#lank-jawed

[astralnymphh]

can we have some caregiver Ellie comforting u when you’re stressed cuz of school cuz I have an exam tmrw and I’m about to break down like ims erioisly about to start tweaking

first try at some reallll fluff, SFW!! lovey dovey!! ♡.

caregiver!ellie who will legit prepare a whole damn sauna for you to relax in. yes, going bath route. will cosset you and plant you in a warm basin of bubbly water, letting you soak up the suds on your skin whilst she undresses, speaking under the muffle of her shirt being tossed over, "can't let that bath go– mph– to waste so.." shimmies her jeans off to her ankles, "joining you." with the most loving smirk that you probably can't even see cause ur eyes are locked on the blank bath wall, thoughts running amok about that doomed exam. then the swish of water snaps droplets onto your back as her ankles sink in, swerving around your body and slouching down fully to koala–cup herself over you. now that would sever any blight of vexing thoughts, her touch. her calves glissade on each side of yours, her steely fingers meld into the flesh of your waist and pulls your backside plane to her groin, then imparts that exact pressure to your chest, asking you to lie against her non–verbally. goddess hecate, please save me cause her SKINN– ughh her skin would feel like a plush layer of cashmere under the water. her chest just radiates an enigma of flurrying heat that no electric heater could ever compare to, a kind of calidity that stems from the beating ballad of a heart. ౨ৎ anyways I went a little off beat there. her biceps, they hug yours, and her arms lank down to your belly, holding the curve of it (els especially loves belly pouches dont even get me started on els who loves ur body) and just brushing her thumb over the tender skin. does some dorky foolery like plunking her finger in your belly button for a second and going "boop." with a wrinkly smile you can hear– and feel on your nape. bespeckles your neck with kisses and licks, suckling every drop of water beelining from your head, bumps ur body lightly with her nosy nuzzles becked onto your scruff, whispering thickly, "fuck school, yeah? just hang out with me, so I can kiss you like this–" a puckered kiss to your lobe, "and this–" another given to your jaw, only sneaking closer n closer to ur lips, and with every kiss sewn her cute pointy nose just wriggles as it nudges you– random thought. sways you with her body, humming a raspy rendition of 'take on me' while her wet lashes bat on your nape, fucking melting in the existence of such a fragile moment living right between her arms. ౨ৎ

so what do we think of my fluff skills. it was so hard to not think of ellie fingering you in the bath AHHHHHH.

[horsegirlwarcrimes]

okay i absolutely HAVE to ask about "YQY and ZZLs Snadventures on Qiong Ding" 😆💚

omg hi my brother in zzl appreciation 🤝🤝🐍

this fic is my baby that i expect mmm maybe 3 people to read, but it is gonna be my next longfic after WINRN! Zhuzhi-lang finds Luo Binghe as a child and watches over him in secret. when Luo Binghe leaves for Cang Qiong, Zhuzhi-lang finds a way to assume a human shape and follow him so that he can continue to protect his cousin--only to end up accepted onto the mountain under Yue Qingyuan, the man who defeated and sealed his uncle. thus proceeds many shenanigans, disciple!Shen Yuan, Qijiu reconciliation, and Qiong Ding Peak slowly acclimated to their new martial brother who keeps unhinging his jaw to eat rats.

shared one bit here so ill drop a newer part! fic tentatively titled 'to see if i might shine'

It is on one of these ventures, letting himself drift, half-asleep, along the silty bottom of the Luo River, that Zhuzhi-lang finds a new purpose in his life.  He finds it when it crashes into him, in fact. A little body drops like a stone into the water, a tiny dark mass that Zhuzhi-lang thinks at first to be a large fish or a stray dog. Then the little body starts to flail in the water, dark hair fanning out and short limbs waving. A child.  Zhuzhi-lang is not a creature often moved to kindness. He saves his empathy sparingly, for the person who most deserves it in the world. But he is heartsick and monstrous in the river, and this creature is so small. He cannot free Junshang from his bindings, but he can save the life of this little thing.  He catches them around the chest, secures a grip with slick-scaled hands, and tosses them from the water onto the shore. They roll and curl up into a tiny dark lump, coughing up river water. There are more human children on the bank. Scruffy and scrawny but bigger than the one Zhuzhi-lang has fished out of the river. They are holding sticks, and there are thin lash marks on the pale arms of the child.  Seeing the child miraculously returned to the river bank, now pushing themselves onto hands and knees, one of the others with a stick scowls and approaches. “Hey, the dog’s been washed up. Push him again and maybe—”  Zhuzhi-lang pulls himself up onto the riverbank behind the child. He uses his arms to heave up his tail, a sheet of dark hair turned lank curtain by the water. The child he fished from the river is too busy coughing and sputtering on the ground to look around for its saviour.  The children in front of him, though, get the full view of this form. One of them whimpers. Zhuzhi-lang catches the sudden scent of urine on the wind.  He hisses, baring sharp fangs, and the children flee with shrill screams.  The half-drowned child finishes expelling water from their lungs and rolls over. Zhuzhi-lang lowers himself back down to lay flat on the ground when the other children run away, but he knows how he looks. Without Junshang’s blood keeping him stabilized and humanoid, he is a monstrosity. He expects this child, too, to scream demon and run when they realize what, exactly, has saved them from the icy Luo river.  Then large, dark eyes blink up at him. Painfully familiar eyes, in a painfully familiar small face.  The child freezes. Zhuzhi-lang freezes right back, as much from the shock of that face in miniature as for the child’s comfort. They both lay there, on the banks of the river, for a long minute, watching each other.  The child with Junshang’s eyes and Young Mistress Su’s face gingerly pulls themselves off of the ground. They kneel in the dirt in front of him. “A river monster…?” The child asks. 

thanks sm for the ask! ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

[rattycattyfanfic]

haircut

for @mirroredmemoriez 's prompt!

7.) Lynn helping Amanda cut her hair. Be it a wholesome or angst thing up to you. As they say, hair holds memories.

743 words, mentions of mandy mental illness??? and suggestion of sh. if anyone would like to submit short simple prompts that i can deal with in less than 800 words, my inbox is open!!

It’s a bad day for her today, and it looks like blunt kitchen scissors and dull hair at the bottom of the sink. She’s been thinking about it for a while, tugging at limp hair whenever she glances too long in the mirror and glorifying the freedom of those first few weeks of her shitty DIY haircut that she’d done after her first test. She’s been thinking about it for a while, and it is so like her to run towards a sharp object at the first sign of trauma flooding back. 

Amanda stares deep into the mirror, stares at the gaunt shadows beneath her eyes and the odd chop of her hair, and then her stomach twists unpleasantly and she attacks another long strand of hair. Her mind is full of faces recently, John’s and Adam’s and even Lynn’s, sweaty and nervous in her shotgun collar. She can’t stand to look at her own face. The scissors cut dully through another chunk of lank hair and she imagines she is shedding not just her hair but her own skin, her own self.

“Mandy?”

Lynn’s voice through the bathroom door, muffled and concerned, but never distrustful, never scared. It makes her feel worse, somehow. She’s just cutting her hair, and yet she feels like she’s been caught red-handed, bloody-handed, caught in old habits. It’s just a haircut, and she feels like a guilty dog. “What,” she calls out, the scissors shaking in her hand.

A pause, a thoughtful silence, and then a blunt, “You’ve been in there a while. Everything ok?” Lynn is like that, now. Thoughtful, yet clinical in a way. Mandy likes it, likes it straightforward. Lynn doesn’t mince words, doesn’t talk through stupid metaphors or half-truths that she has to work to understand. She likes that about her. She’s not stupid, but she likes that about her.

“Fine,” she grunts, and it sounds too loud to her. She chops another section of hair, and then chops at the same chunk again, unsatisfied, unsettled, and again, and again. She throws the scissors down into the sink with a frustrated clink of metal against porcelain. 

“I’m coming in, ok?” Lynn says through wood after another long pause. She’s coming in. Amanda could stop her, has the strength to hold the door shut, has the slight physical edge, even knows Lynn would listen if she contested. She stands still and stares into the mirror instead. 

The door squeaks open, and Lynn furrows her brow, probably. Takes in her shitty haircut, probably, and immediately recognises it for the sign of turmoil that it is. “Oh,” Lynn murmurs, and stays there for a second with one hand on the door knob and the other worrying the edge of her camisole. And then she’s moving, and Amanda doesn’t even feel the need to flee. She stays very still and quiet until Lynn is at her shoulder, brushing a few stray cut hairs away from her cheek. “Short hair suits you,” is all she says, low and soft, and meets Amanda’s eyes in the mirror. 

