behind him slunk back into the dirt, defeated. "I've been waiting 1600 years for this, feel free to take your time and think up something smart."

"You could never kill me," The Lich cackled, wheezing like a bitter gale. "I created what you are, molded you, defined you. I gave you purpose. I gave you immortality. Slaying me would mean bringing an end to what has come to be what and who you are. I am your god, your savior, your patriarch. Smite me and your whole sense of being will b--"

Michael rushed forward, sliding his sword between the Lich's mummified ribs. He broke through the gem around his neck, shattering the vessel that held his very soul.

The Lich let loose an unholy wail, screeching into the night as he contorted and twisted erratically. Ryan swooped in, pulling Michael back a few steps. They watched as the Lich crumbled into powder, collapsing into himself, sucked into the shattered gem, and clattered to the ground with a harmless clink.

"Damn. That was some Lord of the Rings shit."

Michael looked at his hands, flipping them over and over. His boney visage didn't change. His curse remained.However, there was a lingering and unfamiliar lightness in his chest. He looked down, amazed to find something pounding softly in his rib cage. It glowed like a tiny star, pure white and sparkling.

"Your soul," Ryan whispered, leaning in to admire it. "Been a while since Ive seen one of these. It's fucking beautiful, Michael."

"My soul?" The Lad echoed. He lifted his hand, dipping it into his chest. When his fingers phased through the glimmering ball, a tingly warmth spread through his bones. "So... I'm free?"

"Yeah," Ryan smiled, a faint twinkle in his eyes. "You're free."

-----

Together, the duo soared out of the castle, returning to the cliff where they'd first arrived. Michael stepped out of Ryan's fog, sitting down and dangling his legs over the ledge.

"I wish those other guys had taken my offer," Michael thought allowed. "We could've easily gotten them all out. They have their whole lives to live."

"I think many of them are too old and tired now," Ryan replied, sitting next to him. "That castle has been their home for centuries. I'm sure they'd rather just. Fade away."

Michael hummed softly, looking down at his hands again. His body seemed lighter than it had in over a thousand years. He truly felt free.

"I... Owe you an apology," Michael sighed, finally looking Ryan in the eye. "I've been leading you on like a real douche bag."

"Don't even mention it," Ryan beamed. "I understand. I... Was hiding myself from you guys. People who love each other don't keep such huge secrets like that."

"No, I mean. I wasn't ever really mad at you," Michael huffed, looking away. "Geoff and Jack explained that you're nothing like a Lich, you're... Like this super powerful magic space demon. You were born from the dark matter of the universe and used the natural flow of magic in reality to give yourself a soul. Liches are... Sick disgusting fucks, greedy Necromancers who won't even let death itself control them. You and them are nothing alike. It was a real dick move of me to act like you were similar just so you'd help me."

Ryan blinked in shock. He couldn't bring himself to be angry at the deception, however. He decided a while ago that the best way to advance was to come to a state of understanding and simply move on.

"I love you as much as I love the other guys," Michael turned back. The illusion of a smile played on his skull. "You're a real salty piece of shit sometimes and your stubbornness makes me wanna scream but... You're such a good person and I love you despite your flaws."

With a gentle smile, Ryan leaned in, pressing his lips against Michael's teeth. He'd never kissed the Lad like this before. His bones were warm somehow, the sensation like kissing a smooth stone that'd been left under the sun. The kiss was chaste, melting into several more before he pulled away. Ryan tried not to stare as Michael's soul glowed brighter for a moment.

"That... Was surprisingly nice." Michael whispered.

He leaned in again and Ryan met him halfway. The Gent shed his human form, making Michael laugh. The logistics of a human skull and a deer-like shadowy being kissing were odd but still worked by some divine miracle. They stayed that way for a while until the tawny fingers of dawn curled over the horizon.

"Alright, ok," Michael snickered, pulling away. He'd wound up halfway swallowed up by Ryan's smokey body and laughed when the Gent shrank back. "We should get home before Geoff has a fucking aneurysm."

Ryan nodded, standing upright. His body expanded, a void opening up inside. Faintly, deep within, Michael could see a window to the penthouse. He dipped a hand into the portal, steeling himself.

"Remember," Ryan echoed from everywhere and nowhere. "I'm always here for you, Mogar."

Michael let out a childlike giggle. His old name sounded so foreign now.

"I know." He replied and let the familiar darkness swallow him whole.

[kae-karo]

sleepover in the moon room

Good morning, lovelies! I couldn’t get this idea out of my head so I had to write it. I just want to preface this by saying I wrote this without implying anything about their relationship one way or the other - you can read it platonically or non-platonically, that’s entirely up to you.

sleepover in the moon room - 6k word count

Summary: It’s a tradition they’ve had for years

[domestic, platonic or non-platonic, sleepover, nail-painting, hair straightening, reality, headcannon, imagine, one-shot]

Read on AO3

“Phil, I swear to god if you forgot the popcorn again…” I call as I shove my shoulder into the door - a little too hard, apparently, as it bounces against the wall and has the audacity to shove back at me. For fuck’s sake...

“I bought a whole box on Monday!” The voice shouts down from upstairs, and I smirk.

“And you ate how much since then?” I drop all the shit in my arms fall on the bed, barely catching the bottle of blue nail polish before it rolls off.

The silence is answer enough, and I roll my eyes. And, because it’s Phil, a smirk tugs at my cheek and I shake my head.

