#squawk overflow

[owlyfisher]

I started playing that bird game after you reblogged it yesterday and I’ve spent Hours on it

squawk is the game of all time fr

[ihearthhj]

— if i could go back in time. -- (h.hj)

chapter 2 : what is love?

pairing : hyunjin x fem!reader

word count : 1.2k (lowercase intended)

a/n : short chapter !

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you met him when you were six.

one sunny summer day, you were at the local park.

you trudged through the multitude of play structures, vivid colors whirring in your vision. excited screams and shrieks of other children echoed in your ears, the overflow of noise making you want to run away.

you hated loud noises as a child. you preferred spaces with quiet and calm ambiences, finding peace wherever that was.

fleeing away from the big kaleidoscope of sound and colors that made your head hurt, you wandered off away to the parts of the park, hidden from plain view.

it was often these whereabouts that were the best. and every time you’d visited this very park, you were always found in this place.

as you dragged your stuffed teddy bear by its arm, you enter the intricacy of trees and sunshine.

a miniature forest, lit warmly by pure gold and bathed in dappled sunligh, was your definition of heaven. this hidden oasis felt like a sanctuary away from the noise and clamor.

walking deeper into the bundle of leaves, trudging in the long grass, your gaze trailed upwards, to the strips of light that seeped through the thin layer of leaves.

the atmosphere was tranquil, and a slight question mark hung in the pristine air, as if daring you to walk in deeper. the occasional breeze caused the leaves to rustle, providing background noise that coaxed the birds’ songs to life.

you settled yourself beneath a shading willow, the sunlight seeping through its graceful long leaves casting a halo on the lush grass, sprinkled with dew.

sometimes you’d think that this was actually a forest from a fantasy, a dream. its aura was magical, with a perfect amount of a somehow mysterious element jumbled inside.

you plopped down onto the grass, setting your teddy bear next to you. closing your eyes and breathing in the cool air, you sink into the silence.

a quiet, unfamiliar giggle escaped from behind another tree.

you opened your eyes, looking frantically around for the source of the noise. the only object that was around you was a crow, its head twisting around in jerky movements and its beady eyes staring.

a little boy around the same age as you followed behind it, taking careful and silent steps. his gaze was focused on the bird, his body crouched down. he was trying to catch the bird. your own eyes darted between the bird and the boy, intrigued by the scene unfolding in front of you. suddenly, he stepped on a stray stick on the ground, causing a snap to echo through the air. the bird flew away with a squawk.

the boy stood up, lips pursed. the frown on his face deepened, but it morphed into a grin when he turned his gaze towards you.

“hello,” he said simply.

after that, the two of you were inseparable. you learned that his name was hwang hyunjin, a new resident in town.

every other day, you and hyunjin would play together in that very forest. it became a place where your fondest memories were made, a secret childhood haven of sunshine and trees.

———

summer passed even quicker than you would have thought, the inching progress of change disappearing through the blur of everything. soon enough leaves turned into a series of red and orange colors, the temperature dropping slowly. in the first week of september, school started. if it were any other september, you’d be dragging yourself through the crowds of kids on the local school grounds, wishing you were homeschooled instead.

but this september was different—school was becoming a happy place, surprisingly. being the same age, you were in the same class this year as hyunjin, which allowed you to see each other almost all the time.

hyunjin's presence in your class was like a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, illuminating the mundane with a warmth and light that filled you with a sense of joy you had never known before.

having not much friends yourself, you allowed yourself to become closer to hyunjin, who was a new student and unfamiliar with the school. every day became a better one when you had someone who you could call a friend. you started to look forward to being with hyunjin at school, even if it meant having to go through boring classes.

hyunjin and y/n, y/n and hyunjin. two peas in a pod with matching smiles and laughs, their friendship a beacon of light in a world that often felt dark and uncertain.

you were the happiest you had ever been at the place you called school, somewhere you had gone to unwillingly almost every day for the short 9 years of your life. now, you finally had someone to talk you whenever you wanted, someone to share your mother's homemade tteokbokki with at lunch, someone who was your default work partner.

what made it a million times better was knowing that they could do the same with no hesitation.

——————

as the years slipped by like grains of sand through an hourglass, your bond with hyunjin only grew stronger. every shared moment, every whispered secret, seemed to weave the threads of your friendship into something unbreakable, something that felt like home.

one crisp autumn afternoon, as the leaves rustled beneath your feet and the scent of fallen foliage filled the air, you found yourselves perched atop your favorite tree in the park, the world spread out before you like a painting waiting to be explored.

the wind danced through the branches, tousling your hair as you watched the horizon, the sun casting a warm golden glow over the landscape. it was moments like these that felt timeless, suspended in a bubble of tranquility that seemed impervious to the passage of time.

"hyunjin, what do you think is love?" you asked, the question tumbling from your lips like a leaf caught in the breeze.

for a moment, hyunjin was silent, his gaze fixed on the horizon as if searching for the answer in the distant sky. then, with a thoughtful expression, he spoke, his voice soft and contemplative.

"well, someone from school said that you get butterflies in your stomach," he began, his words slow and measured. "and your heart goes thump thump really fast."

you nodded slowly, mulling over his words as you watched the setting sun dip below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of pink and gold. so that was what love was, you thought to yourself. a fluttering in the stomach and a racing heart. you wondered when you would experience that yourself.

but it wasn't until three years later, as you stood beside hyunjin beneath the same tree, that you realized the true meaning of those words. It was the way your heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled, the way your stomach fluttered at the mere thought of being near him.

it was the realization that love wasn't just a concept to be pondered from afar, but a feeling that had crept into your heart and taken root, growing stronger with each passing day.

and as you looked into hyunjin's eyes, you knew with a certainty that transcended words that what you felt for him went beyond friendship.

it was love.

taglist : @hildaortara @203sucks @iovecb97 @kayleefriedchicken @rylea08 -> it's open, join taglist here

[ml-nolan]

For romance prompts: Dreamling, 8 or 23

#8 — Discovering Common Interests

The park is overwhelming, but Dream is still relearning to cope with the noise of the waking world. He has so recently endured 100 years of silence, fully cut off from the Dreaming. Being surrounded by so many people, and their overflowing, unconscious minds, makes his head buzz.

A familiar voice from behind him slices through all of it.

"Do you mind if I—"

The person cuts himself off as Dream turns and comes face to face with Hob Gadling. 

Hob's face is a mask of surprise. His hair falls to his chin now, and he's dressed casually, a leather bag slung across his body, a small paper sack clutched in his hand. The breezy look suits him, and it soothes Dream more than it has any right to. He doesn't deserve the comfort of Hob's steadiness, not after the appalling way he had reacted to a simple offer of friendship.

"It's you." Hob is breathless. Dream sees the vision plaguing him—one of Dream himself stalking away into the night, rain dripping into his eyes. It's a vision that Dream has replayed over and over in his own imaginings during his long captivity, chastising himself for his cowardice.

"You may sit if you would like," Dream says.

Hob rounds the bench and perches on the other side of it. Vexingly, Dream finds himself thinking he's much too far away. He squashes those feelings as much as possible and flicks a crum of baguette into the center of the crowding pigeons at his feet.

"Aw," Hob says with exaggerated disappointment. He takes a hard biscuit out of his own paper bag, breaks off a piece, and tosses it to the birds. "You've spoiled their lunch!"

In spite of himself, Dream feels the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Is that so?"

"Yeah. I come here every day after morning classes. I should be cross with you for horning in on my flock, you know."

Dream stops picking at the baguette and sits up straight, fully turning toward Hob. Hob does not reciprocate, and instead averts his eyes the way he might if he wanted to avoid provoking a volatile animal. Perhaps it is what Dream deserves. All the same, he finds that he wants nothing more in the universe right now, in any universe, than to earn back Hob's regard.

"Perhaps you could find it in your heart to forgive me?" Dream says. He clears his throat, ripping off another piece of bread and tossing it into the fracas of wings and squawking. "As a friend? And failing that, a fellow bird enthusiast?"

Finally, Hob returns his gaze, and if Dream thought he was smiling before, it's nothing compared to the way his face lights up now. The brightness of it melts something cold and brittle inside of Dream. All he wants to do is bask in it for as long as he possibly can.

"Could do," Hob says, "but only if you let me buy you a drink."

[iwaoiness]

Valentine's

When Oikawa shuffles to the bathroom after getting out of bed (once he stretching like a cat, rubbing his face and staring at the ceiling with his feet on his boyfriend's back for five minutes while rethinking his existence in the vast world), he expects to relieve himself and begin his sacred three-step skincare before the daily duel with his hair.

This time, however, he is only able to do the former.

As he lifts his gaze from the sink, hands freshly cleansed, to meet his reflection, Oikawa’s sleepy eyes widen like saucers and his lips part. Instead of his reflection, there are dozens and dozens of white post-it notes covering the entire mirror— each slip of paper has different strokes on it, forming a giant tulip whose petals are painted in sky blue.

What the actual fuck.

Oikawa blinks and then rubs his eyes, thinking he’s still dreaming. But the drawing is still there, and when he gets a little closer, eyes squinting to fight his myopia, he can read the same thick, crooked kanjis that all the slips of paper have in the bottom corner: turn me.

With a tentative hand, he plucks the first post-it note, flipping it over with curiosity.

you’re my calm

The smile immediately spreads across Tooru's face, genuine, tender and drunk with love. Warmth begins to blossom inside his chest, spreading with the fluffiness of a cloud throughout his body, as he reaches another post-it.

you’re beatiful

And another one.

you’re mine

And then another, and another, and another, and another, and another, and another.

you’re my light

you’re my home

you’re serenety

im in love with your bed hair

dont forget to wash your teeth

"Asshole" Oikawa, leaning against the sink, sneers with a wet voice but an indelible smile on his face as he continues to take the post-its and read them, one by one.

you’re my strength

you’re the heart of my heart

my tall and pretty boy

our souls are mates

you’re intelligent as hell

you’re my valentines

i couldn’t be prouder to have u as a partner

te quiero tanto, tooru

loving you is being free

you’re my favourite constellation

And when he reaches the last note and turns around, Tooru wants to cry.

Or well, he's already crying.

you're all i need and want

Oikawa lets out a soft laugh through his tears, sniffling through his nose before wiping his face with one of his shirt sleeves.

He loves Hajime so much that all that love overflows from his heart. Their bond is so strong, so solid, so immense, so ethereal. There are no words to encompass it, nothing that comes close. Loving Iwa-chan is part of his being, something he's been doing since before he could even babble.

And it's the same for Hajime. He loves Tooru as Tooru loves him. And he doesn't need more. They don't need any more.

He carefully leaves the post-its on the high shelf in the bathroom and runs back to the room. Iwaizumi (who pretends to sleep until he hears his boyfriend's hurried footsteps and smiles) barely has time to roll onto his back before Oikawa leaps at him, taking his breath away with a big oof.

"How did you do that?" Oikawa murmurs against Iwaizumi's neck, his long arms stretched out on either side of his head and his legs entangled.

Hajime snorts with amusement, wraps Oikawa against his chest, gently kisses his temple and plunges his hand into his tousled tresses.

"It hasn't been difficult having a boyfriend with such a heavy sleeper”

Oikawa lets out a mock squawk of indignation, shaking his head in playful disbelief. Iwaizumi turns to face him, his grin widening as he locks eyes with Oikawa's narrowed gaze, his irises gleaming like honey in the sunlight against his flushed cheeks. They're close, close enough for their noses to almost touch, and Hajime can discern each freckle sprinkled across Tooru's nose.

“I hate you, Iwa-chan. You'd better have a real bouquet of tulips ready” Oikawa arches an eyebrow, but his lips curve treacherously into a genuine smile as his hand now moves to caress Iwaizumi's face.

"I knew I should have drawn a cactus" He rolls his eyes in amusement, giving Tooru's waist a gentle squeeze as he laughs.

"I love you so much," Oikawa whispers shortly after, gently stroking Iwa’s cheek with his thumb. "You are all I need and want, too. My everything."

Iwaizumi tilts his face and rubs his nostrils tenderly, his eyes watery and love coursing through his veins with the warmth of the summer sun.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Tooru."

...

hope u enjoyed valentine's day!! ♡ 

u can find more fics and find me on my ao3 🍉

[pumpkinhrat]

     Martin has always had issues with taking pictures of himself. It probably comes as no surprise that he’s more than a little insecure about his looks; he knows he’s heavyset and pale and his hair is an awkward mix of red and brown that his mother told him washes him out. So, of course, taking photos of himself is always a challenge. And choosing photos of himself to put on an online dating profile is even harder.

     The photo he does settle on for his profile picture is more blurry than not, but he likes the way his smile looks in it and it’s the only photo that doesn’t make him nauseous to upload. The rest of the photos he includes conveniently leave his (round, soft jawed, uneven) face out of view, focusing instead on things like his hands and his jumpers. He doesn’t have any group photos with people, either, that he’s particularly keen on putting up. There’s one from a night out with the archival staff that he thinks he looks halfway decent in, but he’s stuffed under Tim’s shoulder. Greek god, jawline that could cut diamond, endlessly charming Tim, so he decidedly leaves that photo out.

     What he ends up with is an awkward profile devoid of clear photos of him but overflowing with personality in the written sections. Which, he decides, is a good representation of him as a person, anyway, so he hits save and doesn’t look back. If nothing comes of it then so be it, but at least he’s tried.