Amanda trembles, and then scoffs. “It looks shit.”

“It’s a bit rough, sure,” Lynn murmurs, and fingers a chunk of hair sticking out sideways ever so tenderly. “I like it,” she says, and her thumb trails slowly down the newly exposed curve of her jaw, back up to the round of her cheek. “Can I help?” Her other hand edges slowly towards the sink, palm up, offering, tentative. 

Wordless, Amanda nods jerkily, and scrambles for the scissors abandoned in the hairy sink. She deposits them in Lynn’s open palm and it feels heavy, meaningful. “Sure. Thanks.”

Lynn nods, and offers a small quirk of her mouth in the mirror, and Amanda watches as she gently goes about neatening up what she’d already cut short. She takes her time, stops, pauses to look and think and then trims some more, careful and slow. Amanda tries to stay very still even though her knees feel like jelly, and after a quiet eternity, Lynn sets the scissors down on the edge of the sink. She runs her finger tips through the short spiky hairs at the nape of Amanda’s neck, scratches gently. “Looks good,” she whispers. “Do you feel better?”

Amanda shivers. She nods. She stares into the mirror and the hair does look better, and Lynn is at her back pressing a gentle kiss against the shell of her ear. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

[emyn-arnens]

No need to do this because I already got one, but if it inspires, any character(s) + Angband (and area) + 'shadows of madness and despair'. (You did say darker ones...)

An age later, here this is! An AU with Finrod and Sauron in Angband, ~700 words | AO3.

Finrod stood in the dark of his cell, searching. A hushed song fell from his cracked lips. Its notes buried themselves deep within the stones and mortar of his cell, probing for fissures and points of weakness.

In whispered words, he sang of loosening, of breaking, of splitting, of falling free, of light piercing the shadows. The stones trembled at his voice, and his chains shivered against his skin. Dust trickled over his fingertips, pressed against the stone wall behind him. He scratched at a line of mortar with his fingernail as he sang, and a spray of dust fell upon his hands.

He sang of the lashing rain throwing down great rocks in mountain passes, of the flash of lightning cleaving mighty trees in two, of the thunder of cavalry rattling the mountainsides, of the howling of wind splitting strong walls asunder. The stones of his cell danced and quivered in response, and dust and shards of stone fell like rain, biting into his bare skin.

Finrod sang louder, until the stones shook with both the power of his song and the ringing of his voice.

And then, in an instant, the stones fell silent and still, and his voice died in his throat.

Shadows, darker than those he already stood in, gathered in a corner of his cell, and from them came a voice: “Thou hast great power in thy voice, but it will not avail thee.” The shadows twisted and coiled, and from them stepped his captor.

Finrod bore Sauron’s mocking appraisal in silence. 

Sauron circled him, the shadows following him like the swish of a cloak. He tipped a clawed finger beneath Finrod’s chin and looked deep into his eyes, searching. His own eyes burned like the hearts of embers.

Shadows and whispers pressed upon Finrod’s mind, probing, prying. He held his mind silent and still.

Sauron tilted his head. He lifted his hand to Finrod’s face, studying it with appreciation, and the slow stroke of his fingers down the side of Finrod’s face was like a caress, even as the tips of his claws drew beads of blood from Finrod’s skin. “Wast thou a king? Thou hast a kingly bearing.”

Finrod did not speak.

Sauron gripped his chin and leaned closer until his breath stirred Finrod’s hair, lying lank against his neck and shoulders. “Thy tongue is better suited to song than silence,” he murmured. His words skittered over Finrod’s skin like the grazing of claws. He released Finrod and stepped back, a smile playing upon his lips. “Sing for me, little king.”

Finrod did not speak.

Sauron’s smile spread. “If thou dost not wish to sing of thy own doing, I can aid thee in loosening thy tongue.” 

The shadows that clung to him peeled away, and in an instant, they seized Finrod’s throat and forced open his jaw, and a cry tore from his lips.

“Sing.” The command filled the cell until the stones trembled.

Finrod’s voice tore from his throat despite himself, and he sang. He sang until his tongue was thick with dust, until his lips cracked and bled, and until his voice was no more. He sang until his limbs shook and trembled, and he sagged in his chains, utterly spent.

Only then did the shadows about his throat relent and slink back to their master.

Sauron cupped Finrod’s face in his hand, and his eyes burned into Finrod’s. “I will learn thy true name in time, and thou wilt come to do my bidding of thine own will.”

Finrod’s tongue was too heavy to respond.

Sauron brushed his fingers over Finrod’s lips and then smiled, sudden and sharp. “Dost thou thirst?” The sound of falling water filled the cell, and a rivulet of water trickled from a crack in the wall mere feet away from Finrod.

Sauron vanished as quickly as he had appeared, and Finrod stood alone in his cell once more. He strained at his chains, but though he strained until his limbs burned, the trickle of water evaded his reach, and he collapsed against the wall more weary and parched than he had been.

The rivulet of water disappeared. Lilting laughter echoed about the stone walls of his cell. How foolish thou art, little king.

And all through the night came the sound of gently falling rain, though not a single drop fell upon Finrod's skin.

[layla4567]

Hello there! I love your May The Force Be With You so much that I am requesting one! Here’s mine: The reader calms Cal down when he is using the Dark Side (During Jedi Survivor near the end when he’s chocking Lan Denvick) but you choose the reader calms him down.

oki doki!

I'm right here

Pairing: Cal Kestis x Fem reader Summary: Cal seeks revenge by using the dark side of the force against the hidden base of the Imperial Security Office. You arrive just in time before he does something crazy Warnings: Blood, violence, fight, chocking, spoilers of jedi survivor, angst but fluff ending kinda (If I forget something let me know) A/N: This is my first request, sorry for the delay, btw I had to research the game to write this lol

Cal walked with sure and furious steps towards the base, wielding his saber that now shone bright red ready to attack anyone who crossed his path. The red light contrasted with his green eyes and gave him a menacing look, Cal wanted revenge, to avenge the death of his friends and his seething anger toward embracing his dark side. You stayed on the ship praying that nothing bad happens to him or that he doesn't cause a lot of blood to flow. You understood Cal more than anyone and how painful it is to lose a loved one, especially when they had already lost someone before.

Finding Lank Denvik sitting behind a command desk, Cal approached him with BD1 slung over his shoulder. The redhead's gaze showed no compassion or patience.

"Cak Kestis"-Lank said

"Listen carefully, deactivate the alarm system now"

"Or what? You're a Jedi, I know what you're capable of and what you're not capable of."

Denvik took out a blaster that he had hidden but Cal was faster and took it out of his hands thanks to the force. The freckled man took out his own gun without stopping pointing it at him.

"On the comms. Now"-The redhead said impatiently and intimidatingly, knowing that one mistake and he would just have to pull the trigger.

After deactivating the alarm Cal explained that he was there because of Bode, and saying that he found him thanks to a tracker. Unsurprised, Lank, as if accustomed to her pathetic carelessness, simply casually commented that Bode's reports indicated that the two of them had become quite close since Coruscant. Cal's gruff expression softened slightly as he lowered his gun slowly, something in his brain clicking, as if his gears had been set into motion.

"You were the one who sent him to infiltrate my team.."

"That's right, he was my weapon for a long time, he was very effective. Not like those armored idiots in the inquisitorious"

"So it's true, Cere died because of you"-Cal's gaze became hard as steel again as he gritted his teeth.

Lank leaned forward in his seat. "No, there are still months until Operation Jedha"

"You're lying!"-The redhead used force by clenching his fist to push Lank's back against his seat and immobilize him.

"The empire burned the archives led by Darth vader!!"

"Lord Vader? I have to stop this while I can"

The man approached the commandos again but Cal extended his hand firmly and pushed him back again in anger.

"Don't you understand? He lured you here to destroy me! They're coming! I'll be a dead man unless-"

The redhead clenched his jaw, tired of listening to him speak, without thinking twice he drew his fist towards his chest and Lank's head hit the table making a thud. Cal looked at him with a sullen expression, the only thing he felt was displeasure for that man. With his black inquisitor suit, to go unnoticed, he decided to head towards where Bode was always with his droid at his side. When she arrived she saw Bode's daughter Kata packing her bags, the little girl explained that that was what her father had told her to do because they were supposedly going on a trip. At that moment Bode entered the room, when he saw Cal his muscles tensed, the redhead took a step with a predatory look in his pupils but Bode extended his hand in a stop sign and explained his past. That he was a Jedi Knight assigned as an undercover agent during the Clone Wars. Bode also talked to him about how he met his wife and they had Kata and the deal with Denvik. Cal let his guard down a little at Bode's story but that was his only mistake. Using force, Bode pushes him making him fall on his back and escapes with Kata and the compass alerting the imperials.