“Did you remember the blankets?” Phil asks from behind me, evidently having just entered the room. I spin around to find him holding a bowl of freshly popped popcorn; the smell hits me a moment later - slightly burnt. I grin at him, pleased he’s gotten it right, then wave an arm toward my bed.

“Think we have enough this time?” I had gone digging in every closet and even stole the two I know Phil keeps hidden in his dresser, so there’s quite a pile.

“We’ll be the coziest ever,” Phil laughs, then sets the bowl on my bedside table so he can flop on top of the blankets; I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my throat.

When he shows no inclination to move, even going so far as to express his comfort by way of a groan that ends up muffled by the layers of fluffy fabric, I find myself once again rolling my eyes. By the time I’ve made my way past his legs - stuck out very inconveniently in my way - and over to the popcorn, he’s rolled over enough to stare at me.

“What?” I lift my brows, popping a piece of popcorn in my mouth. For testing purposes. But Phil just beams at me, his signature ‘I have no reason for it except you make me smile’ look. “Quit it,” I bat at his shoulder, leaning over both him and the bed to actually reach it, and nearly spill the popcorn in the process.

I catch myself with a hand on the edge of the mattress before I can fall, though, and everything stays miraculously upright.

“Come on, help me set everything up,” I glance sideways at Phil, who’s still laying on the bed and just watching me. “Oh, don’t give me that look, like you’re the king of coordination,” I purse my lips when he smirks. A moment later, I’ve set the bowl aside on the floor, and I tug a blanket out from under where Phil still hasn’t moved.

“Hey! I was comfy!” He protests, pouting at me and collecting the rest of the blankets under him; I’m briefly reminded of a dragon gathering its hoard of gold into a pile beneath its belly.

“You always complain that I set it up wrong,” I point out, tossing the first blanket into a lump on the floor. Phil peeks up from where he’s ducked back into the blankets, eyes squinting as he surveys my first efforts.

“Well that’s because you do do it all wrong!” He groans, rolling off the mattress and frowning as he stares down at the single blanket. A moment later, he’s sat down to rearrange it, and I shake my head. Because I can, I grab another blanket and toss it at his head.

“Dan!”

I clamp a hand over my mouth to hide the smirk, but it’s too late; Phil’s already throwing the blanket back at me, a wad of fluff smacking me in the face and making me stumble back into the edge of the bed.

By the time I regain any kind of composure, Phil’s broken down into a fit of giggles himself, so I make a point of launching blankets at him.

“Dan, stop!” He barely gets the words out through breathy laughter, one hand up in defense while the other tries to shield his now-messy hair from any further damage. Eventually, I run out of ammo, and he takes a deep breath and tries to comb his fingers through the wayward, staticky chaos on his head.

My cheeks hurt from grinning, and I can tell Phil’s the same way, with how hard he’s trying to pout and how miserably he’s failing at it.

“Go on,” I gesture at him, leaning back against the bed. “Set it up how you like, or I’ll never hear the end of how uncomfortable you are.” With another attempted frown that ends up being more of an almost-smile, he turns back to his assigned task. Honestly, I’d tried to pay attention the first few times he’d gone about rearranging things to his satisfaction, but I still can’t pin down any kind of rhyme or reason.

But we both usually end up pretty damn comfortable, so he must be onto something that I can’t identify. I cross my arms, watching him adjust the pile of blankets into a pillowy circle on the floor. He pauses, fingers splayed out as he checks his work, then turns to stare at me.

My eyebrows shoot up, then I nod - he needs the final piece to the artwork he’s creating. I sweep an arm across the bed, trying to push all the remaining items off the top of my duvet so I can tug it from my mattress and pass one edge over to Phil. Then he’s stood up across from me, and we lower the duvet to the ground.

Then Phil drops down on the blanket pile, wiggling on his butt to test the level of comfort. I wait in silence; a moment later, he beams up at me and nods his approval.

I shake my head, smiling back at him, and collect as much from my bed as I can manage: the absolute necessities being the nail polish, the straightener, and one of those silly make-your-own Japanese sweets PJ had brought back from his visit as a gift for Phil.

I’ve only been turned around for a second, but Phil has somehow already got the bowl perched in his lap and a handful of popcorn shoved in his mouth.

“Don’t you dare eat it all,” I grumble, lowering myself to sit across from him and trying not to drop anything. Once my ass is safely sat on the cushiony pile of blankets, my armload of things rolling off and onto the duvet, I snatch the bowl from Phil’s lap to mine and pop a few pieces into my mouth.

When his lips turn down in a pout, I know it’s just for the sake of being a pain, but I hate to see him frown; I immediately relinquish the bowl - well, it goes to a spot beside our knees.

“Where we can both get to it,” I emphasize, but this seems to mollify him enough, as he grins and takes another handful of popcorn. “Do you want to go first?” I offer, slightly buttery hand slipping as I grab the bottle of light blue nail polish. He’d let me pick, pretending as if he didn’t know I always choose this color for him - it’s a shimmery pale blue that matches his eyes eerily perfectly.

His gaze flicks between the bottle I’ve raised in front of my face and the mostly-full bowl of popcorn, and I shake my head with a resigned sigh that honestly ends up sounding more like a chuckle.

“Fine, you bloody princess,” I stare at the ceiling for a moment, wondering exactly how I got here. Some might use the term ‘whipped’, but I honestly can’t be bothered - I won’t admit it aloud, but I sort of enjoy taking care of him.