     Yeah.

––

     Jonathan Sims is not a ‘dating app’ sort of man. In fact, he’s turned his nose up at friends who’ve used the ridiculous applications in the past, not-so-silently judging them for their borderline desperation. It just seems like a bit of a farce; you put up pictures that are supposed to entice people into wanting to talk to you, but half the time the only thing they’re interested in is sex. And even if they’re not immediately opening with thinly-veiled innuendo, the conversations are awkward and stilted at best. Tim has loudly shared enough of his messages in the archives break room for Jon to be more than sure that he wants no part of this dating app nonsense.

     And yet, Jonathan Sims has a dating profile. He didn’t know he had one, not before Georgie had texted him a screenshot of his profile on Tinder with just the caption “?!?!?!?!?!” and a slew of uninterpretable letters and symbols. The revelation comes as quite a shock to him, as does the fact that he’s apparently a Tinder+ member. He quickly checks his bank account online to make sure his funds aren’t being used for this ridiculous endeavor, but it seems whoever set up this account is using their own money.

     The fact that his profile photo is a sloppily edited picture of his Magnus ID badge and the rest of the pictures have clearly been taken within the archives itself gives him a good idea of who the culprit is, though. 

––

     “Ooh, Sash! We’ve got another match! And whoo boy does this one look promising.”

     Sasha perks her head up from where she was curled over her computer, brushing errant braids away from her face, to make a face at Tim.

     “Are you sure? Because last time you said that they opened with ‘if you were a fruit you’d be a fineapple’ and then a bunch of pineapple and eggplant emojis. So, like, I’ve sort of lost my confidence in your definition of promising.”

     “Aww c’mon, eggplant emoji users deserve love too! Besides, this one seems perfectly respectable. His profile is about poetry.” Tim waves her over and Sasha crosses with a sigh to read the profile over his shoulder, flopping her arms around his neck.

     “Martin, 29, likes tea, poetry, and cows…” She squints at the profile and leans in further to see, ignoring Tim’s squawk when they nearly overbalance. “What’s with that profile picture? You can barely see his face!”

     “Yes, well,” Tim says, righting his chair so they’re no longer leaning dangerously. “Jon doesn’t seem particularly concerned with looks anyway, so I’m sure it doesn’t matter.” Sasha shoots him a look and Tim shrugs. “What? He said he wasn’t ‘as invested as all that’ when I was probing about his dating life, so I’m sure he’ll like this Martin no matter what they look like.”

     “Tim, he’s ace not blind. What other photos does the profile have up?”

     The two of them click through the profile, skimming the long paragraphs of text and swiping through the few photos. Sasha pulls back, her hands on her hips.

     “Y’know, I’d say this seems suspiciously similar to another Martin we know.” She tips her head to the breakroom where their Martin is currently eating his lunch. “But the ages don’t match and he doesn’t seem the type to lie about that sort of thing on a dating app.”

      “Ooh, do you think someone’s catfishing as him and just got the age wrong? I mean, our Martin doesn’t look 33, I can see how someone would mess that up. Plus all the photos are intentionally vague! Maybe he’s being–”

     “Tim.”

     “What?”

     “No one’s catfishing as Martin.”

     “We’re catfishing as Jon,” he points out. This earns him a glare.

     “No, we’re setting up a profile for Jon. There’s a difference.”

     “Is there really, because–”

     “Just swipe right on the profile and get on with it, will you? Jon can decide for himself if he likes him when we hand over the account.”

     Tim pouts as Sasha returns to her desk and blows him a kiss.

     “Whatever. I still totally think this ‘Martin’ is a catfish.”

ANON, I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

And i love the idea of Martin having a cute pic with Tim. Had such a hard time sketching it out cuz my hands were shaking so much out of excitement - THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR WRITING IT! [second part here!]

UPDATE: You can read the whole story by JJanuaryRain on AO3! Go give them lots of love -> "all's fair in love & tinder"

(And i'm totally keeping the "likes tea, poetry, and cows", so cute)

[Image ID: Picture of Tim embracing Martin with one arm over his shoulder. They are both smiling, though Martin in a bit shy manner. End ID]

[independent-variables]

Happy Cody Day to those who celebrate!!! I have a fic in the works, but for now have this snippet:

Dirty Hands

There hadn’t been any dirt on Kamino. There had been grime, and muck, and dust, and sand— blood always, always blood— but no dirt.

Kote dug his hands down deep into the bag of potting soil. He breathed in, and held it. 

The door chimed. He let his breath out slow. 

“Come in,” he called, not moving from his spot at the table, not removing his hands from the dirt.

The door hissed open, and Kote looked up just in time to see Davijaan’s grin wiped away by utter dismay. 

“Are you making a bigger mess?” he demanded, coming to an abrupt halt in the entryway. “After we agreed to come over and help clean your existing mess?” 

Rex unceremoniously shoved Davi forward and finished entering, the door sliding shut behind him. Davi squawked as he stumbled. Kote allowed one corner of his mouth to twitch up before smoothing his expression back to neutral. “Mess?” 

Davijaan gestured emphatically to the potting soil, the designated plant watering cup, and lastly the pots— some empty, some overflowing with staked morning glories— neatly laid out on his kitchen table. “Mess!” 

“What are you doing?” Rex asked, without judgment, stepping up to the table. 

And that was why Rex was his favorite. 

“I'm repotting,” he said, slowly bringing his hands out of the dirt and shaking off the clinging clumps. 

“Repotting?”

“Here.” 

He handed Rex a full pot, and while Davi grumbled his way through washing Kote’s firstmeal dishes and plundering his conservator, Kote showed Rex what M’Vin had shown him about loosening soil and untangling roots. 

[multi-lefaiye]

HERE WE GO. SOME PAINFULLY SELF INDULGENT WRITING IN EDEN'S BG3 AU. in which gale sees eden's chest and experiences palpitations.

cw: suggestive, referenced mature content but nothing explicit, also a pre-op trans guy's chest being described by someone who finds his breasts very attractive if that might make any transmascs out there dysphoric.

not tagging the taglist bc i'm Embarrassed 💖 will however tentatively tag @paradoxspir1t @void-botanist @skitzo-kero @anexor and @seventhgod with no pressure from any of y'all to engage, and if you'd like me not to tag you in stuff like this in the future just lmk!

"I- Eden, what in the *hells* is on your chest?" Astarion squawks nearby, startling Gale out of his musings. All of his earlier concerns about decency and modesty go out the window as a flash of panic flares in his mind. Is something wrong with Eden? Is he hurt?

He turns around, eyes wide, just as the rest of the party does the same. All at once, all eyes are on the half-naked tiefling, who seems uncharacteristically mortified to be receiving this much attention. Gale pays no mind to Eden's clear embarrassment, instead tracing his eyes over the purple-skinned man's body to make sure he wasn't injured, or sick, or dying, or-

Gale's racing thoughts come screeching to a halt as he realizes two things in quick succession. The first: Eden's torso is, mercifully, free of any fresh injuries or lingering, festering wounds. He has a curious mark on his side that Gale can't quite identify at a glance, but it doesn't seem to be actively killing him, so Gale leaves it be for now.

The second: Eden has breasts.

If Gale were thinking logically in this moment, he would scoff at his own surprise. Of course Eden has breasts. Most humanoids do, even though not all of them are obvious. Sure, until now, he'd known Eden to be relatively flat-chested, but that doesn't mean anything when he's only ever seen his new friend in full armor. It's ridiculous to have such a strong reaction to seeing one of his companions partially nude, and Gale internally chastises himself. He should be above this.

But, he finds that he can't quite help himself. His eyes are drawn to the supple swell of Eden's chest, each breast round and heavy, with dusky purple nipples hardened from the chill of the river water. They look terribly soft, and in that moment all Gale wants is to take them into his hands and hold them. They must be warm, he imagines. Warm and soft and overflowing in his hands, a pleasant weight. His mouth waters at the thought, and he swallows.

Eden moves his arms to cover his breasts, squishing them against his body in the way Gale wants to himself. It's then, of course, that Gale remembers Eden's clear humiliation, and whatever spell those tantalizing tits had placed upon him abruptly vanishes. What kind of friend is he, ogling Eden instead of helping to diffuse the situation? Gale bites back the wave of self loathing that threatens to crash over him, and instead he averts his gaze as he opens his mouth to speak.

Eden beats him to it, because of course that beautiful, witty, shockingly and infuriatingly busty tiefling does. It seems he's recovered from the shock.

"They're tits, Astarion," he says drily. "Breasts. Boobs. Whatever you wish to call them. I assume you must at least be familiar with the term, yes?"

All at once, the electric tension in the air dissipates as various members of the party crack up and Astarion sputters in embarrassment. Gale lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, doing his utmost best to put his sudden rush of desire out of his mind. It's for the best, he's sure--his heart is beating a war drum in his chest, and he doesn't want to imagine what havoc might be unleashed if the orb were to destabilize now.

Of all things to almost make Gale lose control, it's a single glimpse of his gorgeous new companion's nude torso. Ridiculous.

[himebushou]

For @dizzybizz!  Thank you for the cute mental images!

Paddling 

Kazuki was out, losing his mind in some end of summer sale, elbowing past soldier and civilian alike in his quest to secure the best bargains (“We won’t see prices like these again in our lives!” he’d hollered down the phone); Rei, therefore, was responsible for looking after Miri that morning – a perfect outcome since they’d already planned to work through the next chapter of Tiger Hero Chronicles III.  They were newcomers to the Tiger Hero franchise, but the 30-minute demo, with its gorgeous colours, zany characters and riveting soundtrack, had already transformed the father and daughter into ardent fans. 

First, Rei called for Miri.  When there was no answer, he began searching. 

She wasn’t hiding in a bedroom.  She wasn’t scrunched up in a closet or lurking in a cupboard. Rei’s voice rose.  Still, he heard no reply and, feeling dread creep up the nape of his neck, Rei threw open a final door. 

Miri was too engrossed in her task to notice Rei entering the bathroom.  Though her squishy arms were full, she gripped her precious items, preventing anything from escaping her embrace. 

Rei watched as Miri diligently placed ten rubber ducks on the edge of the bathtub.  She twisted them so that all the plastic birds faced the same direction.  Satisfied, Miri took a step back to survey her handiwork, wiped non-existent sweat from her brow and declared, 

“Phew!  Now Rei Papa won’t be lonely!” 

Curious, Rei prodded a rubber duck.  It honked so fiercely that Miri leapt into the air – then giggled and quacked.  She tugged Rei’s hand, insisting, “It’s your turn!”

Rei’s heart overflowed.  He quacked obligingly.  Then, they were dancing around each other, honking and quacking and squawking.

“I… really can’t leave you two alone for a minute, can I?” 

Kazuki’s stare could have carved through ice. Miri exploded with laughter; Kazuki put one hand on his hip and sang, “So that’s why you wanted all these little guys, my darling girl?” 

Rei straightened, daring Kazuki to make one of his stupid jokes. 

A moment later, Kazuki caught Rei’s eye and grinned, daring Rei to try and stop him.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

The Eavesdropper

Aditee was a wonderfully good listener. All of her dearest friends told her so, as did her vast extended family - and even her lovers, although they contrived to find in her a dozen other minor faults to compensate. But it was particularly the opinion of Doctor Jesuthasan at the new medicine house on Broad Street, which she had visited the Wednesday morning last - a diagnosis, in truth, which bestowed more weight upon that view, adorning it in authority and draping it in the finer robes of fact.

She had arrived seeking a cure to her chronic headaches, and found only the insufferable thrumming of his medical machinery: infernal devices which sought to preserve life, as far as Aditee understood, but only at the cost of all she recognised as peace. She had suffered tests and examinations, each only deepening her symptoms in severity - pinching the bridge of her nose and massaging her scalp against the pain, rendered reliant on her own treatments to counteract the doctor's search for one which he might call his own.

The problem was with her ears, he had finally proclaimed, speaking loudly to command his dominance over that background noise, as one might call a misbehaving dog to heel, to wrestle with the hum of the electrical lighting and knocking of the pipes, but needlessly so, as if she wouldn't hear even a whisper from across the hall. There was nothing wrong with them, he confirmed, with the joy of a man who has relieved himself of any further responsibility. They simply worked too well.

For most people, the ear was a malformed curl of cartilage, a conch shell which could barely hold the music of the tides, but on Aditee they were precision instruments; marvels of the modern age, devices of a specification not yet known by mankind's fledgling science, and perhaps familiar only those champions of the wild, the wax moth and the pipistrelle, the atlas of the bottlenose and homing pigeon's weather vane.

She could hear everything, regardless of intent, and in fact disregarding her most strenuous efforts to make things otherwise. Eaves were dropped like breadcrumbs everywhere she went, and Aditee was followed by the squawking of distant squirrels and the whistling of half-hearted gales, snatches of conversation which grasped at her mind as she raced on through the marketplace, an endless procession of footsteps and birdsong and laughter that seemed to mock her even as she fled.

It was the queerest thing, to march to the beat of one's own heartbeat, without the need of Dr Jesuthasan's stethoscope; to be keenly aware of the creaking of one's joints; to hear the rush of blood to each and every muscle group, an orchestra of organs all complaining in concert, even the glistening of her tears when it all became too much, which was true more often than not.

