#dropping this like a bird at the door and skittering

[syoddeye]

more reading recs

because one post isn't enough. we are hashtag blessed with fic.

as requested, i've highlighted fics with noncon and/or dubcon elements in orange. beyond that, you are responsible for reading tags, warnings, and summaries.

pairings are indicated, although these may change or may not be established yet.

there is no method to this madness, no specific order. these are listed here as my brain remembered them.

i've checked all the links maybe three times, if they're broken, i blame tumblr's formatting.

without further ado...

Slasher Handler by @dragonnarrative-writes - Ghost x Reader

"Simon does serial killer things. What a rascal!" Another fantastically written Simon, with wonderful dashes of Gaz and Price. It's put the term 'romance knives' in my vocabulary. There are many quotable bits and moments that made my blood run cold with how normal the ~situation~ feels, but everything has to be experienced firsthand.

The Far Shore by @deadbranch - Soap x Reader

DB's fic collection is rich, and The Far Shore is no different. I fucking loved Pacific Rim, so when I saw her first mention a PR AU, I did imaginary backflips. DB's Readers are some of my favorites because of how complex and realistic they feel, and when combined with the visceral depth of the neural handshake AND Soap? Compelling. The dynamic between them is fascinating. I almost can't wait for it to be finished so I can go back and dissect it.

Falling into Place by @mortuarywriting

Morg's brought the first COD Isekai AU I've read, like a little treat, with A/B/O to boot. The first chapter hooked me and cracked me up. Their dialogue reads so well, it truly feels like I got sucked into the universe. The panicked ramblings, the over-explanation, the 'oh shit, we don't even have a shared cultural touchstone' moments. I cannot wait for more.

Carvings by @femalefemur - Price x Reader

Cyn's got this amazing thing going on called 'Top Quality Worms' where she takes me by the hand and leads me down a rabbit hole I didn't know I'd find so cozy. Carvings is one piece from her incredible list, featuring a bloody, possessive Captain Price. Somehow, out of this entire piece, Price snapping a pen really did it for me. Did someone say loss of control? Oh no, not my kryptonite!

Under Your Spell by @groguspicklejar - Gaz x Reader x Soap

This fic had me at the pairing tag. Lured me right in. No hope for me, and I'm not mad about it. The way Gaz and Soap play off of each other in Under Your Spell is spine-tingling in more ways than one. The definition of scaroused. Kelsi writes a wonderful Gaz. The first two paragraphs in part two, Split My Skin, describe him perfectly to me.

Chokehold by @ccrites - Soap x Reader

Chokehold is a chef's kiss read. Starts off as a cute and sweet gym read, and uh, well, it does get sweeter, in a way. Without spoiling anything, there is a brief cab ride that made me take a lap before things got really going for Reader. CC's Soap is a delightful tease that is tender all at the same time. I'd join his gym in a heartbeat.

Knight/Princess AU by @a-small-writer-in-a-big-world - Price x Reader

I've read and re-read this AU series a dozen times. It's so gd cute, I might need to see the dentist about how it's rotting my teeth. Seriously, it makes ME want to be a princess. Specifically Price's princess. Bear writes such a sweet and gruff Price, catch me holding a hand over my heart and just sighing. I'm also a big fan of multiple POVs and the insight into each character.

Martyr in the Making by @eilidh-eternal - Ghost x Reader

I had a tattoo touch-up the other day, and while waiting, I thought about this fic: the dream and nightmare of being tattooed by Simon and the rest of the 141. It's a dream for obvious reasons (probably unhealthy for me) and a nightmare because of, well, you'll have to read the story. Getting a tattoo can be such an intimate experience. You put yourself into someone's care and get something permanently etched onto your body. When Reader sits for Simon, you're right there with her, the two of you on an altar.

Liquid Smooth by @cordeliawhohung - Gaz x Reader

Bodyguard!Gaz save me, save me, bodyguard!Gaz. Ugh, Gaz is fucking incredible in every flavor, but there is something that hits different about the guy when he's flexing those 'VIP protection' skills. There are several tiny moments in Liquid Smooth that made me audibly whisper, "God, I wish that were me." If you have a conifer tree allergy, you might not be able to handle the god-tier pining. (I'll see myself out.)

pornstar!Gaz by @cordeliawhohung - Gaz x Reader

Gotta include the series that I drop everything for whenever I see an update. Another fantastic depiction of best man Kyle Gaz Garrick. The charm, the jealousy, the care...My personal favorite installments are Whispers and Threesomes.

plus size puppygirl!reader / Simon & Reader / Punishment by @secretsynthetic - Price x Reader x Ghost

Ghost gets his Captain a puppy, and Synth gives us a tasty Price x Reader x Ghost story. I've linked the intro and a Simon x Reader snippet, but my personal favorite is Punishment. Punishment is a deeper dive into Price the disciplinarian: "how the hell do i get a mutt like you to fuckin’ listen?" I'd gush about it, but again, this is another one to read and experience firsthand. One of my favorite recent explorations of a PriceGhost dynamic.