“Thank you!” Phil draws out the syllables, earning yet another head shake from me. It’s nights like tonight that I wonder if I can accidentally cause myself some kind of brain trauma from all the exasperated-yet-fond earthquakes I put my head through.

A moment later, he’s sticking out his left hand. Right, the one closer to the food, so it’ll dry first and he can eat faster. I try to roll my eyes at him, but he’s just beaming at me, so it ends up being more of a stare.

My first attempt at opening the nail polish ends in slippery frustration, so I wipe my hands on my sweatpants and use the edge of my shirt for extra friction on the lid. Which works so well that the bottle near jerks out of my hand, one second away from ruining my duvet. Why’s it we always use my duvet for this?

“Oooohoohooo,” we say at the same time, wide-eyed and catching each other’s terrified looks. Then we’re both laughing, and my free hand flies over my heart as I exhale a deep breath.

“You actually are a butterfingers!” Phil jokes, a stupid reference to one of my oldest videos. It never fails to shock me how he still remembers, how he remembers almost everything. Except to blow out candles before he leaves…

“Oi, shut up, or I’ll make your nails look like shit,” it’s a threat I’ve no intention of sticking to - ever the perfectionist - but it has the intended effect of making Phil clamp his mouth shut. Even if it’s just to give me a cheeky grin that says he’s still laughing about it in his head. I squint at him, but ultimately decide to let it go.

Instead, I reach for his hand, which he’d pulled back a bit with our momentary freak-out. Still smirking, he lets me tug it closer; I stare down at his impeccably groomed nails before returning my attention to the bottle of polish, positioning it in my hand so I can hold it and keep Phil steady at the same time.

He’s always very quiet as he watches me, possibly because I kept glaring at him the first few times and refused to actually answer his distracting questions. The silence helps me focus. And, if I’m being honest and certainly not too full of myself, I think I’ve actually improved over time.

Really, I should probably do at least three coats, with how translucent the color is, but Phil can hardly sit still long enough for two - even now, halfway through the second coat, he’s groping awkwardly under his extended arm in the hopes of grabbing a handful of popcorn to munch on.

“Dan,” he draws out my name, breaking my focus. I glance up to find him pouting at me, right arm crossed awkwardly under the elbow of his extended left one. “Help, please?” He stares pointedly at the bowl of popcorn beside us, apparently too far out of his reach.

“And people think I’m the needy one,” I mumble under my breath. God forbid anyone get between Phil and his food…

But, because it’ll make him happy, I pause my work to grab a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl. Phil grins at me, then drops his mouth open, waiting for me to feed him. Fucking princess.

“Oh no, you’re not getting off that easy,” I mime a throwing motion until his eyes widen, and I laugh. But then they narrow.

“Do it!” He challenges, opening his mouth as wide as he can. I briefly debate missing on purpose, but then we’ll have popcorn pieces scattered everywhere, and I’ll have to deal with it just as much as Phil will. So I do my best to aim, though he’s only a couple feet away, and take the first shot.

“Ooooh! Watch out, Michael Jordan!” I say, laughing as Phil munches on his successfully-caught popcorn. But, because he’s a bloody glutton, he’s dropped his mouth open a second later, demanding another. “Should I just dump the bowl in your mouth, then?” I tease, opting to feed him the other pieces normally so I can get back to his nails.

Phil just grins as he chews, evidently satisfied for the time being; meanwhile, I do my best to focus on finishing the last two fingers, then survey my work. Hm, not the worst I’ve ever done. A spot of blue catches my eye, and I use my own nail to clean the side of his, then let him go to reach for his other hand.

Obediently, he extends it out, blowing gently on his finished nails.

Now that his mouth is otherwise occupied, he doesn’t bother me for more snacks, and I’m able to finish quickly - it’s been a while since we last did this, so I’m admittedly rusty, but once I’ve finished, I have him hold both hands out for me. The right is definitely better, I conclude, but both are still decent. I know they’ll be ruined by tomorrow, as Phil has absolutely no self-control, but it’s not really about the actual outcome so much as the process.

“Alright, let that dry, and let me check this,” I tap lightly on the mostly-dry nails of his left hand, pleased that he’s not messed them up yet - it wouldn’t be the first time he got distracted and forgot about the wet polish whilst trying to grab something.

“Can I do your hair next, though? You know how bad I am at nails,” Phil notes, staring at his own nails almost as intently as I had. “They look fantastic, as always,” he says, grinning up at me. You’d think after literally almost a decade of hearing his praise - every video, post, tweet, selfie, and so on - that it wouldn’t affect me much, but I turn away with a blush.

“Sure, go for it,” I ignore his other comment, except to file it away in the back of my head as a reason to smile later - some other day, when I don’t feel much like smiling. Right now, I’m smiling plenty. “But!” I grab his wrist as it reaches for the straightener, “be careful! I will be very pissed if you fuck your nails up after I’ve only just finished them,” I lift an eyebrow at him, an expression he’s never been able to master, and he nods with just the right amount of seriousness to satisfy me.

He leans back, allowing me to untangle the cord for the straightener and plug it in behind me. Once it’s started heating up, I set it on the floor, exceptionally cautious since that time we’d burned a hole in one of Phil’s favorite blankets - before we’d thought to bring the duvet into the picture, fortunately for me but not so much for Phil.

“Think they’re done?” I turn at his voice to find him squinting at his nails, then holding them out to see how they reflect the light. The answer is ‘very nicely’, which I know because I’ve seen it dozens of times before.