It was a stage of perpetual agony, she tried to explain, over the doctor's far-too effusive praise. The body was not built to survive such clarity, in the way that a diet of pure oxygen overwhelms the lungs, and children are warned against direct sight of the sun. A mind was not meant to hold three conversations at once! It overflowed, like a wine glass filled thrice over with pinot noir, champagne and chardonnay, like a paragraph confused with one too many metaphors.

But Dr Jesuthasan would not be deterred, his own hearing clearly lacking any comprehension of her quiet, pained protests, too deafened by the volume of his own bilious thoughts, an eruption of discovery to rival Archimedes. Such perfection, he announced, had henceforth been found only on the pages of textbooks, cross-section diagrams and theoretical script, but never in practice, where the grit of reality so consistently found its way into the oil of design.

Having surpassed science, he proclaimed her as a work of art - as if it had been the Mona Lisa's ears that tracked her patrons around the room, if she had been troubled with them at all, beneath her veil of auburn curls; as if Botticelli's Venus, whose ears were also not shown, despite the lack of modesty elsewhere, had emerged atop pinna and helix as opposed to scallop shell; as if Monet's muse had held an ear in place of parasol; as if Vermeer had shed the pearl and let the flesh take centre-stage, for even there, at the heart of his masterpiece, the curve was partially concealed.

Aditee tried to take her lead from those heroines of oil and canvas: to hide her own ears beneath hair and headscarf, to muffle them with muslin cloth and cotton wool; to pack them with strings and ceiling wax, a rich stuffing of soft French cheese and tapenade - and even to fill their whorls with paint, a forest-green gouache she'd acquired during her own youthful dalliance with the medium, though she had always much preferred the solitude of distant landscapes.

But ultimately, instead, she learnt far more from the artists, who enjoyed a visual world without sound. They painted her the way, the dead leading the deafened, as she read of Gauguin's use of morphine and laudanum to numb his pain, his death confirmed by chewing on his face; Picasso's distortion of faces and legacy of suicide; the gangrene of Manet's foot, requiring amputation; but most of all the example of Van Gogh, who had severed his own left ear.

Aditee followed his lead, only delaying to ensure that it was cut clean off, and coming back for the right one as well. After that, she had no further need for art, for the silent world had already become a hundred times more beautiful: she no longer had to hear the chitter of aphids in the rosebush, the bursting of woodlice in the hearth. She could simply enjoy their warmth, their perfume, in the same fashion as everybody else.

When she visited Doctor Jesuthasan after the act, needing his help to patch up the wounds, she didn't even have to endure his admonishments - let alone his initial shocked squeals. Broad Street had fallen quiet, with a new grace in the way that people softly walked on padded soles, their carriages now gliding noiselessly like swans upon a placid lake. He might fuss over the blood and mess, but there was really no more pain - the world had been the disease, pouring into an open wound, and, cursed with his inaction, she had been forced to cauterise it for herself.

She might have been a masterpiece, before - as he had said, and now mourned slashes in that canvas. But she was better now.

[peachyninjago]

Lloyd and Morro + bucket

listen. is this over 500 words? maybe. just a lil. just a smidge. anyways followers c'mere come get your gc juice :)

tw: none! there are like two swear words ig?

~

"This… this is ridiculous."

"I'm telling you, Sensei Wu gave this test to all of us."

"I thought you said only the water-girl was subject to this torture?"

"...Yeah, at first. Then she yelled at Wu until he agreed to do it to the rest of us. Nya's scary, Morro."

"I don't disagree, but still-"

Lloyd and Morro stood out behind the old tea shop, where its shallow pond was overflowing with Koi fish. Morro didn't really understand Lloyd's reasoning to come here, (He doesn't have many good memories associated with the place. Lloyd shouldn't either, really.) but the golden boy insisted that it's the only place they can complete this 'exercise'.

Morro brought his hand to his face to pinch the bridge of his nose, already feeling a headache coming on.

"So, let me get this straight. You want me to fill this bucket-" He lifted the bucket he was holding, it had a hole in the bottom. "-With my element? With wind?" 

"Yup!"

"Why is there a hole in it?!"

Lloyd sat on a stone in the middle of the pond, the Koi fish around him darting to-and-fro whenever he jostled the surface of the water. 

"The hole is there because Nya insisted it to be. Trust me, I didn't get it either. Still don't,  actually."

Just as Morro was about to make another comment on how ridiculous this is, Lloyd looked at him with a cheeky grin, making said wind master's pride do a double take.

"Then again, that doesn't really matter. Hole or not, none of us could figure out how to fill it with our element until Sensei Wu told us…"

Lloyd's grin went from cheeky to smug in a matter of milliseconds.

"...But, since you're sooo much better than us, you surely gotta be able to!"

Suddenly straightening, Morro felt his pride hit his heart with a spiked bat.

Even by just listening, is he falling right into Lloyd's trap? Probably.

Is the temptation to be better at something that not only Lloyd, but all the other ninja couldn't do too strong to resist? Definitely.

Closing his eyes, Morro threw the bucket over his shoulder with a smirk. He heard the beginning of Lloyd's outcry, 'Hey-', but the rest of his sentence was cut-off as Morro caught the bucket mid-air.

He didn't even turn to look at it, arms crossed smugly. The soft whirring of wind he could hear rotating around the old object made Morro even more prideful.

When the ex-ghost opened his eyes, Lloyd's wide-eyed expression made him lift a finger to idly toss the bucket around, wind whipping it back and forth. The blond's impressed expression made Morro happier than he'd ever admit outloud.

Keeping the bucket rapidly rotating in one place, Morro pointed to it over his shoulder.

"What, like it's so hard? One bucket of wind, just as you requested."

"Mmm… That's cool, but nope!"

"Wh-? What do you mean, 'nope'?!"

"Nope! That's not a bucket of wind."

"How?! It is literally full of wind!"

"Well, not really. The bucket itself isn't full of wind, it's just surrounded by it."

"Oh, don't be so damn critical!"

"Hey, hey, calm down! I'm just doing what Sensei Wu did! He was even harsher, I swear!"

Letting the bucket drop with a loud 'clunk', Morro plopped onto the grassy floor with a huff, face red in anger. (Or maybe embarrassment?)

Lloyd didn't say anything, only sighing in amusement as he parkoured over wet stones back towards Morro. Stopping when he was right in front of him, Lloyd crouched down, meeting the ex-ghost's eyes with a kind (Albeit smug) smile.

"Not so easy, is it?"

Morro refused to speak, face beet-red.

Instead of talking this out and responding like a normal person, Morro chose to smush a hand against Lloyd's face, sending him falling backwards before standing with a huff.

The Oni-hellspawn let out a squawk of indignation as he partially fell in the pond; recovering only to stumble towards Morro and shake off all the excess water on him.

"Ack-! Oh my F.S.M., Lloyd! What are you, a dog?!"

"Eh, sure, why not? BARK BARK BITCH!"

Lloyd yelled this with a wide, competitive smile on his face, darting forward to wrap his arms around Morro's waist and do a backwards dive-bomb into the shallow pond. (Don't worry, no Koi fish were harmed in the creation of this prank.)

Morro shrieked as he fell, elbowing Lloyd in the stomach as he refused to let go.

"AGH- YOU! LET GO, YOU IMPUDENT BUFFOON!"

"Haha-! Oh my First- Morro, calm down! The water can't hurt you anymore, remember?"

At Lloyd's words, Morro stopped writhing so much, going uncharacteristically still. His face was quick in once more becoming beet-red, almost getting lightheaded from the sudden bloodrush.

"...Shut up. I hate you. I hate this. And I absolutely despise that bucket."

"Hey- What did the bucket ever do to you?"

"Exist."

"Pfft, and you call me a child?!"

Morro groaned one last time as he finally got himself off of Lloyd and out of the pond, wringing out his hair as he stomped towards the bucket. Lloyd did nothing but watch, letting out small bouts of laughter when a few particularly curious Koi fish came nipping at his clothes.

Lloyd's head turned towards Morro as the latter let out a loud 'ahem.' He stood right next to the battered-bucket, eyes bearing a glint so mischievous that Lloyd immediately shot up, the poor affectionate Koi fish darting away. The golden boy's eyes squinted in distrust and mild intrigue.

"...What are you planning..?"

The only response he got was a quiet chuckle from Morro right before the wind master brought his leg back, kicking the bucket forward and sending it absolutely flying. (To whatever poor citizen that bucket landed on in Ninjago City, Lloyd gives you his deepest condolences and apologies.)

Now. Unknown to Morro, Lloyd knew what he wanted to see. He knew he wanted to see the Green Ninja throw a temper-tantrum because his beloved bucket was kicked-to-the-curb.

Lloyd, however, refused to give him that satisfaction.

Instead, he just stood with a smile, letting water roll off him as he exited the pond towards Morro. When they were face-to-face, Lloyd lifted a finger to press against the center of Morro's forehead, a toothy grin working its way onto his face as his cousin's indignation showed through.

"Damn, guess the bucket really kicked the bucket, huh?"

Lloyd, barely keeping back ear-piercing laughter, saw a shadow fall over Morro's eyes. The Oni-hellspawn broke, letting go of his condensed joy as Morro lifted his finger off his forehead. They stayed like this for a near-minute until Lloyd regained the ability to speak, wiping overjoyed tears from his eyes.

"Whoo, okay, haha! …Ha…ha… Hm. How… How long do I have to run?"

"...Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen…"

With a half-nervous, half-excited yell; Lloyd made a sharp U-turn, beginning to run towards the old tea shop as Morro's counting became louder and louder..

"Six, five, fourthreetwoone. GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

As Morro began sprinting after him, Lloyd couldn't help but giggle at the absurdity of the situation. The bucket was probably still flying…

…And Morro didn't even realize that he filled it.

[melanieathene]

Suptober 2023 Bonus Day 31 - Trick or Treat

Halloween has meant different things to Dean Winchester over the years.

Dean's first Halloween was idyllic – everything he'd hoped it would be; absolutely perfect in his four year old mind. For weeks beforehand, he spoke of nothing else but what to wear and how much candy he'd get. That joy dimmed slightly once he learned his candy consumption was going to be strictly monitored (he had expected to eat it all right away). But, hey, free candy! Who could remain disappointed about that? Besides, staying up an hour past his usual bedtime was a treat in itself.

Dressed as a cowboy – in jeans, plaid shirt, a fringed leather vest and of course, authentic cowboy boots and wide-brimmed hat – Dean trotted from door to door, a grinning pumpkin basket held in one hand, a toy pistol in the other. “Trick or treat,” he cried whenever someone answered the door. Basking in the praise of how cute he was, and what a good boy he was for always remembering to say thank you, he strutted back to his waiting father, holstering the pistol and accepting a helping hand down any stairs. In the dark stretches between houses, John carried the pumpkin and Dean continued to hold tight to his father's hand. The dark was scarier than he had anticipated, and soon became crowded with rowdy older kids but, with John at his side, Dean felt protected and safe.

It didn't take long for the pumpkin to be filled to overflowing.

“Maybe next year Sammy can come with us,” Dean said as they turned to make their way home. “Mommy too. It's not fair they had to stay home.”

John laughed. “Sam's just turning 6 months old, Dean. It will be a few years before he's big enough to go trick or treating. Maybe next year your Mom can go out with you and I'll stay home to watch Sam and hand out candy.”

Dean was yawning by the time Mary welcomed them home with a hug for Dean and a kiss for John. “To bed with you, young man” she declared. “The candy count can wait until tomorrow. Into your PJs with you. Now!”

This met with no argument from Dean. He rushed through brushing his teeth and saying his prayers and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He had no idea that two days later his mother would be dead, their home and happy life destroyed in a burning inferno. In a way, he lost his father too that night. Azazel became John's obsession, pushing him into the life of a hunter.

Sam was almost seven when Dean finally convinced their father to take them trick or treating. The threat of venturing out alone with his brother if John refused to accompany them was the deciding factor. John knew all too well what dangers lurked in the shadows: ghosts and ghouls, witches and demons, the list went on and on. Halloween is an especially dangerous time. It draws monsters out of hiding and allows them to walk undetected amongst us. It amazed John how other parents – blissfully ignorant citizens – allowed their children to run free on such a night. There was no way his boys were doing that! So, knowing Dean's stubbornness when it came to doing what he thought was best for Sam, it was better to concede rather than chance them running into some monster.

There was no money for fancy costumes, but there seemed to be more than enough to provide John with a continuous supply of alcohol. Dean acknowledged this fact with no little bitterness, but he kept the observation to himself. Sam was going trick or treating; that was all that mattered. A sheet with eyeholes cut in it was good enough for Dean. He shoplifted a cheap plastic Batman costume for his brother. Pillowcases could hold any goodies they collected.

Sam was over the moon about the whole adventure. He traipsed from door to door, squawking “trick or treat,” almost dancing down the street as they headed for the next house. Dean trailed a step or two behind, one eye on his excited brother, the other on the hulking presence of his father. John was armed to the teeth, and Dean knew it. Heck, Dean's ghost costume concealed more than his identity. He carried a knife or two himself. In addition, the pistol tucked in the waistband of his jeans was loaded with silver bullets – and he knew how to use it. He wasn't the fool his father thought he was. He knew the risks. He was a hunter too.