~~

i'll probably cobble another one of these together in may 2024. my fic backlog is something else. i blame it on all the massive talent. mwah.

#sy fic recs #fic recs #i am a deeply corny person so we're gonna roll with my bad jokes and declarations of love and admiration if that's cool #if there's a typo i'm going to lose it #authors if i've mislabeled please let me know!! #dropping this like a bird at the door and skittering

[deadhumourist]

I'll take care of you

Pairing: Frankie Morales x GN!Reader

Summary: You're sick and an unexpected source of help shows up.

Word count: ~2400

Rating: M, but there's no spice. This is a strictly 18+ blog, no minors.

Warnings: No pronouns used, no physical description of reader or mention of age. Nicknames used - Sweetheart and baby, self-indulgent fluff, fainting, mention of painkillers, let me know if I missed something.

A/N: I originally wrote this for my bestie when she was sick, and she kindly allowed me to adapt this into a fic. Love you @just-here-for-the-moment

------

You knew when you woke up with a pounding headache and a stuffy nose that your day was going to go downhill. Fast. 

Not being someone who got sick often, this sensation of your head weighing twenty pounds felt overwhelming. As if that wasn’t bad enough, you had been woken up by a loud banging noise during the night - loud enough to make you jolt awake - from neighbours who had been out late and were now returning with a raucous group of friends. The shot of adrenaline from the fright didn’t leave your system for a long time and you tossed and turned until you heard birds twittering in the trees outside. 

Now awake and groggy, you rolled over and grabbed your phone. You were supposed to have brunch with your friend later that morning but at this rate you couldn’t even breathe through your nose. Blearily you unlocked the phone and shot her a text. 

“Hey, I’m down this morning, could I please take a raincheck? ” 

A few minutes later your phone beeped. “Yeah hon, no problem. I hope you feel better. Can I bring you anything?” 

You sent her back the green-faced emoji. “I would kill for a Netipot and some painkillers”

She sent you back a thumbs up emoji. 

Slipping the phone back on the table, you laid back. Your eyes felt like they were going to drop out of your head every time you moved. 

You dozed off for the better part of an hour, and was then awoken by a sharp rap on the door. "Coming!" you called weakly from your spot on the bed. Throwing on a robe, you shuffled to the front door, thankful that your friend (and painkillers) were here.

The door swung open and your eyes widened in shock…In front of you stood Frankie, armed with a bag of things and his phone in his hand, earphones hooked into the neck of his t-shirt along with his sunglasses.

Frankie was a friend who you knew through other friends. Specifically the one you spoke to this morning. Who you had told about your crush on him. The one who knew, in no uncertain terms, that you felt he was out of your league and that there was a big, unromantic DNI slapped to his forehead in your mind. 

You instinctively closed up your robe further and shrugged into yourself. 

"Oh, hi Frankie. I…uh..I was expecting someone else."

You immediately cringed at how unfriendly that came out.

He seemingly ignored it, a frown forming on his forehead as he took you in.

"You look terrible."

Sighing deeply, you failed to stop a little cough from skittering out of your throat. 

"Yeah, thanks. I feel that way. Good morning to you too, by the way.” 

Frankie had been told you were sick but when he saw you standing in the doorway…it was so much worse than he imagined. You didn’t have your usual spark or smile, and the way you shrunk into your bathrobe like an injured little bird made his heart squeeze painfully. He was originally only meant to drop off the supplies, but seeing your tired, worn-out frame changed his plans immediately. He didn’t even think about it, the words just seemed to leave his lips of their own accord and all he could do was keep up. 

With the corner of his mouth lifting at your quip, he invited himself in, gently ushering you back inside and closing the door behind him. 

“Uhm…at the risk of sounding ungrateful, what are you doing here?” You eyed him as he walked into your living room. 