“Come here,” I grab at the air, waiting for him to show me his hands, and he gives them a final glance before extending them for my approval.

Left is probably safe, the right...needs a minute.

“You can eat, but be really careful,” I fix him with a hard gaze until he looks up and nods. “Left hand only,” I add, and he picks a piece of popcorn from the bowl with an adorable amount of caution.

A moment later, he’s tossed it in his mouth, and he immediately scans his nails for any damage. Then breaks into a grin when he’s found nothing wrong. This continues for several minutes as we wait for the straightener to heat up fully. Watching Phil has me getting antsy, though - not for his nails, he knows I’m watching and he’s being especially careful. It’s more that I’m anxious to have his fingers running through my hair again.

Whenever either of us straightens our own hair, it’s a quick and uneventful affair, the end goal being just to get straight hair. And of course, I’ve stopped that cumbersome process completely. But nights like this, it’s more like sitting at a salon, and Phil enjoys making an event of straightening my hair. I enjoy it, too - it’s nice to be taken care of, but it’s even nicer to have his hands brushing through my hair during the process, a bit like a massage.

Phil must notice the light stop flashing on the straightener, because he waves me over with his now-buttery fingers, and I wince as he wipes them on his sweatpants.

“Phil,” I groan, and his eyes widen as he splays out his fingers to check the polish. When he exhales, I roll my eyes, and he presents the nails for my review. I take his hand, inspecting each finger carefully, but he seems to have avoided any damage.

“Sorry, I promise I’ll be more careful!” He gestures at me again, and I give him a final ‘you’d better be’ look before scooting over. “Okay, just a bit closer,” he grips my shoulders, guiding me until he has me in the right spot.

Before I have to ask, he’s running his fingers through my hair - probably messing it up more than anything - and I lean a bit into his hands, enjoying the feeling.

“Ready?” He asks, reaching over to where the straightener’s sat, and I give some kind of noise that I’m sure he understands as an affirmation. His fingers pause in my hair as he focuses on the hot metal in his right hand, and I follow its progress before realizing something’s missing.

“Wait! Wait, hold on,” I lean away, frowning a bit at the loss of the comforting touch against my scalp. But popcorn is important. I drag the bowl over, setting it in my lap, and Phil lets out a short laugh before grabbing a hasty handful for himself. “Careful!” I shout, mouth wide.

“Sorry!” Phil says, voice muffled around a mouthful of popcorn and a grin. He is most definitely not sorry.

“You better fucking enjoy that, it might be the last you get if you’ve fucked up my hard work!” I shove at him halfheartedly, not enough to really hurt.

“It’s fine!” He ‘oof’s when the blow lands and swats my arm. “Nothing’s messed up,” he assures me of this by sticking his hand in front of my face, nails only a few inches from my eyes. I frown, squinting again, but he seems to be correct.

“Fine, but be more careful,” I stress the words, hoping he’ll actually listen and knowing full well he’ll forget in two minutes.

But I can’t be bothered to complain when his method of forgetting involves reaching up and running his fingers through my hair again, presumably to comb it into something manageable or perhaps to decide where he wants to start. I never ask, he never says, we just both agree that we enjoy it, so he does it.

Phil’s hand pauses, then tugs gently at whatever strip of hair he must have decided to start with. Then he’s picking up the straightener, clacking it like a pair of tongs, and I’d shake my head if I wasn’t acutely aware of the heat now pressing close to my scalp.

There’s a pull as Phil drags the straightener across that section, then it releases and his fingers comb through the spot a moment later. The warmth combined with the tingly sensation of his hand is enough to make my eyes drift shut, utterly content; it’s a feeling I’d never thought I could have even just a few years ago, but here I am.

Phil continues this process rhythmically for some time - how long, I have no clue - and I lose myself in the repetition and comfort: his fingers separating out a lock of hair, the warmth of the straightener and the gentle tug that follows, then more fingers as he combs through and searches for another spot to work on. It’s immensely soothing. If Phil were willing to do this every day, I might never have gone back to my natural hair.

“There, all done,” Phil’s words reach my ears through a sleepy fog, and it takes a moment for them to properly register. At which point, I frown. Too soon.

“You didn’t miss anything?” I ask, as though he’s not been doing his own hair for over a decade. But my words have their intended effect, and his hand cards through my hair again a few times, searching for any wayward curls.

“No,” he chuckles, “you’re all set.” Then his hand disappears, and my head feels cool despite all the heat just applied to it.

I hold back a disappointed noise, instead digging into the bowl in my lap - I’d honestly forgotten that the popcorn was even there. I munch on a few pieces, and it’s distraction enough as I run my unoccupied hand through the fringe now falling into my eyes.

“Is it good?” Phil asks, breaking my concentration on my own fingers brushing through my hair. For half a second, I debate a snarky remark - of course, you spork, how long have you been doing this?

Instead, I set the bowl aside - which he quickly grabs and digs into as he watches me - and stand, climbing up onto my bed to take a look at my reflection in the moon mirror over my headboard. It’s a bit blurred from the etched design, but my hair falls perfectly straight across my forehead - 2010 Dan would’ve sold his soul to get his fringe exactly like this. He’d maybe have preferred it a bit longer. I grimace as the horrifying hair-related memories of that era surface.

“I did miss a bit, didn’t I!” The bed dips behind me as Phil climbs up and shuffles closer; I can see his frown reflected in the mirror.