By the time their pillowcases bulged with treats, John was more than pleasantly buzzed, he was flat out drunk. He staggered along the sidewalk, giving the stink eye to the people he passed. Anger radiated off him in palpable waves, and more than one person ushered their child across the street rather than confront him.

“Time to call it quits, Sammy,” Dean said, giving his bother a nudge and inclining his head towards their father.

“Okay, Dean,” Sam quietly agreed.

And that was the end of Halloween. John spent the next two days in an alcoholic haze, sobbing inconsolably over Mary.

Dean stuck a candle in a Twinkie and sang Happy Birthday to his little brother.

Halloween as an adult is much like any other day in the life of a hunter, distinguished only by the plethora of spooky lawn decorations that spring up as the day approaches. The costume most employed by the Winchester brothers on this occasion would have to be FBI agent. Investigating suspicious deaths, chasing down vengeful ghosts, thwarting witches, digging up graves, exterminating zombies and ghouls, and (Sam's least favourite) dealing with a murderous clown are but a few of the cases they've tackled.

Honestly, Dean is far more enamoured with the day after Halloween when candy goes on sale: all the yummy goodness without the need to go begging door to door. Plus, he gets to pick and choose his favourite treats – no crummy molasses kisses or hard gumballs for him! Bring on the mini chocolate bars and cheese sticks! Bring on the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Twizzlers, Skittles and Sour Patch Kids! Sam of course, being the health nut that he is, disdains all sugary treats and refuses to share in Dean's seasonal glee. Dean leaves him behind in the Bunker, sipping his herbal tea and no doubt dreaming of kale salads.

Which is how he finds himself with an angel sitting in the passenger seat as the Impala turns into the mall parking lot. Castiel is an excellent shopping companion. No complaining as they wander from store to store. No frowny, judgement face over Dean's choices of snacks, only curiosity about some of the brightly packaged items.

“What is Candy Corn?” Castiel inquired, studying the tri-coloured, pyramid-shaped candies as if they held the answer to the mysteries of the universe.

“Sugar, corn syrup, vanilla and honey coated with wax.” Dean grabbed the package and tossed it back on the shelf. “You don't want that. Here,” he plopped a bag of Jolly Ranchers in the angel's hand. “These have more flavour.”

“What about these?”

“Hershey Kisses? Not really Halloween-themed, but toss them in the cart. I like Kisses, you probably will, too.”

“I have never had a kiss.”

“Gotta try one, then,” Dean said. “Ooh, look! M&Ms!”

It took a while, but finally satisfied with his selections, Dean turned the Impala for home. Of course, he couldn't wait until they got there, and pulled the car off to the side of the road so he could break into his stash.

“Trick or treat,” he said, popping a candy in his mouth before offering the bag to Castiel.

“Why do people say that?” Castiel chose a green Sour Patch Kid and warily bit its head off. His mouth puckered at the taste, and he scowled.

“Halloween tradition,” Dean managed, when his fit of laughter finally subsided. “It's pretty literal, Cas. You offer the person a choice: trick or treat. If they give you a treat, you don't play a trick on them.”

Castiel dug out the bag of Hersey Kisses and ripped it open. Is a kiss a trick or a treat?” he wondered, staring at the candy.

“Depends on the person.” Dean grinned. “Could be either – or both.”

Castiel carefully placed the candy on his palm and held it out to Dean. “What would you like it to be?” he said.

Dean swallowed, sobering, realizing the conversation had strayed off the Halloween path into something far more serious. Something scarier than things that go bump in the night. All his Halloweens, all his days, had led to this one day, this one moment in time.

He'd thought about it in the past – of course, he had. He had eyes, didn't he? Castiel was gorgeous – had definitely inspired a shameful fantasy or two – but Dean had never had the courage to act on his desire. He'd buried it deep, so deep he'd thought it hidden even from himself. But here, now, it all came bubbling to the surface. Now, with the promise of love, unconditional love, shining in Castiel's blue eyes, he realized the feeling ran both ways. Love was his for the taking... if he dared.

“Not a trick,” he whispered.

Castiel unwrapped the candy and raised it to Dean's lips. Dean opened his mouth, his eyes focused on Castiel's as he chewed the chocolate morsel: a prelude to the real treat.

“Not a trick,” Castiel agreed. And kissed him.

*************************

A/N And, so, the final prompt has been completed – better late than never as they say. :)

I'd like to express my thanks to @winchester-reload for providing us with such interesting (and sometimes challenging) prompts. I'd also like to thank everyone who has left a note or reblogged my posts.

You can find my complete Suptober23 collection on AO3, at

Feel free to browse to my other stories while you're there. I'd love the feedback.

[elysianrey]

adante

(a/n: I wrote this as a companion piece to @whatanybodygets’s kanej fic, Adagio. This short fic explores a soft moment set in the distant future of the world she’s created between Kaz and Inej. I’ve been thinking about this hypothetical moment ever since I finished her WIP yesterday and this is what resulted! I hope you enjoy! also, if you’re not up to date with that fic, what are you doing with your life?!)

pairing: kaz brekker/inej ghafa

rating: T

tw: chronic pain

The sun is slowly beginning to peek above the collection of tightly clustered apartment buildings in the red light district when Inej sets down her familiar morning routine on the wine crate turned coffee table, saving the cup of heavily spiced tea to serve as a source of warmth on the chilly autumn morning in Ketterdam. Despite the apparent temperature drop, she glides toward the doors leading to the juliet balcony, unlocking the hinge and cracking it open, the city smells and noises immediately enveloping her senses. The cheap perfume from the pleasure houses a few blocks down is inescapable as well as the sounds of crows squawking over the overflowing waste bin at the corner of the street. A small grin blooms across her features, the reality of her life coming to the forefront of her mind.

This is home in the strangest, yet most comforting sense of the word.

She turns around, taking another sip of her steaming mug, and sets it atop the makeshift coffee table. It’s well-past the usual waking time for her companion, but she lets him sleep, knowing he came roughly limping into their shared space only hours ago. Inej pushes the crate against the wall as quietly as possible, then begins her stretching routine on the faded blue rug, her back muscles sighing in relief as she grasps the soles of her feet. Since retiring from the company two years ago, her outlet and purpose had become the studio she opened for the children in West Stave. Teaching dozens of classes each week did not come without consequence, even for her, with years of experience. She always manages to lose a toenail or overextend a limb.

Reaching for the muscle roller on the coffee table, Inej aligns the grooves with the twisting muscles in her lower back and begins to knead out the ache, relief causing her to let out a soft sigh of content. She would defend the effectiveness of using muscle rollers with her life simply because they have never failed to alleviate the pain that’s come with being a professional athlete.

The tell-tale sign of stirring sounds through the paper-thin walls of their bedroom, and not ten minutes later, a disheveled Kaz Brekker comes thumping into the small living and kitchen space, his cane extra loud on the wood floor. From her place on the carpet, Inej can already tell he is hurting exceptionally bad by the harshness of his walk. She continues the back and forth motion of moving the foam roller up and down her spine, her eyes closed, drawing in deep, belly-filling breaths until he quite literally, collapses on the threadbare couch beside her, muttering curses only Kaz Brekker would say at 6:30 in the morning.

“Saints Inej, it’s fucking freezing in here,” he grumbles, which leads to her cracking an eyelid open to take in his oversized, sulking form.

“Good morning to you, too,” she replies, halting her massaging to sit upright and properly take in the sight of her bitter, other half. “Late night?”

“Business as usual,” he snaps, practically heaving himself upright to limp over to the balcony doors, shutting them with more force than necessary in her opinion.

His leg nearly gives out on his return to the couch, his breath catching sharply as he reaches for the arm of the furniture. Inej frowns, chest tightening at the pain he’s so obviously experiencing. Typically a change in weather brings weariness to his limb; however, she knows it’s not uncommon for overexertion to equate to the same pain, or even worse, than the mood of the sky.

She presses lightly, “Not to sound like Nina, bu—”

“No,” he shoots back, likely knowing where she is going with the ‘Why don’t you take the painkillers you so often refuse?’ line.

It’s moments such as these that make Inej question why–out of all the perfectly suitable men in the world—did the saints make her so hopelessly attached to the stupidly, stubborn one lying as stiff as a board on their couch with an affixed frown on his stupidly handsome face. She wants nothing more than to argue with him until he eventually relents to defeat and takes the medication, yet perhaps she could attempt a different approach this morning.

Scooting closer to him on her knees, Inej stares at the lines of his sharp, downturned features. Despite their relationship pushing four years, and the progress each of them have made in terms of physical touch, she resists the urge to run the tip of her finger along his jaw, knowing he’s rarely in the mood to accept physical contact, even from her, when he’s hurting so badly. They have learned through trial and error that pain is too close of a trigger to the horrific accident that created his fear in the first place. She will never forget watching him vomit and violently shake with pure terror early on in their relationship after he insisted she could work out the kinks in his shoulders late one evening. It took months before he was willing to accept her touch again.

“What can I do to help you, Kaz?” she says softly, fully aware that he’s going to pretend like he’s entirely fine.

“Nothing.”

The walls are impossible to penetrate when Kaz Brekker is unwilling to let them down.

“Let me help you,” Inej insists, sitting back on her legs to provide space for him to possibly become reasonable.

“I told you, Inej–”

She interjects before he can spout another lie, “I want you to get on the floor.”

This demand gets his attention, his head turning to look at her face, a slight quirk of his eyebrow signaling he was not expecting her request. Inej knows he values a challenge as much as her so it’s nothing short of a miracle from the saints above when he actually obliges, his body ungracefully sliding from the couch down the short distance onto the rug.

“Well that was unex—” she starts to tease before Kaz prods her with the tip of his cane to silence the comment. The tiniest of giggles escapes her throat as she holds up her hands in surrender, saving him from cruel embarrassment.

“Now what?” he bites, leaning back on his elbows, splaying his long body across the floor. His feet practically touch the small island they added last year.

Inej’s mouth goes dry at the view of him on the floor next to her, his hair an unkempt mess, his cotton t-shirt revealing the prominent veins of his pale arms, the black ink of the tattoo on his forearm, and exposing the smallest sliver of skin along the waistband of his sleep pants. Swallowing the distraction away, she forces her thoughts back to the reason she ordered him onto the floor. Her stares do not go unnoticed by the man beside her, and she spots the barest flush of pink on his cheeks at the vulnerable state he’s allowing her to witness him in.

One he most definitely would kill a man over if it came to anyone else in the world other than Inej.

Reaching for her muscle roller, she holds it out for him to accept. His eyes narrow as he glances between the bizarre contraption he’s watched her use on a daily basis and the warm face that is asking him to trust her. In the end, trust outweighs skepticism. Inej bites back the victory grin threatening to show.

Kaz has never been an easy student. Teaching him how to use a muscle roller might as well be like teaching a grizzly bear to perform a grand jete. Since she cannot touch him, Inej provides visual examples with another muscle roller about where to place it under his leg, how to rock his body back and forth over the roller, and the amount of pressure he should apply in the areas that are especially tight. She even demonstrates various hand techniques she’s learned to knead out a muscle spasm on the top of her leg. It’s an arduous task to refrain from biting the bait of arguing with her overgrown student as he grinds out his frustrations and a slew of curses that would put a sailor to shame. Kaz Brekker is clumsy and unsure with the muscle roller under his leg, quite the opposite of his usual daily facade. It nearly makes her laugh–if she also didn’t want to strangle him at the same time.

By the end of their lesson, Kaz is lying on his back, hands over his stomach, panting at the effort of kneading out the pain in his leg. A slick sheen of sweat glistens from the morning sun and causes the front strands of his hair to stick to his forehead. Overall, his body has significantly relaxed much to Inej’s relief.

He reaches out his hand to rest atop hers, turning his head so that their eyes meet. This is a promising sign. “If you ever tell anyone about this, just remember that I know where you live,” he warns half-heartedly, his chest still rising and falling rather rapidly.

Inej’s face breaks out in a full smile. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Brekker?”

“Do you consider me a threat, Ms. Ghafa?” he quips, giving her hand the slightest of squeezes.

“Oh, most definitely,” she concedes, bringing his knuckles to her lips and brushing the barest of kisses upon them.

The corner of Kaz’s mouth ticks upward in a tender grin and Inej knows today will not be the last for stretching lessons with her idiotically, adamant man, yet she would not have it any other way.

find me on ao3

[herzgeist-writes]

22) Bottle Of Rum

Pairing: Law x fem!reader | Word count: 4.7k | Warnings: Cussing, angst

Dividers by cafekitsune

A week after the unpleasant examination at the infirmary, the heart pirates decided to emerge into the open sea for a breather. Making sure the surroundings are safe, Hakugan and Uni maneuvered the yellow underwater vehicle to the surface. Many of the crew stretch their feet and take in the salty breeze on deck, enjoying the warm light of the setting sun, tickling their noses.

You as well sit out in the open, taking a deep breath in, while staring out into the horizon. From above, you can hear the squeals and squawks of birds flying towards the Polar Tang. It appears it's the mail sea gulls. A newspaper drops into your hand and you begin to read what the people are up and about nowadays, after a while of absence from the world above water.