Cal, flushed with anger and with dilated pupils, leaves the room without being able to stop Bode and his daughter, just at that moment dozens of imperials are preparing to shoot him. Cal wields his saber embracing the dark side and faces the soldiers, dodging and blocking each blow while with his red saber he cuts the armor and flesh of the Imperials. He is an unstoppable beast, like an enraged bull he cuts the skin and impales several imperials without much difficulty, the desire for revenge and anger moves him as if he were carried away by a wave or ocean currents. Memories of all the people he received love from and then lost came to his mind. He no longer knew how to differentiate between anger and sadness, a whirlwind of emotions debated inside him but an emotion stronger than the others surfaced and won everything. Hatred.

Meanwhile in the Mantis

You and Greez were waiting for Cal to finish his mission. Since you were used to fighting you already had your uniform and your blaster on your belt, you nervously felt it to know it was still there. Greez reassured you by telling you that Cal knew how to defend himself and that he would be fine, but Cal knowing how to defend himself is exactly what worried you. Many times you had seen him succumb to the dark side of the force and you had to hug him so that he would return to the light, you hoped that this time it would be different, that Cal would not make too big a massacre. But you couldn't blame him, if he were you you would have done the same, he was just hurt and he needed to somehow vent those feelings into something to make sure Cere's death wasn't in vain.

Suddenly a roar and screams shook the Mantis and made the ground vibrate. You two had to hold on to your seats to keep from falling to the ground. You looked at Greez with concern and fear, you had to get out of there as soon as possible. After the tremor passed you jumped up from your seat and headed towards the exit of the ship. Greez stopped you screaming

"Wait! where are you going!?"

"I need to find Cal, he's the one causing this."

You adjusted the blaster to your belt and were about to leave when he grabbed your arm firmly, you turned to look at him with a frown.

"No, no no wait! Don't do anything stupid. Trust him"

You removed his hand with a distressed gesture.

"You don't understand, he is in contact with the dark side, he has no self-control. I am the only one who can stop him!"

Before Greez could say anything you jumped off the ship, landing on one knee on the cold floor of the base and ran like hell. Greez yelled something at you but you didn't listen, all you thought about was finding him. You ran and ran with your hair flying in the wind wishing it wasn't too late. At your sides there were imperialist soldiers on the ground dead and bleeding, you looked away in horror.

"Please don't let it be late"-you prayed in a low voice without stopping running

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Cal continued massacring soldiers, he was breathing heavily and his hair had stuck to his sweaty forehead from the effort. The lightsaber gave off red sparks like fire and hummed with every cut and movement, the freckled man did not notice the fatigue, the hatred and aberration he felt was like pure adrenaline injected into his veins and drove him to continue attacking no matter what. When there was no more imperial, Cal, breathing like a rearing horse, deactivated his saber. You were still running around the corpses when you finally saw him, you felt your heart beat out of your chest and with slight relief you trotted towards him. Cal saw you and a look of surprise wrinkled his forehead, he didn't expect to see you there.

"Cal!"

You shouted his name as you quickly approached him with a small smile and great relief, at least he was still alive. You were not even a meter away when your smile faded and with horror you saw how Denvik was approaching Cal from behind with a blaster in his hand.

"Watch out behind you!!"

The redhead already saw it coming, so returning to his sullen and enraged gesture, he unsheathed his saber and blocked the shots with ease while he attracted Lank with the use of force, preventing him from moving. Cal raised his saber and held it tightly dangerously close to the man's neck, the red glow shining on Cal's face and giving him a menacing look. You closed the distance between you and Cal and came to stand close to him at his side, scared of what he might do.

"Come on Jedi, if you're going to kill me, do it now. Do it!!"

But Cal had other plans. He put his saber away and raised his clawed hand, levitating Lanken as he writhed and put his hands on his neck, coughing. Cal was choking him.

"Cordova, CERE! THEY ARE DEAD BECAUSE OF YOU!! And now you're going to pay for it..."

Lank was beginning to cough and gasp for air, his face was turning slightly purple while his eyes wanted to pop out of their sockets.

"Cal, enough is enough..!"

Your cries of fear and anguish were words inaudible to Cal as if they had been carried away by the wind. He couldn't listen or even reason, he only had eyes to see Lanken die, the man who made him suffer so much and took away his friends, his family. Cal's gaze fell on the man's face as it went from violet to pinkish red, and a slight grimace of satisfaction crossed the redhead's lips for a moment. Cal seemed to enjoy his suffering, using force was much more pleasant than if he had impaled him with his saber, a slow and painful death was what Lanken deserved. You, horrified, placed a hand on Cal's tense shoulder, hoping he would listen.

"Cal listen to me, I'm here, please don't do it. Don't become a murderer like him."

Cal didn't seem to listen, he just kept seeing his enemy, you tried to attack from the other side.

"Do you really think this is what Cere or Cordova would have wanted? Prove that you're better than him."

You grabbed the freckled man's cheek, forcing him to look at him. He looked back at you, blinded by fury, but you didn't care.

"Cal look at me, this won't make them come back, please come back to me, I'm begging you"- you cried.

The redhead's face softened and he released Lanken who fell abruptly to the ground while holding his chest and coughing and retching. For a moment Cal seemed to come back to himself, as if a blindfold had been removed from his eyes and his gaze softened, once again showing that sweet and gentle look that made his green eyes shine with heavenly intensity. He looked around as if seeing it for the first time, realizing the damage he did, feeling a little guilty under the sad sight, you approached him and rested your forehead against his, grabbing his cheeks gently.

"It's okay, it's over"

You rubbed your forehead against his like horses would and then hugged him tightly, burying your face in the crook of his neck, not wanting to let him go again. He sighed, holding you and he relaxed his body as if you had lifted a great weight off of him. As you slowly peeled yourself away from the hug, you noticed that his eyes were watering. You tenderly wiped away the tears that surrounded his cheek with your thumb. You understood Cal's pain more than anyone and you didn't want him to suffer alone because he wasn't alone, and he never was. You gave him a sweet kiss on the lips to reassure him and assure him that you would always be by his side supporting him and then feeling slightly better he gave you a shy smile, the one you missed seeing so much.

"Let's go back to the ship, Greez must be worried"

You told him as you placed a hand on his back and you both walked tiredly towards the Mantis.

[happyk44]

Jason digging his teeth into Coral's skin, blood coating his tongue as he goes deeper and deeper. She sits and stares at him. The pain curls a frown across her lips but she says nothing about the way he pulls his teeth closer together, wanting to rip flesh off the bone, but holding back from Hazel's tense hand wrapped around the back of his neck, loose but tentative, a warning of I will scruff you, little pup.

He bites harder and harder. He seeks bone. Coral grumbles quietly under her breath. Her eyes stay lifeless. A limp dead fish atop grainy sands. He is the ever vigilant bird high above, grabbing the sun-rotted carcass in sharp talons before it gathers flies and maggots. Before it ruins what it beautiful and perfect.

Hazel's fingertips stroke gently across his skin. Hairs prickle across his neck. Blood swallows down his throat. Iron and salt sticks to his tongue.

You are not judge, jury, and executioner, Hazel said as she dragged him down from Coral's throat to her palid arm. From a foot away, she'd grabbed his jaw and clamped it shut before his teeth could wrap around plump artery there. Before he could kill, kill, kill, I have to kill her, she's going to break everything.

He knows he cannot be all three. He knows this even when stress digs into his spine to hold him rimrod straight. Even when his mind has been thundering for days, for weeks. When it keeps him from sleep and rest. When it pulses through his skin, and he remembers standing small and young, staring up at adults who knew best, as they pushed his purpose over and over again - child of Jupiter, you must be great, you must stand strong, the face of New Rome, a leader to the end, never fail your people, never fail us.

He knows it best when the subconscious becomes conscious and love means nothing as he carefully plots out how to force his friends into the line of righteousness, how to get rid of them if they fail to follow the letter and spirit of the law. He knows it best when he sees potential enemies in everyone, when trust drains away, when vindication bullies empathy, when he holds still for a moment instead of helping immediately.

When punishment becomes the only form of justice that makes sense.

I am a compassionate caring person, he thinks as he tilts his head and pushes his teeth into untouched flesh, never departing from the arm he's dug into. I understand the nuances in situations. I understand people have their own habits and I am okay with that. Fresh blood stains his teeth. The world is not black and white.