“A little bird told me you were sick so I brought supplies over. I’m going to take care of you.” he replied matter-of-factly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

"I don't know about this" you wheezed.

Ignoring your protest, he busied himself unpacking the items from the bag before turning around and quipping. "You want me to get a nurse's outfit? Will that make you feel better?"  His smug little grin did nothing to dispel the idea of him in scrubs that you could peel off. 

Before you could fantasize any further you went into a coughing fit, which doubled you over. Frankie sped over and took your hand to help you back upright, little cough aftershocks still shaking your ribs. 

He was suddenly very close, concerned eyes looking into yours. His hand traveled up your arm and squeezed your shoulder gently. 

In a low voice, he murmured "Get on the bed, Sweetheart."

In a slight daze you went, obeying him. He’s never used that particular nickname with you before, but you would be lying if you said it didn’t make something delicious preen inside of you. You wanted more of it. Frankie had always just been kind and sweet but something in his voice made your skin flame. 

He switched the kettle on and prepared some herbal tea. Then he extracted the thermometer from its packaging and set it by the bedside table. You watched with wide eyes as he went about his business in your space like he was at home there. 

Finishing the tea, he set it down and took a seat by your side on the bed, one leg casually slung over the other. He seemed to slide into the role of carer effortlessly and you would have been amused were you not feeling like you were on the brink of death. Taking the thermometer, he flicked it a few times before bringing it to your lips. 

"Open for me" he asked softly. 

When the thermometer beeped, he slid it from your lips and looked at the reading. 

"Mierda, it's high”. He never cussed in front of you, but the distinct tone of worry bled through the words as they hung in the air between you.  

"We need to cool you down, otherwise you're going to feel worse. We gotta break this fever, okay?"

“We?” you asked, aiming for a teasing tone but failing miserably short due to the weakness in your voice. He continued as if he didn’t hear you. 

He got up and motioned to you. "The robe's gotta go. You need to cool down."

"But" you started to protest but his plush lips settled into a disapproving line and you knew it would be pointless to argue. Frankie wasn’t one to argue but you knew when he had drawn a line and would not be moved from it. 

You shrugged it off, revealing your favourite pajamas underneath - it was mismatched and well-worn but comfy . He took the robe and hung it on a nearby hook, then proceeded to take his shoes and cap off. It gave you some time to swallow two painkillers with your tea.

Then you just laid back and watched him, too tired and wrung out to argue. He rummaged in the bag then walked to the bathroom where you heard the water splash in the basin. 

The cool air on your heated skin was nice but your lungs were becoming sore from the constant coughing. “What are you doing now?” you grumped at him from your nest of blankets. 

He smiled to himself over the basin; you were a grumpy patient and instead of irritating him, it just made him soft. But being soft with you wouldn’t necessarily get you better, especially not if you kept resisting his help. 

So when he spoke to you next, he was a little more stern. 

"C’mon, stop arguing with me and scoot down."

Your fever-addled brain didn't immediately comprehend.

He repeated the request, clarifying.

"Scoot down so I can sit behind you."

"Whuu…why?"

"Please, just trust me."

You did as he asked and he slid in behind you, framing your torso with his knees so that you rested back onto his chest, your head nestled close to his neck so he could easily reach down to talk to you. 

He produced the cool washcloth and gently held it to your forehead and cheeks, pressing it to you a little firmer to tilt your head back onto his collarbone. 

"See how good it feels when you don't fight me on everything?" he murmured lowly, close to your ear. The way his stubble barely skimmed the shell of your ear made goosebumps erupt down your arm. 

Worrying the sudden goosebumps were a reaction from the fever, he resolved to finish up quickly and get you closer to cool water.

If only he knew what was really causing it. 

“Okay, new plan, we need to get you to cool water. You’re still burning up.” 

“You sayin’ I’m hot?” you grumbled.

“I’m saying you have a fever and if we don’t get it down, things will go south.” 

He moved off the bed and helped you up. Carefully, he kept his hand on your lower back as you shuffled to the bathroom, where he opened the faucet and positioned you in front of the basin. You splashed your face and then suddenly felt a wave of nausea wash over you. 

"I feel a bit dizzy" you murmured, hand coming up to your face. 

Frankie uttered a worried "hmmm". Perhaps it was a mistake getting you out of bed, but he desperately needed to get your temperature down. A split second decision made him run the shower cold, and shedding his t-shirt and socks, grabbed you by the waist and dragged you under the spray with him just as you started to lose consciousness. 