Reading the headliner of the first page, your heart sinks into your gut, by seeing a friendly face you haven't come to cross for a very long time. Your hand slaps onto your mouth, before a gasp can leave your lips. Though you are already too drained from the recent nights of tears rolling down your reddend and puffed skin, they yet again threaten to overflow and you can't believe your eyes. Again and again you let your orbs scan over the letters printed on the paper: "N-no way! Uncle Sho..."

A certain Vice Commander notices your emotional slip and waddles over, approaching behind you: "(Y-Y/n)? Are you...okay?" Out of joy, you smile convulsively, looking up at the wholesome polar bear standing next to you. Handing over the newspaper you point at the article. The mink reads out aloud: "New Admiral recruited. Fujitora takes in place by Kuzan's resignation. Eh?! He looks scary!" Taking a peek at the picture below, he detects a man with both eyes closed and a crossed scar lining over his gruff face. Bepo doesn't understand and wiggles his ears at you: "Do you know him?" - "I do indeed. That is my uncle."

Surprised, he looks at the article and back at you again. That for about five times, his gaze fixates on you in the end. Giving you a warm grin he ruffles your hair: "Well, if you don't mind having your family working for the World Government, then I'm happy for you! When did you see him last?" - "To be honest, I don't remember. I was still young when we last met. I never saw that scar on his face either, he must have been through rough times."

The Captain comes walking up the stairs, but holds in place at the doorframe to the outside, as he overhears a conversation coming from the decks. Hearing your voice leaves him longing and drowning in uncertainty, though he was about to seek you out to find contact with you again, it seems to be inappropriate for now.

"Maybe you will meet again on neutral grounds, now that he's an Admiral and you a pirate." - "I do hope so. He's the only family I have left.", black beady eyes blink at you utterly confused. Not sure if he should comment on that, he places his big heavy paw onto your head: "But...we're family too, right?" This question warmed your heart und you let out a delighted laugh, reassuring him that the heart pirates are the best thing that ever could have happend to you.

Mumbling carefully you tell the calmed bear beside you: "I'm just glad he's alive." Law still standing in the doorframe narrows his gaze to the floor, listening to the sweet melody of your voice and soaking in the information that keeps on bubbling out of you. A smile growing over his mouth.

Giving you a gentle nudge, the mink asks you how it's going between you and the Captain. That is not really a topic you'd like to discuss for obvious reasons, but you don't want to withhold everything from your friend: "We haven't talked for about a week or so...to be honest I-" - "Though you two are so close to eachother?" Taken aback your head shoots up to him. A little snicker leaves him as he looks down to your tensed up frame. He sees how tears start to gather in the corner of your eyes. How he hates seeing you this broken.

"(Y/n), I'm not just a fish brained ol' polar bear. Anyone who has a heart, can see that you are in love with our Captain. And dare I say I know that he is with you.", he states as he observes the waves, as they crash along the submarine's metal walls. You can't believe what you're hearing right now. Starstruck you can't even bring yourself to open your mouth, failing in trying to speak. Bepo rumbles amused and slightly abashed, as he adds while scratching the back of his big fluffy head: "I must confess, it was me who put your funny book onto the Captain's bookshelf in his office." Love for dummies? Is he serious?

Still not sure what to say, you are torn between giving that silly mink a balled up fist into his big belly, or sling your arms around him and let your heart cry out in a mixture of relief and happiness. Taking the second option, you press yourself into his squishy body and hug the hell out of the Vice Commander. "Y-You idiot! Why- you...I- this is ridiculous!" - "I know the Captain best and I think him and you deserve eachother, he isn't really the sentimental type and struggles with showing his emotions. So I gave you guys just a little nudge."

"Bepo", comes out of the Captain's lips in a whisper and he smirks to his Vice Commanders decisions, "You fool." Thus he goes back downstairs, he heard enough.

The clouds fly by and the sun sinks into the glittering sea beyond the horizon. The moon rises into the star filled sky and the time to have a mouthwatering dinner has come. There was even a vote if the crew should eat outside, and it became reality. Tables, chairs and cozy glowling laterns are prepared out on deck, to enjoy a warm night outside. The same fire pot, that you used where you docked at the underwater gem cave, is kindled to spread some warmth. How charming.

Uni and Clione are the chefs for this week's kitchen duty and ready the plates and cutlery. The others are already gathering outside, singing cheeful chanties and dancing all silly. It tickles you watching the guys going all out like this once more.

Suddenly, someone jumps at you from behind: "(Y/n) honey! Ready for a scrumptious feast tonight? Shachi told me there will be cherry pie for dessert!" - "O-Oh my go- Ikkaku! Don't scare me like that!" The brunette giggles at you cheekily and asks you to join her table, for you accept her invitation with pleasure. "See you then dear!" - "See you!", the two of you part and mix up with the crowding deck, conversing with a few other crew mates before taking a seat for the main event.

And after felt like an eternity, finally the food arrives, served in giant bowls and plates, scattered on every table, each with different dishes and drinks. The mates are about to dig in, relishing the steaming goodness, but the Captain takes a stand and calls out to his crew: "Men, in the near future we will reach the slave transmission harbour. Once I'm headed off, you will travel to Zou, our rendez-vouz point. I'm counting on you!" - "Aye!"

Seeing him raise the glass, the crew cheers in consent and happily thrusts their mugs of sake into the air. What a sight to behold. Of course you joined in, nearly throwing your own alcohol across Ikkaku's face who's sitting before you. Even at revered events like these you tend to be chaotic and clumsy.

The feast is in full swing, half of the food is already gone and you enjoy a gleeful conversation with the curly haired woman, gossiping about Shachi's alcohol stash and Penguin's secret stamp collection. "We should totally get some booze, what do you say girl?" - "Do you want to get wasted so badly?", you laugh whole-heartedly at her reckless offer. Squiggling her eyebrows at you, the saucy woman that she is, enduldges you into her thoughts. Oh dear.

"Wouldn't it be even more fun if we played a little game of spin the bottle with our favorite boys?", nearly choking on your drink you cough exaggeratedly, giving her a strained glint: "Are you mad?! No?!" - "What ya girls arguing about?"

Oh no, Shachi shows up in the most perfect moment, leaning on Ikkaku's shoulder, giving her a good long look up and down. She giggles and who would have thought, she invites him to a game of, yes, spin the bottle: "We should get a few other guys along. And yes, you'll have to smooch men too!" - "The hell? You frisky woman! I'm game!"

What the actual fuck. Running across the deck to gather everyone who wants to take a risk, he screams and laughs hysterically. Pinching the bridge of your nose with your thumb and index finger you sigh ennerved: "Ikkaku..." - "This should losen you two up a bit." Is this brunette for real? You just went through a felt like heartbreak, thinking he doesn't reciprocate your feelings, yet the bear told you otherwise, getting your hopes up and now you have to play a game where the chance is high that you'll have to actually kiss that man who keeps twisting your head? Officialy you're going insane.

"Honey chill, all kinds of kisses are allowed. You don't actually have to plant your cute lips onto him. Blowing one is fine too." - "Why does everything sound so naughty whenever you explain something?", you two hens can't hold in your snickering and bicker at eachother, letting the evening roll out smoothly.

After an hour, Shachi really managed to gather some guys and leads them to a less visited table. The red-head, Penguin, Uni, Hakugan and even Jean joined the drama. You're relieved you don't see the Captain lingering around, so you take a relaxed breather, visibly freeing yourself from the tension.

Ikkaku whispers something to Shachi, fleeting glances looming over to your direction, apparantly discussing something including you. What is she on about now? The man next to her grins and rumbles at her with spiked sass in his voice: "I know who can help." Rolling your eyes you give Ikkaku a cold stare, for she only sticks her tongue out at you. Please god, no.

The group gathers, sits in an even circle and Shachi comes waddling back: "Sorry, we're almost complete!" What does he mean? Furrowing your brows at him, he grins, scrunching his nose at you impudently. "O-Oi let go of me Bepo!", heavy paw pads stomp over to the party, holding a certain aloof man in his claws, squirming in protest. Oh of course! Let's play a game with him! Sure!

As his steel orbs meet yours, you see his frame stiffen up almost immediately: "What the hell? Bepo put me down!" - "Aye Captain!" He sets him directly into the circle and stays put behind him, making sure he doesn't scurry off. The surgeon is extremely pissed and curses under his breath: "What is this all about?" Ikkaku playfully places the used rum bottle into the middle and peers at the Captain in all confidence: "What does it look like?" Now it hits him.

Exchanging a quick anxious look with you, he sighs defeatedly and crosses his arms, swearing in his revered way, telling them they're despicable, earning an uproar of laughter from the group. Thus the game begins, the brunnette spins the bottle and one after the other takes their turn, making this actually enjoyable and not awkward, playing all goofy and stupid. Jean kisses his fist and punches Hakugan's arm with it, Uni does a similar thing by powering up his palm with a kiss and slaps Shachi's backhead and Ikkaku throws her beloved red-hair one as comfort. Those love birds.

The bottle's tip points at you and your head shoots up hastily, to your luck it's Penguin, scratching his neck nervously. That wholesome bean of a man.

To not make this weird, you kiss your own fingers and place them on his cheek: "There you go." - "E-Eeeeh?! (Y-Y/n) what are you doing?" Puffs of smoke wade over this poor boy's head and the round laughs by the scene taking place. This is going swimmingly so far.

On and on does the glas spin, deciding for each and everyone's fate. Once again, the tip looks at you and you see Ikkaku at the other end, playfully acting as if she's all shy and flirty: "O-Oh my gosh, (Y/n) honey. I'm not sure if my heart can take it!" - "Shut up woman and hold still." Without remorse you plant a rough peck onto her cheek, laughing at her totally convincing faint she just showed off.

The curly hair gives Law a knowing sneer, raising her eyebrows at him. You believe he got the message, the tip of his hat covers half of his face again, meaning he probably is abashed or annoyed by the obvious hint she signalised him. Carrying on, the next victim will be chosen in the next upcoming second. The tip first shows at Ikkaku and slowly turns to the Captain next to her, with you on it's other end. Well, this was bound to happen and you swallow empty to what comes next. You can't believe you let a bottle of rum determine your destiny.

The group emits a low 'Oooh' by discovering the piece of glas' decision. This ought to be interesting. As the surgeon slowly comes up to you, he gently takes your hand and in utmost care kisses it's back, his lips' warmth spreading into your arm, crawling up to your face and whole body. His stormy eyes never wavering from you. As he breaks from you he whispers a low: "I'm sorry." - "Mhm?"

An apology? Is that for...what happend at the infirmary? What's his intention? How you wish to ask him what that was for, but the situation makes it more improper and unsuitable to do so.

Besides all that, the crowd around you goes wild, laughing and hollering in excitement. Irked, the Captain attempts to calm them down by growling at them: "Knock it off!" Though he sounds aggrevated, the curl on his lips proves otherwise. It feels like the curse has been lifted, glancing over to the aloof man, narrowed mellow steel eyes look back at your slow blinking (e/c) ones. How long is this game going to take? The urge to take him by the hand and lead him somewhere more secluded is growing quite vast.

Unfortunately, you have to test your patience and play along for another ten minutes, that's when Ikkaku decided to drown herself in alcohol and have some fun with a certain red-head, who's grinning at her sheepishly. The group disbands, everybody keeps and laughing and joking about the game with bright faces. Some of them head to bed and the rest stays for a while longer, engulfing themselves in sake and having fun with the others.

Bringing a plate of cherry pie with you, you go to the lower platform and lean against the railing, soaking in the cool breeze and cold light of the night, giving you shivers. The full moon shines brightly and eluminates the water beautifully, the waves glittering subtly with every moving tide. Deep in thought you don't even realise you're humming the bitter sweet melody of the shanty you lastly sang at the gem cavern at the red marrow isle. Taking a bite of the pie, you blush in delight and do a little happy dance, a low squeak coming from you.

"I didn't know sirens were that much into cherry pie.", you suddenly hear a voice coming from behind you. It's no other than the surgeon, stalking in the shadows. You kind of expected him at this point. Gulping down the cherry's sweetness, you beckon him: "Why did I know the supernova will make an appearance soon again?" A light huff leaves him as he steps closer to you, his hands hidden in the pockets of his hoodie.

At first, you don't know where to begin, or even if you should at all. After all what happend at the game, you feel like everything is back to normal, but you know it isn't. There is something you must get out of your system, you've been carrying it around for way too long now and you think it's about time you faced your fears. Yes, he is your Captain and yes, you still think he doesn't feel the same way, though Bepo said otherwise, within yourself you know, this is a must.

Before you can speak your mind, Law takes the first approach: "I heard your uncle was conscripted through a World Military Draft, recruited as an Admiral to fill a vacancy. He must be strong." - "Did you read the newspaper too?" Confirming your question with a nod he adds he initially heard it from you when passing by and he had to see for himself. Strange, you don't remember seeing him come by.

Staring into the dark blue, you sigh absentmindedly, mumbling: "It's not only his physical strength or the power of his devil fruit, he has a big heart. He always has been the kind to protect the good in humans...if he had the chance to." The Captain recognises in your voice thast there is more to the story and asks carefully, if you're willing to tell.

"I only know he was always up and about, saving what needed to be saved. My parents, my brother and I lived in a rather isolated town far up in the north blue. Sometimes he visited us, but it became less and less over time. In the end, when all kids under ten years old were forced to work and sent to child labour, everything changed."