Coral shifts.

He glared at her. The world is not black and white, but she sits in its shadows without care or compassion. Like the ocean waves against rocky shores, she breaks things. Orderliness, social rules.

The rules written in large text for the park.

He is the wind, scattering seeds where they may grow away from harsh tides. He is humanity fixing the horrors of erosion. He is a dog protecting against a vile predator.

She tilts her head. "Are you done yet? It hurts. And I have to pee." She crinkles her trash in her free hand. "We can throw it away when we go to the bathroom."

No littering.

He growls through each word. No, no, he thinks. He can't let her go, can't let her correct her mistake. There must be no mistakes. Perfection each time. Especially when the rules are written so clear and obvious. When they've been taught since childhood.

He closes his eyes. I am a compassionate caring person, he reminds himself. Correction comes first. Discipline. Punishment. He exhales hotly. Then death.

He doesn't detach right away. Another set of minutes flitters by, narrowed in blood and spit and soft touches and a cool breeze. Then he lets go. Licks blood and pieces of skin off his teeth as he eases into Hazel's steady grip. She doesn't let go. Not yet.

Coral admires the massive bite on her forearm. Jagged from where he shifted. She hums and lets her arm fall lank to her side, rising up. Jason rises with her. Hazel's hand drops. Instead she loops her arm with Jason's.

As they head for the bathroom, Coral pauses at a trash can and drops the litter in. "I can't believe litter broke you," she says.

He scowls but the pensive and paranoid fears have fallen away. It was never this bad when he lived at Camp Jupiter - people followed the rules. Perhaps not perfectly or obediently, but swiftly they'd be disciplined and punished if insubordination was spotted. He wanted to be different. Explain the how's of being lawful and why's of its importance. Outside it, even just in New Rome, was harder to parse. People did as they pleased. Treated the rules and laws like guidelines, suggestions. Most people were good, but everyone experienced lawlessness at one point or another, and while Jason didn't believe in some rules, the mere existence of them sat in the back of his mind as he traveled from place to place. And the worse people were, the worse he got, and the more every law in effect became important - even if he didn't care about them.

Hazel's annoyed look when he stopped her from jaywalking early that day flickered through his mind. An empty road and still they walked another three blocks to the crosswalk, only to turn and continue on towards the park in the same direction they had come from.

Now, his mind slowly relaxing away from the bitterness he'd been boiling in, he doesn't care about jaywalking once more. He'll do it without stress. He'll dart between cars if he has to.

The clawing sensation of the world will end has faded. He fought the dismissal of the law and won. The world fully isn't upright, but it never was. Luckily for him, Hazel understands what it's like to feel like everything is off, sloped and sliding, when it's not. But for right now it's only slightly tilted. The normal amount of unsteadiness he's known since childhood.

"I don't litter," Coral adds, pulling her backpack open and fishing a small tied up plastic bag out. She dumps the contents - wrappers and plastic and an apple core wrapped in a napkin - then puts the bag back inside. "I like nature."

"I like nature too." Hazel leans into Jason's side. "Jason?"

"I am nature," he says. Hazel's face falls flat. "Nature nature and human nature."

With a roll of her eyes, Hazel steps aside. Her arm dislodges from Jason's, but her hand catches his in a loose hold. "You are not human nature. You're what human nature plans to be at three in the morning while rearranges its room but fails to follow through on almost immediately the next day."

He huffs, and hipchecks her gently on their way to the bathrooms. The door to the stalls is locked. Coral still pulls on the doorknob aggressively, shaking the very hinges.

He swats at her. "Stop that - I got it."

Kneeling at the door, he threads gentle touches of a breeze inside the lock, feeling the mechanisms inside. Coral takes a step and half away from him. Hazel hovers close, peering over her shoulder like she'll what's happening inside if she breathes down his neck.

"Breaking and entering is against the law," she teases.

"Shut up."

She snorts and leans across his back. It takes a moment then the lock clicks. Hazel slips back as he stands and tugs the door open.

"Sometimes there aren't bathrooms when I have to pee."

"Nice trick," Coral says. She points at large bush near edge of the concrete walls. "I was just gonna piss in that bush."

He doesn't get it. "Why would you do that?"

"There's a working bathroom right here!" he says, gesturing rapidly at the open doorway.

Coral stares blankly at him. "It was locked."

"I opened it!"

"It was locked though!"

He pulled at the edge of his shirt. "Then find a window! Or break the door! You don't urinate or defecate in a random public area when there is a working restroom nearby! It is unsanitary, and what if-"

"Oh my gods, Jason, no!" Hazel yells. She drags him back and down until their faces are parallel to each other. "She's not going to pee in the bush, you opened the door, it's fine." She snaps her free hand at Coral. "Coral! Bathroom, now!" She snaps her fingers just above Jason's face. "Jason! Calm down! This is not the time to start spiraling again, especially when I know you've gone to the bathroom outside."

"Those were-"

She pulls him further down. "No," she says, voice firm as stone. "Calm." Without looking away from Jason, she says, "And Coral, I said go to the bathroom."

Coral rolls back on her heels. Then shrugs. "Okay."

She disappears into the bathroom. Jason breathes slow and steady through his nose. Slowly Hazel releases him. She massages her temple with a quiet groan. "I am so tired."

"I might need to kill Coral again later," Jason says.

"Yeah, I figured that when you started yelling about bathrooms."

He takes a moment, then tries, "I mean, it is unsanitary and-"

"I need you to shut up so much right now."

Her arms drop to her sides. Jason teeters on the balls of his feet, then quietly rubs his cheek against her head. She snorts. Letting him continue to rub, rub, rub, she pats his chest softly.

"Good boy," she murmurs when he finally pulls away.

Coral appears again. She stands quietly close but not too close. Jason can't help himself before he barks out, "You washed your hands?"

A damp smack to his cheek is his answer. Hazel laughs, a quiet wheezy thing. Her fingers thread between his. She rests her head on his shoulders. "Alright, I'm hungry, and there has to be some place around here that's open." She reaches out and pokes Coral's bicep. "You're coming with us."

There's a slight shift in Coral's face. Just barely perceptible. "No."

Hazel rolls her eyes. "Did I sound like I was asking?" The silver bracelet on Coral's wrist yanks her closer to them. "Don't worry. You'll survive a little quiet human contact." She tilts her face to grin at Jason. "And Jason's technically part wolf so it's not even full human contact."

"Zombie," Jason huffs.

Coral's brow wrinkles. "No."

"I don't care," Hazel says, and she gives another yank of Coral's bracelet. "It's cousin time."

Coral stares at it like she's tempted to rip off. Then over at Hazel, brows furrowing further. There's a slight taste of salt in the air. Then it fizzles away. Taking short step to the side, Coral says nothing. She doesn't run, or fight. Simply smooths her hands down her thighs and gazes out to the grass and tree.

"Great." Hazel pushes the door shut. "Let's go find food."

The shadows warp and wiggle. Still at a small distance, Coral quietly takes Hazel's other hand. Her gaze holds on their interconnected fingers then drifts to Jason and Hazel's. Is she comparing them? Hazel's loose hold with her compared to the tighter grip between her and Jason?

Her eyes catch Jason's. He watches her as she watches him - chaos and order held in balance by the earth between them. Then, at the same time, their gazes separate as Hazel pulls them into the cool and dark.

[blood-mocha-latte]

Gurl. Sledgefu Valentine-day drabble! Make it fluff, make it angst, make it heart-shaped! *guitar riff*

LINH you’re a genius truly. i had way too much fun with this; enjoy some modern au sledgefu for the Number One sledgefu pal <3

~

“‘m just sayin’. You broke up with me.” 

Merriell flicked at Eugene’s ear, staring up at the ceiling in something that could almost be amusement, if he wasn’t almost flat-on-his-ass fucked out. “I did it for good reasons.” He muttered, bringing his smoke to his mouth with the fingers that weren’t running through Eugene’s hair, lank with sweat and darkened to a burnt carmine. 

From where he rested his head at his chest, Eugene stretched, reaching his own nimble fingers up to take the cigarette from Snafu, bruised lips wrapping around it absently. The sight of him hollowing his cheeks out to pull at it made the corner of Merriell’s mouth quirk up, an almost helpless smile, and Eugene arched a pale eyebrow, unimpressed. Snafu shook his head.

“Just rememberin’, ‘s all.” He said, smooth, tugging at Eugene’s hair. “Gimme my smoke back.”

Eugene released it easily enough. “What in the hell’s a good reason.” He muttered, not a question, temple sticky with sweat where it rested against Merriell’s bare collarbone, shifting slightly.