“No, of course you didn’t,” my tone has lost all the original sarcasm I’d meant to put in it, but I still roll my eyes at the blurred version of Phil staring at me. Then I turn to properly face him, running my hand through my fringe for good measure. “See?”

He reaches out, brushing a few stray pieces into place on my forehead the way he does when its his own hair he’s trying to find fault in, tilting his head and squinting a bit.

“Alright,” he concedes, shifting back to sit on his heels. “Sure you want me to do your nails?” His eyebrows arch up his forehead, and I know he’s thinking back to the last time I’d asked. To say it had been a disaster would probably be the nicest way of putting it.

“Of course I do. I asked, didn’t I?” I scoff, climbing off the bed and back down to the blanket pile on the floor. Phil’s brows scrunch together, then he joins me - we both remember at the very last second that he still needs to be careful of his own nails, and he stares at me as he drops down heavily, trying not to use his hands to slow his descent.

“Be warned, I haven’t improved,” he cautions, checking his nails before I even have to ask, “it won’t look this good.” He glances up, eyes wide like he’s still waiting for me to change my mind. But it’s never about the quality of the job - and polish doesn’t stick to skin for too long - it’s about that feeling of contentment.

These nights are, have always been, about just being happy for a while.

“Phil,” I tilt my head, purse my lips. “Paint my damn nails already.” I stick my arm out - the left one, so I can shove another handful of popcorn in my mouth - and Phil twists around, searching for wherever the black polish has gone. “Behind your knee,” I advise around a mouthful, and he finds it and holds it up triumphantly.

Again, I’m shaking my head, rolling my eyes. Smiling in spite of myself.

“Ready?” He asks, untwisting the lid with more ease than I’d managed earlier. I nod, ignoring the unsaid ‘are you sure you’re sure?’ in his tone. He’s not nearly as coordinated as I am with the nail polish, so he ends up setting the bottle on the floor beside the blankets, dipping into it and quickly bringing the brush over to my hand.

I’m not superstitious, but I am very sure I’m able to see the future in that moment: the brush will drip, a blob of black polish forever staining my duvet. Or maybe he’ll be reaching awkwardly and knock the bottle over in his rush, and we’ll end up with a splatter all over the floor.

“Phil, this is a horrible plan,” I flip my hand so it’s cupped under the overloaded brush and set the popcorn aside to grab him by the wrist, then shuffle so I’m sat much closer to the bottle and do my best to drag him with me. “I swear, if you ruin my duvet,” I mumble.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, shifting himself so he’s sat across from me again. The brush has a much shorter journey from the bottle to my hand, and I exhale a little heavier than I mean to - apparently, I’d been holding my breath. Nerves crackle at the end of my skin, fizzling out a little now that I’m not so worried about getting black stains all over my duvet. Or our floor, though that’s still a possibility.

Honestly, I’m expecting Phil to check again, to try to get out of it one last time - not because he doesn’t want to do it, but more because he knows he won’t be satisfied with the end result - but then he’s pulling my hand closer and letting a blob of polish fall on my pinky. I do my best not to smirk as he tries to spread it, and it falls into the dip between my nail and skin. Yeah, it’ll be a mess.

I use my free hand to grope for the bowl of popcorn, no longer close enough to dig into, and drag it toward us as I watch him. The first finger he’s done has far too thick a coat, the second far too thin as he tries to overcompensate, and I toss a piece of popcorn into my mouth and just smile at him. The cold polish gives me a strange feeling, but it’s calming.

Unfortunately, I can’t just fall into the same liminal space I’d been in before, still too anxious about the safety of my duvet - but I can and do watch the expressions on Phil’s face shift: first, his brows scrunch, clearly a little nervous and frowning at each small mistake. I’m tempted to remind him how little it really matters, but then his tongue has poked out through his teeth, lips turning up into something just between a smile and a frown.

It’d be rude of me to break his focus when he hadn’t interrupted mine. Something about his scrunched brows and squinted eyes makes me feel immensely fond for a moment - appreciative not only for this exact moment, but for every single moment he’s been by my side for all these years. It’s a stupidly cheesy thought to have, but there it is, sitting in my head anyway.

It wars with my instinct to make light of the situation, to crack a joke or say something sardonic. My mind is so immensely unused to the idea of being content, of just unashamedly enjoying something without irony, that it wants to turn tail, to run and hide behind my usual sarcastic nature. My therapist said it’s not an uncommon reaction.

So I swallow every single quip that bubbles up in my throat and make my lips smile. They want to, deep down - it doesn’t take as much effort as I expected it to. Just then, Phil decides to look up, and I realize he’s finished with my hand. Once again, I’ve fully forgotten the popcorn. I shove a hasty handful into my mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Phil asks, apparently in reference to my grin. “I told you it’d be bad!” He whines, lifting my hand in his to peer closer at it, tilting it just out of my line of sight.

“No,” I shake my head, though I haven’t actually seen the final results of his efforts. “I’m sure it’s fine, let me see.” He relinquishes my hand, lips twisting in a half-frown. Definitely not the best I’ve seen. I tilt my head, squinting at the spots where black polish has extended far past my nail. But not the worst, either. “It’s great,” I announce after a moment.

Phil’s brows arch up his forehead, an almost-smile on his lips, but I ignore his disbelief in favor of sticking out my other hand.