Your soul aches, telling him snippets of your past, letting your hands draw pictures into the star sky above you, making exaggerated gestures to tell the tale to the closely listening man next to you. Law is fascinated and still hates to admit it, but this is a moment he wishes would last forever. That reminds him of that silly quote from the book that belongs to you: "True love is seen by the heart, not by the eye." He sees you clearly now, your beautiful mind. Everything.

Coming to a point where you have no reason to continue in your story, you turn to him in melancholy: "That's why I'm glad you saved me. Not just from the Celestials, but also from the black whole in my heart, threatening to devour me whole. You are an enormous inspiration to me, but I digress." - "Trust me, I'm not a good example or of sorts."

Not certain what he implies with that statement, you gaze straight at him, requesting to explain further. Setting Kikoku's tip on the ground and leaning his hands onto it's heft, he looks at you through the corner of his eye: "My past created me, a man who's future is tainted and uncertain. Pardon my language, but this world is that fucked up and cruel, I want nothing but to destroy the people that are overly privilged to take whatever they want, kill or make someone suffer to however they see fit. It sickens me!"

His tone sounds somewhat hurt, depressed, furious. You realise his past withholds alot and you rather not cross that line in pressuring him to tell you about it. It feels to be too much of a sensitive topic, a wound not yet fully healed. Trying to boost his mood you beam at him: "Whatever happens, you know we got your back. I will do my best to support wherever you need me." - "That's the point, I don't want you to do that!"

Unexpectedly he raises his voice at you, which takes you aback in surprise, your eyes widening slightly frightened. Asking him what he's meaning to say, he groans irritated and faces you, warning you to mind your own business. Emphasising that you are only his subordinate and he's the Captain. "The plans I'm working on are really fidgety. One slip and we could be in serious danger! I know I'm powerful enough to do it on my own!" - "We are trying to help you, Law! Don't you see, we all agree with your opinions, we-"

A loud slam against the wooden deck scares you, as the sheath of the cursed nodachi knocks against it with force, under the angered Captain's ministration: "I don't care what you all think! This is not a game! Perhaps I'm just using you for my advantages?! When I'm gone, you won't have to care about me ever agai-" Interrupting his rage and tempered vigor, a palm against his cheek slaps him back to reality. His steel orbs give you a mixed look of shock and hurt.

Pulling your hand back in guilt, you snap at him in a low bark: "You have no idea, how much we care and what we're willing to give up for you, have you?" About to turn on your heels, he holds your arm to keep you in place, not saying a word. The salt droplets flow and flow along your skin: "If you prefer to be alone, why did you save us then?"

That is truly a great question. What is hindering him to enjoy the presence of his valued and loved ones? He pulls you back and holds on both to your shoulders, just letting his eyes hover over you. Something inside him is fighting desperately to break down the ice wall he has built up around him for years, just to let you in, in hopes you are able to heed his inner call for help.

It stings you seeing him this lost to his vengeful spirit. There's no use. You choose to stay quiet and stare up to the sky, the white orb reflecting in your deep (e/c) irises. He mirrors you and also turns his head to the starry horizon. The air feels cold and brisky, as you see the fog gathering on the water's surface.

Thinking back where the man next to you ripped you out of the strong grip of the Celestials, you supress a trembling whimper, soaking in the cold light of the moon's radiance, you miss this man. To break the silence, the only thing you muster to mumble to your inner struggle: "It's been awhile, but the moon is beautiful, isn't it?" That question. He heard you say it before. The wonderful poetic sense behind it let's his heart beat harder in his chest as he narrows at you and answers in a deep murmur: "I can die happy."

All shaken up from the sudden calmness and unexpected reply, you look up at him. It takes you a moment to earnestly think about what you just exposed out into the open and what his purposeful answering words meant. A small laugh leaves under your hitched breath and the pain plastered over your face begins to slowly fade away, feeling yourself drawn to him. You understand now. In hesitance, your hands wander up to his neck, serving as a support to you and as well holding on to the man you wish to know, if he's aware of what he just said.

But instead of you, ironically it's him asking you, if you know what you just set free and you affirm it in a hushed 'I do'. Tears of sorrow turned into tears of joy and you drown in his softening grey eyes, which narrow at you. You now see his fear, his care for his crew. For you.

Law feels like his lung has been torn out and fights with the overworking muscle in his heaving rib cage. This is not how he thought this evening would turn out. Definitely not. Seeing your little physique beneath him, awaiting his next move eagerly, leaves goosebumps all over his body and he attempts to open his mouth, but it won't do his bidding.

Gentle and warm hands cup his austere jaw and the Captain can't tell if you actually hear his heart exploding or not. Why is this so exhausting? He sees your soft expressioned face closing in to his and lips as smooth as honey press themselves onto his heated cheek, brushing the corner of his own agape lips.

Entranced by your touch he doesn't dare to move an inch, torn open eyes observing you, already yearning for more. As you take back you smile at him gingerly: "Just please, Captain...be careful. We'll be waiting for you." Missing your warmth he sees you walking up to the stairway. Grumbling something incohorrently, he follows you up the stairs. This cannot be it. There is more, he must...

"(Y/n), wait.", as you two reach the upper platform again, he pulls you in closer once more, this time him being the one embracing your face within his palms: "You must know, you can't fly down hell with me. I want you to be safe, no matter what it costs me." Placing your hand onto his adorned ones, you lean into his softness.

The tall man leans down to you and hesitantly lets his trembling lips intertwine with yours. The both of you melt into eachother, sharing the same air. You hook your arms around his neck to deepen the kiss further, earning a sigh of relief and satisfaction from Law, who doesn't seem to let go of you so easily.

You part for oxygen for just a split second, only to be pulled into the sweet pleasure once again. It repeats uncountable times, getting more sensual and hungry in a slow motion. Then, his white fluffy hat gets in the way, always gliding along your forehead, disrupting your movements.

Grabbing it by the tip, the Captain takes off the momentarily nuisance of an accessory and clamps it between his fingers, gliding his hands down to your back to balance your stance. All that without ever parting from the intoxication.

It's only two more days until you reach your destination to drop off the Captain. In all honesty you don't want him to go, but everything is set already. There is no turning back and of course you want him to fullfill his goal. Right now, all that matters is that you finally are able to show the surgeon of death the love you have stored for him. And glady you receive his undevided affection just as much.

"(Y/n)-ya...hold on.", he whispers as he breaks from you and yells out into the open, "I'll gladly assign a month of kitchen duty to the lost causes standing behind that mast!" Two frightened squeaks emit from behind the mast, exactly where the Captain predicted. Ashamed, Shachi and Ikkaku toddle of, scratching their heads while grinning at you all flustered and flee from the doctor's wrath.

You laugh and hug the aloof bean of a supernova before you, nuzzling your face into his chest. Not certain on how to react he wraps his arms around you slowly and leans his head on yours. "O-Oi...I think that's enough for today." - "Says the man who just couldn't stop kissing me a minute ago." Annoyed he grunts, pushing himself from you to take a better look at you and lifts your chin up to face him with his slender fingers.

"Nevertheless, I finally found a way to shut you up.", he sneers at you, inching down at you to meet with your lips again. Before he reaches you, you pull away teasingly: "And I found a way to make that grumpy Captain a little less grumpy." Snorting at your comment he shakes his head in disbelief.

As a matter of fact he was right, a short peck coming from the smirking doctor silences you immediately and your face heats up unavoidably, for he only reacts with a little chuckle to his entertainment: "I could get used to this."

[goddesstrolls]

>> You’re lying half-awake in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Wondering if you should harass Kinsra a bit tonight. He’ll be streaming, which means it’s an optimal time to bother him.

>> Then you feel something somewhat warm and gooey squish against your ankle.

>> Squawking and pulling back the blankets your recoil, finding something in your bed. Some viscous little black blob, leaving brown-black stains on your white sheets.

>> It scuttles towards you and you pounce on it like a cat on a mouse, and banish it- At the last moment, you feel like the void isn’t the best place for this thing, so you just send it halfway across the planet. You don’t care if it’s a problem as long as it’s not your problem.

>> It left a sticky, foul-smelling residue on your hands. And your sheets, but that’s a problem for later. Grimacing, you head to the kitchen to wash your hands, warily looking around for any more of those things.

>> You don’t see any more, but you’ll look around the hive to be sure. You head down to the ground floor, and stop dead at seeing your workbench.

>> Another one. It’s latched onto your latest project, a high-capacity magical capacitor you were using to try to help stabilize and mitigate your constant magical overflow.

>> With every apparent gulp, the thing grows in size, gorging itself on your own potent magic. It’s the size of a large cat already, covered in shifting mouths. As you stare at it, a large eye opens and stares back at you.

>> For a few moments you are too revolted to move. Then you lift a hand and blast it with sheer energy. You can feel the thing’s alignment to void and shadow, so you align the energy with light. Thankfully it doesn’t just absorb it, and instead it’s vaporized into nothing.

>> It left a foul residue all over your workbench- Well, mostly the blueprints you had scattered across it. You gather them, ball them up, and light them on fire. You can always re-draw them, you’re not very attached to that project anyway. You carefully clean off the capacitor and dump it into an antimagic bubble- Just in case. 

>> Then you continue searching the hive. You find another of those blobs- This time, just a little one- Trying to squeeze into a barrel full of dragon guts in the basement, but that’s it. 

>> The third one, you decide to capture, dumping it into a sealed jar. These things are freaky, but mostly seem harmless…That you’ve seen, anyway. You’re going to pick this thing apart and see if you can figure out where it came from…

[fixed-signs]

Marzana, Marzana

Marzana, Marzana - Chapter 1

Pairing: Josh x original female character (you read that right if you come back up here halfway through this chapter)

Warnings: NSFW MINORS DNI, drinking, weed, implied sex

Eventual pregnancy and angst, we got slow burn, we got fluff

Word count: 2.7k

Hadley took one look back at the brick apartment building, the last plastic milk crate of records in her hands and a guitar slung on her back. She exhaled, cheeks puffing out, and feeling slightly uncomfortable in the warm Tennessee October. 

She watched the leaves, still attached to the trees sway like the licking flames of a fire. She felt no desire to take anything else. She didn’t need any of it really. Everything in that apartment no longer served her or this strange— constantly parting stage of her life at the moment. 

*

“What an asshole.” She spoke into the phone tucked between her shoulder and ear as she drove into a parking spot. 

“Hadley….” Sara on the other end cooed. 

“He tried the ‘I was hurting too’ move, which like, yeah buddy because it was you who was gone all the time taking care of your dying mother.” 

“Pfft, did you tell him that? Like oh yeah, sticking your dick in someone else really screams empathy to me. Oh God! Was she there?!”

“No, no, she wasn’t there….and I let him do most of the talking or groveling or whatever you want to call it. I think she might have realized what a piece he was well before I ever did. But like good for her, ya know?”

“I enjoy your feminism in this situation. He didn’t make a huff about your stuff, did he?”

“He certainly didn’t help me load it up, but clearly I’m all about girl power… The only thing he got in my face about was me taking back the guitar. He was all ‘that’s a gift, you can’t take it back. ‘Mweh’ to me about it.”

“God fuck him.” 

Hadley, stared out the windshield of her car. The glare from the sun making every piece of dust on her dashboard apparent.

“Yeah…” There was a silence, then Hadley gently pulled the phone from her ear while Sara settled a barking dog in the background. “I gotta go.”

“Ok, I’ll see you later.” 

“Oh, no yeah, I just decided to get a hotel room.”

*

Hadley sipped her nearly overflowing double of bourbon and coke and looked at the banner framing the entry way of the patio “Gibson Anniversary Celebration”. Music was blasting, she saw plenty of selfies being taken— She didn’t recognize most of the celebrities smiling on demand next to her coworkers. Hadley subtly danced through the crowd to the some tables to find a seat. She didn’t feel quite up to dancing and figured coworkers were still too starstruck to find any of them on the dance floor quite yet. 

“Ok, but would you rather-“ Sam stood at the end of the table, and shouted, “Ahem, would you rather-“

It didn’t matter, Danny was taking a picture with someone, Jake was busy observing everyone and frankly, was over Sam and tonight, and Josh was trying to scoop a piece of ice on his straw. 

“You know, this is the best ice. The tube kind.” He declared when he managed to thread one on the end of his straw. 

“Josh, shut up!” Sam whined. 

“Yeah, its crushed, fuckhead.” Jake added. 

“Basic bitch-” Josh humored between crunches of ice. 

“Would you rather—“

“Have you heard that chewing ice says something about a man’s sexual prowess?” Josh continued. 

“What on Earth would that have to do with anything?” Jake slid his sunglasses down and proceeded to crunch loudly on piece he scooped out with his fingers from Sam’s drink.

Sam stomped and his eye were about to bulge out of his head. 

Danny sat back down at the end of the booth, knowing he had to intervene without any context, “Ok, what’s the would you rather?” 

“JESUS, I’m getting to it.” Sam squawked, “You know what, no, no, I’m getting another fuckin’ - stronger— drink.”  

The boys booed as Sam left the table. 

Sam was moving gracefully through the large crowd until he was shoved, seemingly out of no where. Before he could catch himself or even glance to see who had pushed him he was on Hadley and Hadley was covered in her drink. 