It was goddamn hot, in the room, because Merriell’s AC broke a week and a half ago and he hadn’t gotten along to getting it fixed, even though he could easily, and he wasn’t expecting this. Not anymore.

“A good reason is realisin’ that all we had in common wasn’t good enough, cher.” Snafu said. Because Eugene might have been his ex, now, but he was always just Sledge, first, and Merriell didn’t lie. He never would. 

Eugene didn’t seem insulted, by his reason. Instead, he just snorted, pale and freckled nose wrinkling up delicately. “Why do you say it like that?” He asked, his own accent curling queerly around his words, and Merriell wrinkled his nose right back.

“Like what? Cher?” He asked, and Eugene huffed, leaning forward to peck at his lips in what was more of a bite than anything else. 

“My sister-in-law’s been learnin’ French.” He said, clever mouth leaving Merriell’s own to suck a gentle mark under his jaw. “And it doesn't sound anything like that. Y’sound like you’re sayin’ the first syllable in Shawshank Redemption.” 

He followed the honey-words with a sharper bite at Merriell’s jaw, and Snafu hissed slightly as his tongue soothed the mark. “Y’ever even seen Shawshank Redemption?”  He asked, fingers still teasing through Eugene’s hair, tugging none so gently. Eugene made a discontented sound as he did, releasing Merriell’s skin to bat away the hand in his hair.

“No.” He said, eyes still dilated, lips a cherry-soda red. Merriell hummed, tugging on his hair slightly to force him forward, another biting kiss. 

And if they were still dating, and if Merriell thought he had any sort of permission to have Eugene in any way other than this, he would make promises.

Would whisper them against Eugene’s bruised and blood-welled skin, would bite them into his lips. Would promise to show him movies, or teach him phrases, or show him how to break a copperhead’s spine just right so it became like a scaly rope in his palms.

But they weren’t still dating, and Merriell wouldn’t promise him anything. Not when he had any right to. Never did, even, maybe.

When they were, they didn’t call it that, and Merriell taught him different things, anyhow. Like how to best read a map. Keep sand out of his rifle carbine. Line up the sights just right, leading a running man on, and squeezing the trigger—

Merriell’s skin almost crawled. 

He didn’t want to think about that.

Instead, he pressed lips to Eugene’s tacky-warm skin, an unspoken, unpromised prayer. Eugene leaned into him, a near affectionate cat, before pushing away from Merriell’s chest to lay back on his mattress. Snafu only had one pillow, so he closed his eyes against his sheets with a soft hum, eyes slipping shut.

Merriell was helpless to only watch him, heart somewhere in his throat and somewhere in the sand, the sky, the ocean.

“All we had in common wasn’t good enough.” Eugene murmured, lips forming the same words that Merriell had said seconds before with none so much of a whisper. “I think that’s bullshit, Mer.”

Merriell released a soft, hoarse sound in the back of his throat, maybe a protest. “‘s a good reason.” He said, as convincingly as he could. He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, anymore. “All we had was a secret. That was it.”

Eugene stretched, back arching against the mattress, eyes staying closed. Midday sun streamed through wooden blinds, striping him like a gold-red tiger, freckled and warm and tacky with sweat.

“Mutual frustration over the DADT.” He murmured thoughtfully, and Merriell hummed.

“And the DADT’s been repealed, boo.” He said, like it wasn’t obvious, like they hadn’t fucking celebrated it, like they both hadn’t known that it was going to be their end. 

Eugene rolled over onto his stomach like he didn’t know. “Bite me.” He said, and, as always, the phrase in his mouth made Merriell smile. “Not like it matters. What’s my favourite colour?”

“Green.” Snafu said unthinkingly, the word on his tongue like it had always been there. Eugene hummed, reaching out a single reddened, freckled hand towards him, running light fingertips over Merriell’s cheekbones, the wedge of his nose.

“And what’s your favourite colour?”

Snafu huffed, impertinent, but responded to him all the same. That was another problem; he couldn’t fucking refuse him a thing. “Green.”

“See? There you go.” Eugene sounded almost entirely too smug. “I should come down here and visit more often.”

Coming down and visiting was more akin to Eugene tracking Merriell down through Burgie and then threatening his address out of his boss, and visiting was more like jimmying the lock on his door and not letting Snafu push him out. 

“You broke down my fucking door like we were still in Iraq, Genie.” He said, his words slurred by Eugene’s trailing fingers across his lips, and Eugene leaned forward further, kissing at the mark he’d left under Merriell’s jaw heartbeats beforehand.

“Well, you ran away like we were still in Iraq, Merriell, so all’s fair.” He said evenly, smugly, and Snafu turned to squint his eyes at him.

“If this is what college is doing to you,” he said, in reference to the general rebuking and smugness, “you need to quit immediately. It’s not good for you.”

Eugene’s laugh was a huffing exhale, breathed across the side of Merriell’s face. “On the contrary,” he said, “I’m gonna start bringing you with me.”

“I don’t know how to read.” Snafu said immediately.

“Mm. That would make sense, you never responded to any of my emails.”

“Yeah. My reading dog is only down here every other month to go through my taxes for me. ‘s a real delicate system, Gene. My brain would burn outta my skull ‘f you brought me anywhere near a school.”

Eugene hummed, a low, playful rumble, and shifted up to press his lips to Merriell’s again, tongue tracing the seam of his lips.

“Best just keep you here, then.” He muttered, and Snafu hummed, hand shifting up to run through Eugene’s hair, again.

“Alright.” He said, in between bruised and gentle kisses. “But just remember—” Eugene pushed up and over him, laying directly on top of him, their legs tangling together, and Merriell brought his other hand to press against the back of his neck. “I broke up with you.” 

Eugene hummed, and it sounded amused in a way that Snafu’d never heard, anywhere else. 

“I hear you did it for good reasons.” He mumbled against Snafu’s lips.

[zeestarfishalien]

go to work

[spotify link]

The beginning of it was subtle. Danny just started talking less. Tucker and Sam attributed it to lack of sleep, which was true to a certain extent. He seemed to attack things with a peculiar single mindedness. Slowly his time spent relaxing with Sam and Tucker, just messing around and being a kid, became less and less. They assumed he was catching up on sleep or stuck in yet another ghost fight. By the time they realized what was happening, it was too late to stop him.

Got a feelin’ creepin’ under my skin

It began with a bad week. Sleep was something Danny could only daydream about in the brief moments he had to think. It’s ghost after ghost after ghost and then it’s assignment after test after quiz and in that time Danny managed to slip into sleep long enough to reach REM stage twice. With his mind shutting down he kept only two things in mind. Schoolwork and Hero work. All else fell to the side as his mind latched onto those things with a singleminded focus. He doesn’t remember much from that week, only the knowledge that if he stopped he’d breakdown right then and there and be of no use to anyone.

My mind hits a new trauma every rest of my head

The dreams are the worst part of sleeping. Not dreams…nightmares. Most days Danny is more tired after sleeping than before. He just smiles and gets back to work. Words fall from his mouth with most of them forgotten before they finish leaving his lips.

Kind lips get twisted dipped in poison

He knows he’s flinching anytime his parents come near but Danny can’t quite bring himself out of the fog in his mind long enough to control his instincts. Is it words of love or hate coming from them? He can’t stay focused on the conversation long enough to know. Is he “beloved Danno” or “ghostly menace?” Does it matter? They’re both him. He deserves it right? If he can’t protect everyone he’s useless. He can’t let himself become an annoyance so he has to go to work work.

Don’t care if I’m really ready

Go to work work

And my everything is unsteady

The fear of becoming Dan presses at the edges of his consciousness and so Danny throws himself harder into work. He can’t be idle. If he stops, then he has time to think and if he has time to think then the panic will set in.

My sanity slips and all the straws runnin’ thin

At some point school falls off his priority list. He retreats. He’s either in Amity fighting ghosts or in the Zone fighting ghosts. He barely remembers his name sometimes, but names don’t matter when you’re working. He doesn’t deserve a name if he can’t protect the town. He can’t fail, he can’t fail, he can’t fail…

Go to work work

If they hadn’t been assured that this was the same ghost, the heroes present would swear that this was something entirely different.

The spirit before them barely resembles the young boy he once was in life and early death. Teeth sharp for ripping and tearing flesh from anything too close to that wide jaw. Skin an eerie opalescent blue that seems almost translucent in the sun. The symbol on his chest is nearly obscured by the long white hair that hangs in lank strands over his face and chest. His limbs are either more of a suggestion or things too long and with one too many joints. Or even worse a joint that moves the wrong way.