“Go on, then, I have to match,” I wiggle my fingers until he’s the one shaking his head for once, then he grabs my hand to stop my annoying movement. A moment later, his look of concentration has returned, tongue poking out from between his lips as he carefully applies the coat to the first nail.

This time, I focus on the sensation as much as I can, not allowing my thoughts to drift too far into sentimental territory. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time I’d started crying one of these nights, but I know how Phil worries, and I doubt he’d believe the tears came from a place of happiness.

As he reaches the nail of my middle finger, I lift my left hand to blow on the finished polish, hoping to dry it more quickly. In any case, it’ll still probably get messed up while we sleep, but I’d prefer it dry enough that it won’t rub off on anything. My breath feels warm on my fingers but cool on the drying nails.

Meanwhile, Phil’s onto my pinky, frowning when the polish runs out and he’s forced to dip back into the bottle, returning with just a bit too much. While my perfectionism is exceptionally well-known, Phil’s is rarely on display - but it’s obvious here, how much he cares: maybe about the nail, maybe about me, or maybe both, but it’s evident. And so greatly appreciated, when it’s directed my way and not an obstacle in my way, as it can sometimes be when we’re editing.

“Thank you,” I say, voice quieter than I meant it to be, when he finishes and releases my hand for review. Just as messy, except maybe the thumb, I conclude. “Thank you,” I say again anyway, lower and full of a sincerity I hope he doesn’t ask about. Thank you for every time you’ve been here for me, even when I didn’t deserve it. I still don’t, but thank you anyway.

Of course, my eyeballs decide that now’s a great time to start watering, and I try to blink back the tears.

“Dan?” Phil’s voice is quiet, his hand reaches out to rest on my knee in a silent show of support that makes me choke out a sob I’d been doing an excellent job of holding back until that moment. When I look up from my hand, still trying to keep everything in, Phil’s tilted his head, forehead scrunched in concern.

“Good!” I manage, laughing as a tear actually falls down my cheek and lands on my arm. “Promise,” I add at his skeptical frown. I try to scoff, or laugh, or something of that nature, but it comes out as another sort of sob.

“Do you need a hug?” My eyes drift to the side, still leaking, and a smile curls my lips. Always so amazingly supportive. I got damn lucky. His hand leaves my knee, and I look back to find his arms spread wide, waiting for me. And, truth be told, a Phil hug sounds pretty good right now.

I shift up on my knees, mindful of my wet nails, and shuffle forward until I’m close enough to sort of fall into his chest. Once again, I’m winded by just how lucky I am. How many people would actually kill for this moment. How seventeen-year-old me would’ve killed for this moment, when Phil was just some fantasy guy I’d watched on YouTube.

But it’s not a fantasy, not anymore, and his arms pull me in close, rubbing a soothing hand across my back. I rest my face in his shoulder, letting his t-shirt absorb the stupid happy tears that won’t stop falling. At least I’m not actually sobbing now, just sniffling a bit. I manage to keep my nails safely away from anything and still let my hands rest on his back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is still so gentle, careful not to push. I laugh into his shoulder - relieved it actually sounds like a laugh - and pull away. Phil’s arms loosen around me, but his face is still scrunched up in concern, maybe confusion.

“I’m just…” I shake my head, staring up at the ceiling, willing the tears to go back into my eyes instead of spilling back over. It takes me a minute to keep from losing it again. “I’m so fucking happy,” I say finally, and grin at him. His whole face twitches, like he’s trying to decide which expression he should have, how to be supportive, but I blow right past it and keep talking.

“Like, so fucking happy?” My own incredulity makes me huff out a breath - that, and Phil’s finally settled on a confused-but-supportive half-smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my entire life.” I’m acutely aware how poorly a job I’m doing of conveying why I’m so damn happy, but Phil stays silent, waiting for me to continue. Trusting that I’m going somewhere with this.

“I mean, my mental health, sure,” I say, strangely pleased that I can brush that off so easily. That it doesn’t feel like a burden, at least not today. “But everything is just...it’s amazing?” I exhale, back to staring at the ceiling. “I mean the merch took ages but it’s out and people like it, and I finally feel comfortable, and like I’m doing something important with my life, something meaningful, and...I don’t know…” I trail off, still a little overwhelmed at everything. At everything.

“And the tour,” Phil chimes in, fully grinning now. I’m glad he’s seen past the tears, recognizes that whatever the hell is going on in my head at the moment, it isn’t a bad thing. He doesn’t have to worry.

“Oh god, and the tour,” I can’t fight the elation, suddenly gripped with the desire to just faceplant into the pile of blankets. “Phil, we’re going to see the whole fucking world.” I only remember my nails at the last second, rolling onto my back so I don’t accidentally mess them up. “The whole world,” I repeat, in more of a whisper, “I’m so fucking lucky.”

Phil’s silent, but I’m staring at the ceiling so I can’t see his face, read his expressions like I normally would. I’m just glad the tears have stopped. Then there’s a flop beside me, and I turn to see Phil’s laid out next to me, staring at the ceiling as well.

“No,” he shakes his head, “see, I’m the lucky one.” I frown at him, but it doesn’t last long, because then he’s grinning at me and I can’t help but smiling back. “I get to travel the whole world with my best friend.”

My heart flips over in my chest, and my gut instinct returns to take over. With an eye roll.

“Cheesy,” I accuse, nudging him with an elbow.

“Shut up, you love it,” he accuses right back with a chuckle. I’m tempted to just laugh it off.

“Yeah,” I say instead, “yeah, I do.”