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. God- oh here,” He helped her stabilize her footing again. Her platform boots slipping a little in the puddle under her. 

“It’s good, what even happened, are you good?” 

“I’m fine!” Sam began shouting as another song started playing, seemingly louder than the last one. “What were you drinking. I can get you another. And some napkins!”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Hadley shook her head.

“Don’t with that. Was it a rum and coke?” 

She crinkled her nose, “Bourbon.” 

“Alright.”

He smiled and Hadley held a hand to her cheek, trying to calm the red flush she felt all over. Luckily most of the drink spilled on her shoes and pants, leaving no truly uncomfortable stickiness on any exposed skin other than her hands. 

*

“Look who I ran in to! It’s Hadley!” Sam announced as he herded Hadley to the table with the rest of the band. 

“It’s you!” Danny played along with the joke. 

“It’s you!” Hadley pretend fawned over Danny. “It’s been so long!” 

“Hi, I’m Josh,” Josh held out his hand. 

“I know, we go way back.” She played along and shook his hand anyways. 

Jake quietly chuckled, observing as Sam pulled up another chair on his side of the table for her. 

“How did you get dragged over here?” Jake piped up. 

“I spilled her drink, and I’m being a gentleman.” Sam answered quickly ending on defensive. 

“Oh well, that’s good, I thought you had just wet your pants. Urination as the professionals call it.” Josh said. 

“Where the fuck are you from? What is that accent?” Hadley quipped back.

Danny shook his head, “English isn’t his first language—“

“We only let him learn his English by watching Jackass.” Jake popped another piece of ice in his mouth, Josh silently mocked his brother’s crunching face, it all was getting entertaining for Hadley. 

“We’re from Michigan.” Sam announced. 

“Oh well…did you- did you know that trade routes from New York brought that accent to Michigan- but no one else here sounds like that…so why do you sound like that?“ 

“Yeah really Joshua? Can you believe we are identical twins?” Jake plucked his sunglasses off and hooked them on his shirt collar.

“Yeah he sounds normal,” Hadley pointed a thumb at Jake, “That explains even less.” 

The table laughed. A new song started Sam and Danny locked eyes. They both began to stand and dance at each other. Danny mouthed the words between sips of his drink. 

“It’s a bop.” Sam and Danny said in unison, clearly an inside joke, and they left to the dance floor that was slowly filling up. 

“So who are you now?” Jake asked. 

“Marzana Hadley.” She held out her hand to Jake, a playful sarcasm in her voice now, “luthier extraordinaire.” 

“Oh? Jake Kiszka,” Jake saw her eyebrows knit together, he gave her hand a light squeeze. “Lead guitar. Of Greta Van Fleet.” 

She avoided eye contact with Jake, as if it’d hide the bashfulness suddenly overcoming her. She’d heard of them— this man’s face was in several pictures around the office and headquarters. Hadley glanced at Jake again, a red light coming from the dance floor haloed in his hair. Josh was already spurting as their equally calloused hands slid from each other.

“Josh Kiszka, yes, Greta Van Fleet’s lead sing-er.” He emphasized for humor, “What do you do for Gibson?” 

“Yeah Marzana, what do you do for Gibson?”

Hadley cleared her throat, her body still flushed from embarrassment, “It’s Hadley. The rockstars interviewing me? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Am I getting the rockstar treatment??”

They both chuckled, “Sorry, no no.” Jake apologized. 

“Did you know,” Josh mimicked her from earlier, “The throat is the 5th chakra. Yours sounds very blocked.”

“You must know all about throat health being a sing-er. AndI just- wow, thank you. The best most heartfelt compliment I’ve gotten in weeks.”

“That’s not nearly as interesting as her linguistics analysis of your annoying ass.” Jake said after a sip of beer. He shook it and listened to any liquid sloshing. Empty.

“Any other esoteric traits you’d like to criticize? I’m a sad Pisces, so go easy.” 

“Ah, well I think your Sanpaku eyes are wonderful. What has you so weary in this life?”

“Josh….” Jake huffed as he stood, “What the fuck man.” 

“Was that a pick up line? Because it’s a bad one.”

“It wasn’t, but I’ll work on it.” 

Hadley rolled her eyes, but was startled as someone abruptly grabbed her shoulders. It was a coworker, who was clearly tipsy and giggly. 

“Hey girl!” The girl hugged around Hadley’s shoulders, pinning her in an awkward sitting-side-back-hug. 

“You sound like you’re having a good time.” Hadley smile, but pleaded for help with her eyes at either of the boys.

“This is Mike from Iowa I’ve been telling y’all about.” her southern drawl was thick as she held out her hand for everyone to see, “Covid love.” 

She hummed and opened her eyes, focusing way too hard on Hadley. It was the alcohol, but it was still jarring compared to the vibe of the rest of the table. 

“Most romantic of pandemics. Spanish flu has nothing on you guys.” Hadley chattered, it cause Josh to choke mid sip of his drink. 

“What? Anywhose, I’m so sorry about your mama and her cancer and all. God, and your breakup? I’m sorry girly. What a year for you.”

“Uh…yeah…..thanks…..” Dread was all over Hadley’s voice— no her entire being. 

Jake and Josh looked at each other. Jake silently was screaming ‘I told you so’ behind his eyes as Josh, unneeded as Josh felt like a true asshole for calling this stranger sad. Hadley just wanted to sink into her chair and not have to pretend the niceties, albeit genuine, would stop. As if manifestation was real the friend realized who the twins were. 

Hadley slinked away with her drink to find obscurity with Sam and Danny- well really anyone who didn’t truly know her, on the dance floor. 

*

Jake and Josh slipped away after some photos and were in line at the bar. Josh bobbing along to the music in his spot, Jake swaying and shifting weight between his feet. He regretted wearing brand new boots.

“You should make a move.” Josh looked towards his friends and Hadley on the dance floor. 

They were having a dance off with cheesy dance moves mixed with square dancing moves. All laughing uncontrollably at each new move the other presented. Cheering and clapping. 

Jake looked at his feet, “I don’t know, man. She’s cool.”

“Yeah she’s fucking cool, dude. I know it’s been a while.” 

“Not since Jita.” 

“So a year?” 

“It’s only been 9 months and it’s not like you’re out there making moves either since-“

“I don’t do rebounds like you.” Josh smacked Jake in the chest.

Jake’s body flinched and he managed to stop his arm from coming up and delivering a swat back, “I don’t ‘do rebounds’ either. Jesus.” He made air quotes. 

Jake took another look at Hadley, now doing the Macarena very off beat to the music while Sam pretend lassoed Danny. 

“How the hell is Sam the only one with a partner out of all of us right now?” Jake muttered. 

“I dunno, but it’s fucked up.” Josh agreed. They clinked drinks.

*

“Shit,” Hadley groaned standing in front of the hotel as the uber pulled away behind her. 

“What’s up?” Jake was already sweating. 

“I- I was moving today and I didn’t have time to get all of my stuff out of my car to my room. Do you mind if I—?”

“Not at all, I can help.” 

Jake followed silently behind Hadley to her car. She popped the trunk and Jake’s eyes widened at the collection of records sitting there. 

“It’s like a lot, it’s just bad to let them sit in changing temperatures and it’s already like 20 degrees colder than when I left. It’s find if you don’t want—”

“I- I get it.” He smiled and began to stack two milk crates. 

*

“Thanks for the cab, by the way.” Hadley pushed the hotel luggage caddy, now full of records to her room; Jake holding on the back and watching for any runaway items when they took turns out the elevator and down hallways. 

It was actually much simpler and less mortifying to slip out of the party with Hadley. Sam had left to FaceTime his girlfriend after her show. Danny and Josh seemingly vanished, almost an Irish goodbye until Jake got a text saying ‘Joshua and I are meeting Alex and bar hopping’ from Danny. 

“No worries. The least I could do after you flamed Josh like that.” 

She let an airy “ha” spit from her lips while she waited for the light on the doorknob to turn green. Hadley pulled out her key card and held the door open for Jake to push the cart in.

“Speaking of flaming people, did you see Slash dancing?” 

They both erupted in laughter. Jake gently shut the heavy hotel door behind him.

He scanned the room: your average beige walls with an overly bright accent wall, a grey-blue bed spread, but the wall with the TV and mini fridge was stacked with even more vinyls and two guitars. One was in a case leaned against the wall upright while the other was laid across the arm chair at the very corner of the room. 

“Do you want to listen to anything?” Hadley offered as she balanced on one foot un-doing her boot. 

“Sure.” Jake grinned and parked the caddy.

“Cool, I’ll set up.” 

Jake flipped through the contents of the collection. Hadley had opened a box and was now on her hands and knees trying to reach an outlet near the bed. She had placed a record player on the night stand, cords trailing out the back to two speakers. Hadley stood back and admired the work before going to her purse and opening a cigarette case. It held several skinny and neatly wrapped joints. 

“I’m gonna- do you-“ She said voice creaking, mechanically, nervously. 

Jake shook his head yes, Hadley nodded and dug out a lighter from another pocket of her bag. She cracked a window, a joint now hanging lazily out of her mouth. Hadley walked over to Jake, she lit up and the familiar herbal smelled wafted to him.

“You decide on anything yet?” 

“This,” Jake held a record between them. In a smooth exchange Hadley took it from his hands and he took the joint from her lips. 

“I wasn’t expecting this.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with the Arctic Monkeys.” Jake wheezed after a drag, the record player hummed and scratched before a heavy, slow beat filled the room.

Hadley sat on the foot of the bed and flicked ashes into stout white coffee cup from the desk. Jake slung the guitar without a case over his shoulders, the joint was passed back to him as he placed himself next to her. The mattress sinking slightly with his weight. Jake strummed and fiddled on the instrument, tuning a string, then strumming a few notes, matching the song. 

“Did you make this?” Hadley nodded at Jake and watched his hands fiddle along the neck, “It’s beautiful.” He said, pausing and staring at Hadley. 

She was blushing. Taking the joint out of Jakes mouth delicately between her pointer and middle finger, “One of the first ones I ever made.” She said after exhaling smoke. 

The room fell quiet between songs, a deafening silence. Hadley flicked the ashes into the cup one more time, her head spinning as the high was starting to hit. She offered the joint back to Jake, holding it near his face. His eyes were heavier than before. He gazed at her faded lipstick mouth he grabbed her wrist out of the way and they both crashed into each other at the same time. 

[kueh-lapyx]

So I wrote a thriller short story based on the most terrifying dream my friend had...

*TW: gore, blood, some violence. Very long post ahead

The house is dark, but I am aware of the glaring cameras just around the corner. Like wolves, they prowl the arena in search of their next prey; they've spotted me, marked me, and are hunting me down. 

Those cameras aren't just single tennis-ball sized eyeballs— behind each of their unmoving glass irises watch thousands of eager Pantheans, all of them anxious for bloodshed. 

I have no intention to be their next source of unscrupulous entertainment. 

I duck under a crumbling door frame. I'm heaving, but I'm careful to control each exhale— their mics get more advanced by the day. I stop to catch my breath so I don't pant too heavily. Resting my hands on my knees, I survey my surroundings. Just like any other, this room is ridden with mould and dust and cobwebs. It's darker than the corridor I'd been in.

My shoes don't make a sound against the hollow wooden floorboards. I creep further into the room, letting the darkness engulf me. Hopefully it will be safe for a while.

I have my hands out in front, and they graze a solid, sandy surface. My fingers brush a doorknob. A tug, and the door comes completely loose. I catch it just in time before it crashes to the ground. Apparently the screws on the rusty iron hinges gave away to age. I step into the wardrobe and secure the door back in place behind me. Again I pray, to Lady Tyche, that they wouldn't notice the lopsided door. 

I know I've just backed myself into a dead-end. It's not a wise choice, but it's the only one I’ve got. I listen for the telltale beep-zzt of the cameras. I wait for the clack-thump of the cameramen's boots. It's silent outside. I exhale, just a little louder, and slouch carefully against the back of the wardrobe.

And then in the silence, I hear whispers through the back of the wardrobe. They’re coming from the other side. Soft and insistent, but a fraction of a decibel louder with each sentence, as if the one speaking feels the need to overrule the other, but both fear to be discovered in the process. One is high pitched, and on the verge of tears. The other is lower and impatient. 

“Son, you know what they would do to you,” the female is saying, “and to me. I cannot bear to lose you; I’d rather you surrender and join the Mourners’ Pit--”

“Mom, that place is worse than hell. You know that too; they treat everyone there like they’re lower than freaking vermin! I’d much rather die fighting than wipe the Pantheans’ sewers with my dignity!”

Ah. I am all too familiar with this argument. The last time I saw my mother, we had been fighting over this exact matter. Except I’d have given in, much alike my cowardly personality, if it weren’t for the sudden appearance of the cameramen. We’d parted in a frenzy, my parents to the agora and me into hiding. We’ve never crossed paths again. 