The thing before them can barely be called human adjacent, but the kids who dragged them in insist that he’s still alive and human even if only half.

They watch as those needle sharp teeth rip another ghost’s arm off and they find themselves struggling to reconcile the image.

[Edit:] Feel free to add onto this or change it and take it in a whole different direction

[little-peril-stories]

Febuwhump Day 12 - Semi-Conscious

From The Prince of Thieves:

It’s not fine. I’m no doctor—farthest thing from one—but even I know this is bad. “You want to lie down?”

“No.” He leans back against the wall. It can’t be comfortable with the other wounds pressed against the stone, but he doesn’t complain.

“It’s going to hurt.”

“I know.”

He is quieter than I expect while I wash out the shoulder wound. No cries of pain. The first time I glance at his face, his eyes are squeezed tightly closed, his jaw set. The next time, his eyes are open, but his gaze is distant. I wonder if he’s even really feeling it.

“Are you still with me?” I ask, letting my lank, unwashed hair fall in front of my face as I wring out the cloth. He nods, but he says nothing, and I know he’s not. Not really.

Hatchett would want me to take advantage of this moment. Ask for Fox’s name, see if he gives it. I keep the question to myself. Baden Hatchett thinks he knows me. He fucking doesn’t. I’m selfish, but not in the way he thinks.

[afearsomeartisan]

Sitting crosslegged in the cage is a shirtless half-orc. Beneath days of grime and dust, his skin shines a robin’s egg blue. That is, except for his bare back, which bears a mass of tangled, blackened scar tissue. He is well muscled, but not bulky – there’s an almost wiry strength to this one. Not that it’s doing him much good at the moment -- one arm dangles at his side, swollen and crooked. With the other arm, he cradles a human infant, whose wheezing gasps tell of a voicebox long grown weary with crying. The half orc rocks the infant back and forth, murmuring a nursery song. Bent over the child, his face is hidden by a curtain of lank shoulder-length dark hair, streaked with threads of grey.

As you approach, he looks up, blue eyes bright in a handsome, if strained face, framed by a well-kept beard, also streaked with grey. With their accelerated aging, this is a hard late-20s for a half-orc. His eyes rove across the party, and then fix on Raja. His jaw drops, making his small tusks jut out. His lips twitch, trying to form words.

Eventually, all that comes out, is “Oh wow.”

[mercswercs]

Naw who the hell even is this.

>It's a photo of Merc, scruffy, barely dressed, and wrapped in a patchwork leather cloak, sitting next to Hermes. Hermes looks... weird. Taller than normal, androgynous. All things considered, Hermes looks less like "Hermes" and more like a ghost... maybe even more like Mercury. They're both mostly pure lank, with longish arms and strong necks, their jaws have sloping edges and pointed chins; Hermes left eye is dressed in a metal-framed patch, while Merc's eyes are framed in oval glasses, on the verge of falling apart.

>There's a severe difference in the years and how they've treated the two, though. Mercury's wiry, golden-tanned and awash with freckles and scars; Hermes matches her in scarring, though theirs are more surgical in nature, but their softer on the hole, and porcelain-pale (save for where the sun has turned them dark-pink). Hermes' body isn't just less buff in their softness, though, they're far plumper compared to the walking scarecrow next to them.

>Neither of them are terribly well-dressed, though. If Merc can't be bothered to wear more than a tank-top and a pair of tennis-shorts (and her "bitchin' witchin cloak"), Hermes can't be assed to slap on more than a pair of jeans, flip-flops, and this tragically-ratty brown duster. Six different bottles of jameson surround the couch they're sitting on, somewhere in a dark old hangar-type building.

[vox-fantasma]

I love your imodna story like light in the morning (hold my hand) on ao3!! For the Touches Ask Game prompts, could I please request (and only if you feel like writing it!!), for hugs: number 6 'hugging and gently holding the other’s head', and 16 ‘not wanting to let go’ hugs. They could even be combined if you feel like :) Thank you!!

thank you! tried writing this as soon as i got the ask but life had me by the throat last week so it look a lot longer than i thought. this can be read separately or together, whichever you prefer!

1. 

By the time the airship is firmly in the sky and Bassarus a receding nightmare in the distance, Orym is exhausted. He aches from multiple open wounds over his torso, his soul still holds the lingering chill of death, and his mind echoes with the image of Will’s face, so close for a minute and then gone, yet again. That pain of loss is an old one; he is familiar with its weight, and yet today it seems to have doubled, tripled, pressing down against his shoulders and his chest until he is almost breathless with it. Too many reminders in too short a time. He looks over at his two companions and suddenly it's like he’s right back where he started, except this time the wretchedness he’d worn like an open wound is now grafted onto the face of another. 

Imogen is a seething mess, her clothes sweat-soaked and streaked with dust. There is a tear in the side of her dress that is slowly weeping red - he’ll have to check on that, later. The lightning marks that had stretched across her neck and face after the fight have mostly receded, leaving thin, silvery scars where they once were an angry red. Her hair is a tangle around her shoulders, obscuring her expression from most everyone, but Orym can see the glint of tears as the sun reflects off her clenched jaw, tears that hadn’t stopped since she’d dug up Laudna’s limp body from the rubble. Orym knew worse was coming, once they’d gotten a chance to really take a breath. Pain is easy to ignore in the rush of a fight, or in the tense moments afterwards - it’s only when things start to settle that reality comes seeping in.

Laudna - her body - is laid out beside Imogen, head resting in her lap. Her torso is still wrapped in the same sunny yellow blanket Ashton had carefully tucked around her as he carried her around the city, and if Orym didn’t know better, they might have painted a peaceful picture, at least from a distance. It’s position the two women have been known to be found in once or twice - lounging around a campfire, Laudna puppeteering Patê while Imogen looked on and provided colorful commentary, just two women taking the odd restful moment to enjoy each other’s company. 

This time, though, there is no jovial voice peaking into a squeaky laugh in between lustful jokes, no warm smiles and secretive exchanges between them. Only Imogen, cradling Laudna’s too-still body with such desperate sadness that Orym has to look away.

“I’ve cleared out the hole,” Ashton announces. His voice is angry, has been angry ever since Otohan, but he’s gentle as he rests his hand carefully on Imogen’s shoulder. “Made it as nice as it's gonna get. I think she’ll like it there.”

Imogen nods, but makes no move to get up. Her hand cards through Laudna’s lank hair, and Orym can see the minute tremors sparking up and down her arm and she continues to sit quietly. 

“Give them a moment,” he tells Ashton, and gets a short nod in return. 

The rest of the day passes in a blur, interrogating Treshi, messaging the Tempest, making plans to reach Whitestone, and by the end of it everyone retires to their rooms below deck, spent. Orym curls up around Fearne in his usual spot, glad for the faun’s consistent warmth, but as exhausted as he might be, sleep never comes. His body is screaming for rest, but his mind is still on high alert, flinching at every sound and shadow, senses sharpened to an almost unbearable degree as he waits for something else to attack them. Try as he might, he cannot let his guard down. 

The restlessness builds and builds until he can barely restrain himself from springing up at a particularly loud creak of the deck. All muscles tensed, Orym carefully rolls away from Fearne, making sure she’s still sound asleep before he sneaks out of the door and up onto the deck to get some air. 

Outside the moonlight is a gentle glow, the red moon of Ruidus thankfully tucked away behind cloud cover, and the chill of the night helps banish the haze of anxiety squeezing around his heart. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, thinking of the high peaks of Zephra, letting himself indulge in the brief fantasy of home. A dark spot on the deck catches his attention, and his hackles rise for a moment before he recognizes the familiar shape of the hole. Something draws him towards it, an irrational urge to check in on someone who is beyond his protection. 

Dropping quietly into the hole with a grace honed by years of training, Orym gives a silent thanks to his mentors for his soundless entry. Because Imogen is right there, leaning against the wall, fast asleep in the very same position he’d found them earlier this morning, curled protectively around Laudna even in slumber. 

Orym spends a few moments allowing himself to adjust to the darkness, then sets off to find a blanket within the pile of miscellaneous items haphazardly pushed to the side of the hole. He tugs one free and then slowly approaches Imogen, holding his breath and making as little sound as possible. 

This close, Orym can see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks, the way her pupils flicker behind her eyelids restlessly as she dreams. Her arms clutch Laudna’s body stubbornly to her chest, gripping as though even in sleep she is afraid of letting go. Orym gently lays the blanket over her shoulders, taking care not to cover up Laudna’s face, and tucks the corners around her drooping shoulders. He knows she’s going to have a hell of a backache in the morning, and he also knows that nothing will stop her from doing this again and again, however long it takes for them to bring Laudna back. He hopes, for her sake, that it won’t be long. 