[iseultsdream]

Mar 15, 2018 - The Ides of March ...and a very long story -photo taken Jan 11, 2018

Years ago when I was in my 20's I almost died in this pond. The memory of that day has stayed with me as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. I think having a near death experience sears that event into your memory in a way that you wish other memories could be retained.

This pond sits in a isolated spot which is not accessible by vehicle. It is usually approached on foot, by by bike, or on horseback. The land around it is slightly elevated, giving it a bowl-like appearance. There are a couple of houses now on one side, mostly hidden from view in the woods above the pond, but back when this story takes place there were none.

Back then I lived on a small farm, about 1/2 a mile from the pond, in a house without electricity, which was located down a long, mostly rough dirt road, a mile from the main paved road. It was a simpler time on the Vineyard then, so this was not as unusual as it might sound. On my farm I had a small herd of Nubian dairy goats, a few Muscovy ducks, a flock of chickens of various breeds, a couple of hives of honey bees, and an old horse named Jinx who had been left on me to care for which turned out to ne for the rest of her life. I shared the house with a couple of cats, 4 Afghan Hounds -2 adults and 2 puppies- and a now ex-partner of mine.

Across the dirt road from the house was the big farm field, the same one I now walk around on an almost a daily basis. Back then the fields were unfenced, and for a time no one lived on that farm, so it became, in a sense, an extended part of my little farm. I would let Jinx graze out there freely, and the dogs could run around in the field, although usually under my supervision, since being sighthounds their keen eyes were always seeking the far horizon and what exciting adventured might lie out there.

Spring is slow to come to the island due to the moderating effect of the cold ocean that surrounds it, but that sunny March morning there was a hint of early spring in the air. As I did some spring prep in the garden, the puppies were playing together in the near-by field. I was keeping an eye on them as I worked. One of the times I looked up, I noticed that they had wandered further out into the large farm field.

When I caught up to them, they were near the top of one of the low hills that surround the pond. They were excitedly hunting for mice in the clumps of dry winter grass, and almost didn't look up when I reached them. I watched them for a moment, while I lingered there in the beauty of the field, enjoying the warmth of the sun on my face. After a bit, I lifted my gaze to the pond below. The pond still retained a good portion of ice cover with an inch or two of snow covering the ice. The edges had started to melt back, and the open water had reached about 4-5 feet from the shoreline in most places. As I looked down on the pond, a hole near the center of the pond caught my eye, and I wondered what had caused that, but that thought broke off quickly when I was shocked to see something move in that hole. With growing horror I recognized it as a distant neighbor's dog, a large white German Shepherd. Initially, the white dog had blended in with the snow-covered ice. For a few seconds I took in this dreadful scene, and then quickly I rushed to gather up the puppies, and took off racing across the rough field back to the house. Thankfully, my partner was at home. Out of breath, in a frantic voice, I described the situation. In trying to think of what to do, all that came to my mind were ladders and ropes.

Well..this was the point when a different decision should have been made, but neither of us considered any other option.. We couldn't call for help. There was no phone in the house, and there certainly weren't any cell phones back then. To get help it would have required driving a mile over the rough dirt road out to the main road, and then somewhere further to find a phone. It felt like by then the dog would be dead. Besides I always consider myself good in a crisis, so I felt it was something I could handle. When I look back on it all now, and that happens every single time I encounter a frozen pond, or hear on the news of an ice rescue, I realize how little I understood of the extreme dangers that lay ahead, in that moment of youthful enthusiasm and determination.

So, we took off in his truck withe a ladder and ropes, straight across the bumpy, still frozen field. Upon reaching the top of the hill above the pond, we jumped out, grabbed the ropes and the long ladder, and with great difficulty hauled it all down to the shoreline.

In the time it had taken for me to get back to the house, the weather had changed. March is always a mercurial month here. The feeling of spring had dissipated. The sky was now darkly overcast, and a cold wind from the ocean had come up. Standing next to the edge of the pond, it felt like we had been plunged back into winter.

We could now see the Shepherd clearly, clinging to the edge of the hole with her front paws. Her eyes now intently fixated on us. It seemed the only way to reach the main body of ice would be to get into the water and hike yourself up onto it. Time was running out, so, without thinking further I found myself chest deep in the coldest water I had ever experienced. I was totally unprepared for the sudden shock of that icy water which seemed to suck all the air out of my lungs. It was almost impossible to breathe at all. Despite that, I continued on, but when I reached the edge of the ice, piece after piece broke off in my hands. It became quickly apparent that this was not going to be the way to reach the dog. After getting back out, we noticed that on the far side of the pond( which in the accompanying photo is across the pond to the right of center) there was a section of ice still attached to the shore, so we dragged everything over there.

Here is where we made our second, and most serious mistake. I had the idea of sliding the ladder onto the ice, and tying a rope to it, then I would move along the ladder to the hole and then somehow get hold of the dog's collar. In writing this now, it all seems crazy, but in an emergency situation like this, if there is no other help, you go into it figuring that you can do it, or at least you have to try. Somehow though, in the midst of this rushed effort to get out to the dog, we forgot a very important element. We had tied a rope to the ladder, but forgot to also tie another rope to me.