I think about home back in Omega. It's been so long since the sun kissed my face. I think about how no one is there, in our dilapidated little cottage, to feed Snowy. He must be really hungry. I think about how no one is there to chase the squawking sparrows off the berry trees. I think about the piling futile flyers advertising Pantheon’s latest line of cosmetics and the crisp pink sheets of rental bills, shoved into the crevice between the door and the frame, overflowing onto our red welcome mat. I think about how no one is there to stuff the ragged old carpet in the gap between the door and the threshold when it rains, to suck up the seeping moisture; neither is anyone there to haul the big red pail to the corner of the living room where it always leaks buckets. Our little cottage must be in a mess by now, I think. I miss the times when my parents would smile at me as I played in the puddles right outside the doorstep. I miss my mother’s piping hot chamomile tea and my father’s absurd stories about Greek mythology. I think about my parents, and how I miss them. And then I close my eyes and stop thinking. 

Focus on the present, I tell myself. 

“–it’s the best choice for you, son,” the mother is practically begging now, “if you won’t do this to save yourself, then at least do this for me. I love you, I would be more at ease knowing you're at least alive. Please.”

“I know what is best for myself.” The boy’s voice is cold. “If you really do love me, you wouldn't be so selfish for me to go to living hell just for your own comfort. You wouldn't rest well knowing I am suffering in the Pit.”

The mother is silent. Then she sighs. “Thomas, I–”

And a piercing scream lacerates her sentence.

My fist flies into my mouth. My heart accelerates ahead without me, too loud for my own good. Click-bzzt. They are here. Thump-clack. On the other side, in the room connected to the back of my wardrobe. Shuffle-click. In the room where Thomas and his mother are. 

“NO! Thomas! Don’t take him– TAKE ME INSTEAD!”

“Mom! Mom, I’m sorry!” Thomas sounds terrified, all the previous antagonism gone. “I love you too! Stay sa–”

He vomits a bloodcurdling scream. Tears roll down my face. I taste metal, realise it’s from biting down on my knuckles. I can only imagine what they're doing to the boy. 

As more days pass, each kill gets more gruesome and torturous. The Pantheans’ hunger for the unexpected gives the cameramen constant pressure to strive for more creative murders than the previous. The first kill had been merciful— a clean swipe at an artery. The second was left to bleed out after two shots in the thighs. I’ve heard yesterday's kill consisted of shoving a snake down the victim’s throat. The gossips may lose their credibility as they pass like wind in a spring afternoon, but they are more often than not conveying more than half of the truth. And it is terrifying, knowing that the next one they talk about might be me. 

The mother’s pleas are cut off by a gruff voice thick with the Alphaen slang. “Slim it, bitch. You knoh ye rules; continue teh pup-whine and I will shuck you both.” 

Cameramen don't usually speak, unless they're the egotistical ones from Alpha. Alphaens are notorious for being Pantheans’ lapdogs; the cameraman they send from there strive to execute the most cruel of murders and are thus favoured by the audience. Geographically closest to Pantheon, Alpha naturally prevails as their favourite— and despised by the rest of Gaia. 

The boy seems to already have a foot across the Styx. I can hear his soft heaves, like he is too worn out to even breathe. I don’t know him, but I remember from the reapings that he is from Psi. I remove my bloodied fist from my mouth and clasp my hands together in a way I’d seen Psians do, back when we attended one of their funerals. I stay that way for a while, until grievous sobs from the mother tell me that Thomas is gone.

I close my eyes, wishing for Thomas to be at peace. And then I open them, blow into my clasped hands and release my breath to the back of the wardrobe. 

Click-clack-thump. Rustle-thump. Bzzt-thump. I hear the cameramen fading away, leaving the mother’s sobs amplified in the room. I deflate gently against the wood. My back hits something hard protruding out from the mouldy wood. I grasp it, and with a soft click, the back of the wardrobe splits to reveal a sliver of light.

Oh. It is a two-way wardrobe. I pale at the prospect of being discovered earlier on. I'm reluctant to leave the safety of the wardrobe, but days in the arena taught me to never stay in one place. I push the door open a little more and cringe at the loud creak of the door. I stop pushing and slip out through the small gap. 

Thomas’s mother is hunched away from me. Her black, wavy hair is grimy, and her pale, almost see-through skin is a result of malnutrition and the days away from the sun. I don't look much better, I know. But it's still startling to see those purple coloured lips and heavy eye bags when the woman jerks her tear-streaked face up to look at me. 

I fold my hands over my tummy and give her an apologetic bow. She looks slightly shocked at the Psian gesture, but I can tell she is touched by it. She places three fingers to her lips, then to her forehead, and push it out to me— the Omegan gesture of gratitude. 

“May Tyche be by your side.” She croaks. 

I nod my thanks. We exchange weak smiles before I quietly make my way out of the room. 

It’s still dark outside. Not surprising, though I’d thought they’d want to get a nice and detailed shot of their most recent kill. I am glad they left behind only the rather harmless flying cameras which won’t report our whereabouts to the cameramen.

I study the paths ahead of me. I can venture deeper into the house, but I might not last long in the barren darkness beyond. I have no idea how the house is designed; as of now the corridors seem endless. I've just used up the last of my food, and am left with barely a mouthful of water. It’s not the safest, but the agora is my only viable option. If I’m lucky, I might be able to snitch the leftovers from yesterday’s meal drop-off without being noticed. Again, I’m counting on luck, but luck is pretty much the only factor we can depend on to survive. Also, going to the agora also means I might have the chance to reunite with my parents.

I begin my journey. Thankfully, the slum-like environment in Omega has sharpened my navigation ability; I can remember my way through the winding corridors of the maze-like house without much trouble. I don’t have to listen to the sound of falling dust for long before I emerge in the semi-brightness of the familiar hallway.

The hallway is elaborately decorated— a stark contrast from the rest of the house. The tiles illustrate looping flowers, while the walls depict murals of Gaia’s abundant history. I step over the dried brown stains on the ceramic tiles, treading each step as if on water. I press my body against the map of Gaia and slowly peek around the corner.

It’s white outside. The daylight is blinding. I shield my eyes but don't wait for them to adjust before slinking out from behind the protection of the hallway. I'm exposed, but there's no one in the agora. No one to be afraid of, that is. 

I snatch up the bundle of fabric slouched against a wall. It’s a little greasy. My stomach rumbles at the thought of food, though it is not safe to eat in the open. I backstep, cradling my haul carefully. I retreat until my back hits the murals, and then I turn sharply to sprint.

But the hallway is now blocked by four black-clad men. 

The glassy, unblinking eyes of Pantheon stare me down. The cameramen found me. 

I step back. They don't move, but I sense the space between us closing. The bundle in my hands is slipping. My heartbeat fills the hallway.

One of them moves to my side, holding his camera steady. I hear the whirring of the lens zooming in on the beads trickling down my face. 

I should yell. The agora shouldn't be deserted. There should be people around to hear me. They should care enough to help…

The middle of the four raises a black contraption in my face and my voice dies in my throat. My shoulders hit the rough surface of the wall. I know the murals well enough to sense that I’m pressed against black-winged Thanatos. 

My eyes dart about. The one raising the gun at me is the shortest. The one filming has the hilt of a throwing knife peeking out from his pocket. The one flanking the gun-wielder is pulling out a black rod. And the lankiest one has his fists tightly clenched.

They’re all masked and silent, and the lanky one is no exception. But there’s no mistaking the Omegan-grey eyes above the black fabric. He has his own weapon, too, though he doesn’t take it out. There’s a little blood trickling out from where his nails carve crescents into his palm. He is avoiding my eyes. Coward. Traitor.

The terror of being cornered fades momentarily. My mind is clouded with anger, and I am about to do something rash when my mother’s hazel curls flash by the corner of my eyes. I whip my head around, a yell at the brink of my lips. 

The gun fires, and I fall. 

The pain is excruciating, ringing as loud as the echo reverberating in the agora. The bullet burns a hole in my thigh, consuming me bit by bit. I try to focus on the woman with the hazel curls.

She is approaching me, the familiar waist-length hair billowing like a cape. Cat-like eyes prowl my body and my captors. The cameramen make way for the newcomer. I would have cried out for her, except that this woman isn’t my mother.

Occasionally, chosen Pantheans take a trip into the arena. It’s sort of like a prestigious vacation for them. Pantheans clamour for the honour of travelling into the slaughterhouse, to be aired, Gaia-wide, prancing about dead bodies. And if said Panthean is of an eminent position, they get the luxury of leading kills of their choice. 

It is a supposed honour to die by the hands of such a Panthean. But, it’s hard to feel proud when death is just a well-manicured fingernail away.

The lady grazes my chin with her glossy nails, tilting my head up to meet her eyes. I notice her black pupils dilating within her amber irises. She smiles a smile that is anything but joyous. It is an unnerving sight-- the rows of burnished studs glinting along the titanium white teeth, framed by lush, full lips on a face too perfect for bare eyes to perceive. Everything about her radiates supremacy and impossible beauty. And her flawless finger on my chin disgusts me as much as it does her.

She pulls away, wiping her nails with a lacy handkerchief, her upturned chin disparaging my worthless existence. She’s taking her time while I’m doing everything I can to keep from passing out. 

The lady takes out a toothpick from her pocket. The luxury item, made from steel and coated with bamboo, is something only the filthy rich can afford. She licks her studs and scrapes her canines with the toothpick. 

A prod at my throat. She’s smiling-- no, sneering-- down at me. She presses the sharp point down, and I choke. I grab at her fists, but she swats them away and pins them down, cracking something in the process. And she blurs into amber. The splinter is driven into my throat. It hurts. It burns. I open my mouth, cough, choke, rasp laboured breaths. 

She is in my face again. The toothpick in her hand is dripping with crimson. She doesn't speak unlike those villains they show in the outdated action movies on big, washed out screens. In her eyes, I am not worthy of speech.

I see the Omegan, the traitor, wincing. Then a black spot blotches him out. 

Another stab. This time she has to wrestle the toothpick in. It’s blunt, but it still does the job. I cough, and blood spurts on the lady’s smooth face. She contorts her perfect features in disgust. Her hand jabs down thrice more, each time ripping a little of me away. I can’t breathe. All I see now are patches of colours. I can’t breathe. I’m coughing.

I’m heaving. I can’t remember what my voice sounds like. I can’t breathe. I’m already weak before. I can’t breathe. Who knew toothpicks could kill?

I can only imagine the holes littered on my neck, blanketed by red. I can’t breathe. I try to cough, to gasp for air. I can’t. 

I can barely make out the lady tossing the toothpick away. She retreats, like she’s had enough. And then the cameraman with the gun steps forward. The lady disappears from my sight. 

The gun, now an indistinguishable blob of black, is trained on me. I feel thousands, millions of eyes upon me as I lay there, wheezing and hanging on by my hinges. BAM! Pain blinds me. I try to think, to think of my parents, Snowy, home, the summer breeze in the berry patch. I try to think about the goodbyes I never will get to say. I try to say them. I try to think about how much I loathe Pantheon. How much we all loathe Pantheon. I try my best, but pain devours each thought.

I can’t speak, but there’s one thing I can do. I lift my limp fingers, mustering the last of the life I have in me. I direct it towards the lady who came and went; the Omegan traitor who stood by my death; the gun-bearer who will take my last breath; the watching Pantheans who are the cause of everyone’s pain. I flip them a gesture which the whole of Gaia understands. And I fall back.

The cold barrel of the gun slams into my forehead and goes off in my face.

This time, blackness swallows me whole.

*

I feel nothing. I feel like nothing.

Just endless fields of nothing before my eyes, endless fields of nothing within me.

And then I’m moving. Up. It feels like someone is ripping me away from myself. I feel like a piece of duct tape now.

Up and up and up. I swear I see the bat-like wings of the Oneiroi. And then I don’t. They drop me. I fall.

*

I hit a surface. The impact has me bouncing right back up. I’m heaving. Panting. The ground beneath my palms is soft. The air is soothingly cool on my face. It’s dark, but it’s a homely kind of darkness. My breath is hot on my face. I’m breathing. Am I not dead?

My hand flies to my throat without difficulty. It’s smooth. 

I remember the intricate carvings of Thanatos against my back. Is this Erebus?

And then a square window comes into view. The moon illuminates a calm and steady dresser. Atop its smooth mahogany surface scatter a few books. The Maze Runner. The Blood of Olympus.

On my lap lies an opened book. I close it, and a golden bird shimmers under the moonlight. The Hunger Games.

I pause. 

 “So,” my voice comes out perfectly fine, “you’re telling me I died in my head?”

My room doesn't reply.

I laugh. I’m amused and relieved that it wasn't real. I applaud my brain for the amount of lore it came up with. Really, that guy should work as an author or something.

Speaking of which, I should take this epic nightmare down. I slide out of bed and grab my laptop. I flip it open, and white light spills out and onto my face. I pull out my folder and create a blank document. Then I start typing, because that’s the right thing to do after getting killed.

Tap. Tap. Tap tap. Nothing better than the calming sound of stories in a quiet night.

I’m almost done with it. Ctrl + S. Last paragraph–

Something hard slams against my head. Its familiar coldness forces me to stay still.

My tongue feels like a raisin. My fingers freeze.

Last I checked, I was alone in my room.

A click. The image of the cameramen, guns raised, eyes flashing above black masks, flashes across my eyes.

Click click. Bzzt. Whirr.

A chill runs down my spine. I have the ominous feeling of being watched. I remember the glassy eyes of Pantheon. And the gaping hole in the gun where a murderous bullet awaits its departure.

I turn around slowly. 

A glassy eye is staring at me.

And I scr