Imogen mutters something intelligibly in her sleep, and her grip around Laudna tightens before relaxing once more. Orym gives them one last glance, checking them over until he is satisfied he has done all he can, then leaves as quietly as he came. His heart is heavy, but determination and hope prevent him from giving in to despair. He knows she will do anything to get her back, and that he would too. He will not allow another repeat of his loss. 

Outside, the stars are bright. 

“Just wait a little longer, Laudna.” A quiet promise. 

“We’re coming.”

2.

Once again on the Silver Sun, this time bound for Yios, Orym cracks his back wearily as the sun starts to set beyond the distant red plains of the badlands. It’s their first day of a long series to get to where they’re going, their journey once again crossing dangerously storm-swept territory, and despite the cool breeze and the comfort of the skies Orym can’t say he’s excited to be back. The Hells have been attacked every single time they’ve got on one of these things, and, judging by their collective luck so far, this trip was probably going to be no different. 

On the deck, the crew is preparing to bed down, Xandis assigning his first mate instructions to keep the course for the night, others busily battening down important cargo should a storm rapidly approach in the dark. The Bells are similarly ready to retire, bidding each other good nights as they one by one retreat down to below decks to their respective cabins. Soon it is only Orym leaning against the starboard rail of the ship, taking the opportunity of a quiet night to practice his neglected meditation, as well as Laudna and Imogen, huddled together a little ways away. The two women had spent the whole day close, hand in hand, neither willing to go too far from the other, so fresh from their reunion. 

Orym is familiar with the sentiment. 

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the air is quiet save the now familiar creaking of the ship, and it is enough for his perceptive ears to unwittingly pick up on a fragment of their whispered conversation.

“...really should go to bed, Laud, you look exhausted.”

“Oh, just a few more minutes, please? It’s such a nice night out.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Orym sees Imogen hesitate, shoulders rising as if to object - but instead of voicing her concerns, she just gives Laudna a fond - if somewhat exasperated - smile. “’Course, Laudna. Whatever you want.”

Laudna smiles back, but it barely reaches her eyes, a far cry from the almost unsettlingly wide grins Orym’s used to. Imogen’s right; she does look exhausted. Dark purple circles sit like bruises under her eyes, her grey skin even more sallow than usual, and her shoulders remain permanently hunched over, like even the weight of her own rail thin body is almost too much to bear.

It’s a long moment before anyone speaks again. Orym’s eyes flutter open as he hears Laudna’s voice sigh through the wind.

“Imogen, I... I’m not sure if I can go to sleep tonight.”

The frown is evident in Imogen’s voice.

“Why not?”

“Its silly, but I... last night camping out at the Sun Tree was wonderful, and it felt nice having you all back next to me, but I kept thinking that- that if I closed my eyes, I’d be... back. With her.”

Orym hears Imogen shuffle closer, and when he glances over, she’s placed her arm on Laudna’s shoulder, looking at her with such an expression of tender concern that an answering pang twinges in his chest. 

“That’s not silly, Laudna, that’s... terrifying.”

Laudna nods slowly. “I know you said that she was destroyed- and I believe you! I knew you’d beat her, you’re so strong and capable Imogen-” The sorcerer in question scoffs at the familiar praise, but she’s smiling- “but I just can’t get rid of this feeling. Like she’s just waiting for me to let my guard down before striking again.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry, Laudna. I’m sorry that bitch was in your mind for so long and I’m sorry that I didn’t try and do anything about it sooner. I never should have blamed you for the rock-”

“No! No, I’m sorry you had to see all that- Whitestone- oh, Imogen, I never wanted you to see any of that. And at the tree- I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder, like you asked-”

Laudna’s tremulous voice cuts off with a soft oomph, and when Orym looks, Imogen has both arms wrapped fiercely around Laudna’s back, head pressed to the other woman’s neck as she whispers something so softly even Orym’s keen ears can’t make it out. He watches as Laudna’s eyes well with black tears, and then she’s hugging Imogen back just as desperately, crumpling the back of Imogen’s shirt with the force of her grip. They rock gently back and forth, Imogen whispering a gently lilting stream of words meant for Laudna’s ears only. 

They stay like that for a long time.

Orym's heart still lies heavy, but the tension in his shoulders lifts for the first time since Otohan struck, and he closes his eyes as he lets his mind go free. 

When at last he moves to go back below deck, his head clear and his limbs heavy with fatigue, he takes one last glance back at the bow of the ship. Two figures remain locked in a gentle embrace, one a light purple and the other a dark grey, their outlines intertwined against the white light of the moon. 

.

Sleep, when it comes, is the easiest he’s had in a long time. 

[etruatcaelum]

[ @silvcreyes | summer // taiyang ]

"don't ask me where i've been."

“I–” His hands became fists, helpless grasping at the air between him and her. How could she ask that of him? You were dead, he wanted to say. Shout. Scream. Due north of Tai’s cabin lay an empty grave, a memorial stone carved with her name in loving memory.

Raven gone—Qrow falling apart—himself crushed into the ground trying to carry their three ghosts on his shoulders all alone, mourning the best friend he’d ever had while he waited for the world to end. They all knew she’d gone after Salem. It draped unspoken over every conversation, a lead shroud.

Tai worked his jaw for a minute, staring. Taking it all in. The scars. The grey struck through lank, tangled hair. Harsh lines torn into her face by exhaustion, fear—he didn’t even want to think what might have happened to her since the last time he’d–

Since she left. Damn her.

He let out his breath in a great whoosh and then croaked, “Yeah. Just—c’mon in.”

Every other fucking thing in the world had gone mad, these last couple years. Summer Rose might as well choose now to come back from the dead. Why not!?

Stumbling backward to let her inside, Tai added weakly, “The girls aren’t—no one else is home.”

[protect-daniel-james]

🍋

Simone pulled himself closer to Pippo. “You don’t look sick,” he said, trying to convince himself more than Filippo that it was all just some kind of a misunderstanding. He couldn’t smell him now, the freshness of the sheets was too overwhelming for his senses, but he made up for that by holding his shoulders and leaning close to his neck to feel him and taste him. “Do you feel sick?” He pressed his lips to the front of Pippo’s neck, just below the angle of the jaw, in the exact spot where he could feel his pulse. It was strong and powerful, and Simone opened his lips more, touching the skin with his bared teeth as if he was getting ready to sink his teeth in. He felt Pippo gulp and grinned, pulling away. His heartbeat echoed his brother’s. He always knew they were in sync. There was something that nobody else could understand, a bond that existed just between the two of them. At times, Simone was convinced that he could feel the exact same emotions as his brother and understand him without words. They never argued, after all. Simone always knew what to say so there would be no reason to argue. Even now, when Filippo seemed overwhelmed with his own existence, he felt like he knew what the solution was. He was sure this was what Pippo wanted as well. And Pippo proved him right, because he wrapped his skinny arms around him. “I don’t feel much,” he whispered, hiding his face in the crook of Simone’s neck. Simone exhaled with ease now. Even if Pippo struggled to feel anything at all, as long as he was here, it was all going to be alright. He stroked the lank hair that, for the first time he ever noticed, had a few silver ones weaved in them.

[necrosin]

@mastabahs : ❝ i've only ever defended you. ❞

amusement unfurls, a flighty sort of thing, a bubbling sort of thing, a summertime exclusive sort of thing —— out of place, trapped in this space they've colluded to make, a grossly contrived homage to intimacy and the honored and most holy practice of carving out a place in your lover for yourself. a pyre of pressed sheets ( wrinkled and half-ruined, now ) and bland walls and the tinny sound of the television in the background and the curtains thrown open for the moonlight glow because they both hate enclosed rooms in that way and a smell far too chemical, cloying in his nose. their bodies stretched out alongside each other, imperfect parentheses, knees overlapping, suguru propped on his elbow, jaw resting in his palm. his eyes narrow / brows raise / mouth a slash across his face ; he drags his fingers through satoru's hair just because he can.