I moved along the ladder by straddling it in an almost prone position, and then pulled myself along it. As I slowly approached the hole in the ice the dog became more animated. She had started to whine, and was making more desperate attempts to reach me. When we had laid the ladder on the ice, we found it was too short to reach the hole, so we came up with the idea of once I was almost out there my partner would try to slide the ladder forward a few inches at a time towards the hole. Each time he pushed, I had to hold on tightly, so as not to fall onto the ice. We progressed forward little by little, but just before I reached the edge of the hole, the ice suddenly gave way under me, causing the ladder to upend and send me plunging into the hole with the dog, who immediately grabbed hold of my shoulders with its paws and held on. The ladder plunged into hole also, and disappeared quickly under the ice, dragging the unsecured rope with it.

This happened so suddenly that the shock and horror of my situation didn't register immediately. At first I just tried to get back up on the ice around the hole, but as with my previous attempts from the shoreline, the ice kept breaking away. I could see the fear and shock in my partner's face who had plunged himself into the water at the shoreline trying to reach the edge of the ice to get up on it, only to run into the same breaking ice problem.

I remember treading water, since it was well over my head. I was cold of course, but I think the wool vest, and felt-lined boots I had on may have slowed a bit the dangerous chilling of my body. I remember feeling a brief moment of panic, which fortunately didn't last too long, as our desperate attempts to get me out kept failing. No one knew we were there, and at that time of year it would only be by chance that someone would happen onto us.

As the situation began to feel more hopeless, I began to realize that I just might die there. In my head I started seeing newspaper headlines about two foolish people and a dog who happened out onto to March ice, for whatever imagined reason, and were found dead. In my desperation, after more futile attempts to get onto the ice, for a very brief instant I though maybe I could swim under the ice to the open water since it wasn't that far, but thankfully something stopped me from considering that in any serious way. I was told later that I would most definitely have died if I had tried that.

I remember there was a point where I wasn't as aware of the cold anymore, and almost felt euphoric. As I treadled water, wondering how I would ever get out of there...or if I would..I started to feel very tired. I remember so clearly watching a large flock of Red-winged blackbirds, just having returned for the spring a couple of weeks before, suddenly flying in and alighting in one of the near-by trees filling the air with their loud,distinct and welcome spring song. I remember feeling absorbed for a few seconds in the exquisite beauty of the sight and sound of those birds. As icy water slipped through the layers of my clothing, I knew time was running out and hypothermia was setting in. I remember wondering if the sight and sound of those birds would be the last thing i had a sense of before succumbing to the cold water. Perhaps that may have been part of what suddenly pushed me into a renewed effort to try to get out.

With waning strength I returned to trying to heft myself up onto the ice, as it continued to break away. All the while the dog held on, digging its claws into my shoulders. And then one of those times I got a bit further up on the ice, and the buckle on my belt caught hold of the ice, giving me just enough traction to get my whole body all the way up onto the ice. For a moment, I couldn't quite believe I was out, but quickly realized I was not out of danger since the ice could break again at any moment. I looked back at the dog who was paddling frantically now at the edge of the hole, and without thinking, I quickly reached back, grabbed her collar, and somehow, with a strength I never would have guessed I had, I dragged this big, heavy, wet dog up out of the hole and onto the ice with me. When I think back on that now, I am still amazed that I was able to do that.

Fortunately, the frozen surface held as I slid myself across the ice, dragging the dog with me. We had to get back into the water where the ice had melted back from the shore, and then finally with incredible relief, we were back on land. I could hardly stand at all,and my hands felt like useless clubs. The dog couldn't stand at all. The truck was at the top of the hill, so my partner carried the dog, while I, with great difficulty, struggled up the hill behind them.

We got the dog back to its home, just as the owner of the dog was arriving home with groceries. We were soaking wet, and I had almost lost my voice completely from the chilling in the icy water so it was difficult trying to explain what had happened. We told her that she needed to help the dog get its temperature back up to normal. She seemed a bit confused about all of that, and so casual, that I realized that she wasn't taking in how dire a situation it had been.

The dog survived and was fine for a while. I'd occasionally catch a glimpse of her in the neighbor's yard, or trotting up and down the dirt road. It made me happy to see her. I was saddened to hear many months later that she had died hemorrhaging while giving birth from an unplanned pregnancy.

I took my temperature when I go home and it was 92. If it had dropped anymore, and I had still been in the pond, I most likely would have become unconscious, and then drowned. I got in a warm shower, which I found out later, is apparently not the safest method to use to warm up from hypothermia, but I didn't know that at the time. I just wanted to get warm. For about a couple of weeks afterwards, I felt very weak and had no energy for anything. I felt as if I were recovering from a long, debilitating illness. For a few months, I had terrible recurring nightmares which always consisted of me trying desperately to get out of a hole in an ice-covered pond. Thankfully, I don't have those anymore.

Side note: Not many people have heard this story, except for family and a few friends. I realize no matter how many times I tell it, I am unable to find the right words to truly and vividly describe what it really felt like to be trapped in that ice cold water, with a feeling of no escape, and the sense for a bit that I just might die there. The local newspaper would have covered the story, probably using it as a warning to others as what not to do, if they had been told.

After that experience, you couldn't get me out on an ice covered pond ever again, even if I was reassured that the ice was thick enough. And in case, you might wonder what t do in a situation like this. First of all, if you are able, call for help. Don't try this alone. But if you accidentally fall through ice,and are stuck in a hole as I was, apparently, the best thing to do is relax your body and let it float up into a more prone position in the water, and then start kicking your feet which should propel you forward onto the ice. Stay prone, and try to slide yourself forward until you reach more solid ice.