❝ should i reward you? ❞ as if any concept as trite as reward and punishment holds much way over either of them, as if it ever did. the meanings and uses of such things falling flat, intentions that had been meant to be engraved on such ideals never coming to any fruition nor meaning at all. SUGURU UNDERSTANDS THE WEIGHT OF THE WORDS / perhaps even the intention of them / satoru wouldn't come all this way just to be with him otherwise, after all / they hold meaning and he acknowledges them, irrelevant though they may be. ( echoing as you're mine, not quite lost in the void ) idly he brushes his thumb across satoru's temple, ❝ for standing up for the villanous curse user against the higher up council? ❞

the idea is funny —— it always has been, satoru's indifference turned irritation with it all, playing at being rebellious in spirit. as if his existence in and of itself wasn't an act of revolt, though from where and what remains a mystery / everyone always says the world was upended by satoru's birth, and suguru found it funny more than anything, the weight of it all. ( though, born after satoru, perhaps it's that he'd never known a world without him / and never will / but suguru is just arrogant enough to presume that even if he had been born first, it would persist in hardly mattering at all. )

fingers curl to brush against his jaw, a lover's caress, gentling over a bruise before poking at his cheek, ❝ i'm not a child, satoru, ❞ perhaps it's romantic to defend your clandestine lover against the deraignments and hatred of the greater masses / perhaps it really is romantic to not carry out the ever standing order of execution hanging over his head ( it's an ineffectual sort of thing, as though suguru would let anyone but satoru ( and shoko ) find any trace of him, as if anyone but satoru were capable of doing such a thing even if suguru did it ) / and suguru is a romantic above all else, other than idealism, but still : the concept is simply humorous to him. declarations and adorations and all the things in between —— all veiled words, thin as the lank curtains they had drawn back however long ago. ❝ you don't need to defend me against them, their judgments and opinions are nothing more than senseless bleating, ❞no need to defend suguru against or anyone or anything / not even satoru, himself / suguru holds no hate nor resentment for jujutsu high and only a heavy handed distaste for the faceless council so determined to lord over them all —— their methods are ancient and their tactics cruel / hypocrites, the lot of them, preening and power hungry. it will all come crumbling down beneath his hands, after all, once he succeeds. washed away like sand on the shore.

a phone buzzes / mimiko's text ringtone chimes ( she'd insisted and he's not especially good at denying his daughters anything ) / he stretches languid as a cat, leg extending over satoru's as he rolls, glancing over his shoulder at the bedside table as the void opens over it / a hand reaching out / closes / drops the phone neatly in the space between them. ❝ —— unless it makes you feel better, ❞ a half—cruel curl of his mouth and an unspoken challenge as he lays his palm over the phone / hiding mimiko's name on the screen.

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON.

[anamelessfool]

Maestro (part 1 of 4)

It was 1977.

Sister Imperator, the Dark Mother, was looking for an apprentice.

@petrifyingpapas Challenge Week 2: Incantation

Sister Imperator & Young Secondo, Young Terzo AO3 Link

tags: dark magic, ritual magic, initiation, family drama, exploration, SFW

Secundo had grown up in her shadow. He had known her for as long as he could remember. During Rites he watched her, captivated, as she delicately performed the ritual movements, held aloft the chalices, athames and other arcane trinkets that Secundo craved to wield himself. (Illustration by me, A Nameless Fool)

1977

There were 823 marble tiles on the hallway floor outside Sister Imperator’s office. Secundo had counted them several times while he waited, swinging the canvas bag of notebooks he carried. Ever since he could remember he would come up with games and puzzles to amuse himself in idle times. Estimating the amount of leaves on a tree. Visualizing the floor plan of a building based on the outer windows. Using the relative heights of the plants to determine what part of the Ministry courtyard received the most sun. So if he assumed each tile was a perfect ten inch square (and he could, because his foot was just larger than that) then the total dimensions of the hallway was ten feet wide and sixty feet long. And if he used said tiles to estimate the height of the ceiling in the Sanctum, then that would be—

The door finally opened and Secundo saw the face of his father looking down at him. He was Brother Nihil, a mopey musician, half-attentive father, and personal assistant to the Dark Mother herself. The Infernal Eye glared out of his gaunt head from under a woefully mod haircut, adding some semblance of intelligence to his face. “Come now, boy,” he said, opening the door further. “We have more questions for you.”

Secundo’s jaw tightened and he felt his heart start to beat a bit faster. He stared ahead, glaring at the space before him, steeling himself with a mantra that he himself invented: POWER. He imagined the five letters floating in front of him, tracing one by one with his mind. The solidness of the thought settled him enough to move his feet into the room.

Sister Imperator, The Dark Mother, sat behind her oaken desk  decorated with carved grinning skulls, looking more like a lost tourist than the Custodian of the Void. She wore her customary long tunic dress of outrageous swirls of polyester color. Her hair was a carefully organized golden helmet, one sweep of curls concealing her right eye. Secundo had grown up in her shadow. He had known her for as long as he could remember. During Rites he watched her, captivated, as she delicately performed the ritual movements, held aloft the chalices, athames and other arcane trinkets that Secundo craved to wield himself.

She quirked her thin red lips, beckoning Secundo with a casual flick of her manicured nails. The boy approached, standing before her. The bookshelves along the walls towered around him, bursting with ancient texts and glittering ephemera. Nihil settled into a chair to the side of her, clutching a dossier and blinking.

“How are his tests?” Sister asked flatly. Her nails stroked the ends of her chair. The inquisition had begun.

Nihil shuffled papers around, bringing them uncomfortably close to his small eyes. “Academically, high marks. Top ten at his high school. Hasn’t gotten into a fistfight in two months.”

“Two weeks,” Secundo corrected.

“Er- oh, right, I forgot that one,” Nihil said, sniffing.

“No matter,” said Sister. “And our tests?”

Nihil leaned towards her, attempting to show her a document. She ignored him and he slumped back into his seat. “Highest score this year. Beat the second highest by ten points. Was twice his age, too.”

“I don’t take adepts this young usually,” Sister said.  “But my bones tell me that the boy has a lot of work to do.” There was a flash of blue deep in her eyes. “The earlier he starts, the better.”

Secundo tossed his shoulder-length lank black hair. He tried not to show any expression, staring into the eyes of the bronze sculpture of a roman she-wolf behind the Dark Mother. POWER. 

Sister continued. “Do you have your assignment?”

Secundo placed the small pile of notebooks on her desk before her, bobbing his head in a show of deference. Sister picked up the first one, flipping through idly. “Cloud formations, weather patterns,” he explained. “Timed, dated. Six times a day. A whole year and a day.”

“I trust you did not miss a single day.”

Secundo shook his head solemnly. “I swear it by the Void.”

Sister’s eyebrows raised as she let out a little chiding huff. “Any comments from his reference?” She then turned her head slightly to look at Nihil. Nihil nodded.

Nihil attempted to remain serious, but he could barely hide the glimmer of pride in his eyes. His mouth twitched as he struggled not to smile. “Virtuoso piano player, as far as I’m concerned. Expert in Latin and the Theban Alphabet. Learning a bit of Chinese astrology on the side as well.” He couldn’t help it, his mouth stretched into his rubbery grin. “Even as a tyke… good imagination.”

“A good imagination is the best quality of all,” Sister added. “Especially one that is put to use to solve problems. Secundo…” She leaned forward on her elbows, her eyelids low and dreamy.

Secundo bowed his head quickly. “Yes, Your Dark Excellency.”

“How willing are you to die?”

Secundo’s visualization faltered. The question was held up in his face so aggressively it brought his immaturity to the surface. He was still a child. He had never thought about death. But she leered at him now, looking for his answer. He snorted, deepening his frown. “I will do anything to learn magic from you.”

“Well, that settles it,” she scoffed, leaning back in her chair. “Time for the final test. Happening now.”

Another gauntlet thrown before him. He had already won her over, and there was nothing left to lose. He tried not to grin. “Now? Fine, Sister, I humbly accept.”

“Return here in one hour,” Sister explained. “Nihil will lead us to the catacombs. Bring anything you may need.”

His smile faded, his mind racing, her challenge the starter gun. “What would I—”

“Anything. You. May. Need.” Sister’s face stretched into a sneer. Her eyes flashed with wildness.

Secundo glanced towards his father, who was focused more on the floor than the room around him. Secundo had never noticed how sunken Nihil’s face was. While the Infernal Eye stared out from its socket fierce and shark-like, his human eye dripped with weariness. Secundo was aware of how the man drooped in his seat, his flesh hanging off his skeleton, his mouth sagging. It was easy to quickly glance and mark the man as a dullard but something in this moment hinted at some deep strain. At life being drained from his spirit itself.

Sister coughed for attention and Secundo glanced back at her. She flipped through the next notebook on her desk and had moved on from giving him any further attention. “As I have said. Sixty minutes.”

To be continued...... (this week, fingers crossed!)

AO3 Link