He hugged you close to him, your back pressed to his front. In an urgent, fervent whisper he rocked you under the cold water, counting down the seconds.

"Sweetheart, stay with me. Come on, baby, I've got you. I've got you, you're okay, I'll take care of you. C'mon baby."

Anxiety squeezed the lungs in his chest until it felt like they would burst. He tilted your head back slightly to allow the cool water to run down your neck and chest. 

Frankie could feel his pulse rabbit as the seconds ticked by. In the shower cubicle, the steady stream of water and whispers against your skin slowly pulled you back from the edge. 

You felt a chaste kiss being gently pressed to your temple, followed by another whisper. 

"Stay with me, please."

And then barely audible over the spray.

"Please be okay."

He sighed into the small space where every second felt minutes too long. 

You felt yourself coming back from the brink of the fevered dark quicker now, shivering at the pelting spray on your heat-sensitized body. 

Frankie noticed the small movement in his arms and he could have wept right then. 

He grabbed your hand from thankfulness, threading his fingers though yours and bringing it up to press a kiss to your knuckles. Slowly you also became aware of his bare chest pressed to your back, evidently not caring about cold shower tiles. 

"I thought I lost you for a minute there" he scoffed, relief bleeding through the words. 

With one hand feeling around above him, he managed to turn the shower off, and helped you into a towel. Wrapping the fluffy white towel around you, he rubbed gently, making sure to wick as much water as possible. He lead you back to the bed, and helped you sit down on the edge of it.

You slumped once you were sat, with Frankie kneeling in front of you. 

"You can't sleep in wet clothes. Let's get you changed." he intoned gently. 

"I don't have the energy, Frankie. Please." you whined, hanging your head low. You felt vulnerable after almost fainting in his arms and didn't want to repeat the performance. 

He placed a hand gently on your knee. 

"Sweetheart. Let me help.”

You looked at him, your frown lines forming like thunderclouds on a sunny horizon. He tried to make you smile. 

"Think of me as Doctor Frankie just helping a patient." he said with a lop-sided grin.

Your frown line softened and you prodded. 

"Did you just promote yourself? You were Nurse Frankie when you came in.

He squeezed your knee and smiled boyishly. “I’ll go so you can change.” 

A few minutes later, he came back into the room, pleased to see you in bed and under the covers. Sheepishly he stood around until you piped up with a small voice. 

“Will you lie with me until I fall asleep?”

He grinned at you, and without a word, went to hang his wet jeans over the bath tub. You realised that Frankie, having been in the shower with you, would have no dry clothes of his own here. You threw him a lifeline.

“Uhm…Frankie, there are some old swimming trunks from my brother on the second shelf. They were left here months ago, they’re washed, so…” you trailed off. 

You heard more shuffling and then he appeared in the doorway. From your cosy place in bed you tried really hard not to look at his broad chest and the dusting of dark hair that trailed down under his navel. 

As the bed dipped under his weight, he swung his legs inside the covers and laid back into the large pillow. He looked over at you, his focus soft, a few curls air-dried  falling over his forehead. 

"Come here, beautiful." He husked, and lifted his arm up. 

You looked at him for a moment, incredulous at the offer. A small part of you was still grumping inside and needed comfort so you gingerly moved closer to him. As you shifted, you laid your head on his chest, snuggling into the corner of his arm and shoulder. 

You wriggled a little to get comfortable, and once you settled, his scent was right by your nose; the fresh, cinnamon-like cologne he had applied hours before. Something really sexy but comforting emanated from him, something uniquely male and you nuzzled a little further into him, swinging a leg between his own two.

He made room for you. 

Then he reached over with his other hand and gently cupped the back of your head, holding you close. It made you want to purr. This wasn't just comfort, it was heaven. 

Frankie felt content for the first time that day. He had always skirted around you to avoid facing what he already suspected he felt.

He would nurse you back to health before he asked you out, he resolved as his eyes slipped closed. 

#frankie morales fluff #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fanfiction #triple frontier imagine #frankie morales fic #pedro pascal fan fiction #pedro pascal fics #pedro pascal character fanfic

[keyh0use]

Kinktober Day 3: Thigh Riding

Choking, degrading names, and Rafe calls Barry daddy twice

Barry heard Rafe well before catching sight of him.

The sound of the kooks obnoxiously loud dirt bike revving down the straight road, going way faster than it should be before coming to an almost abrupt halt outside the shop.

It would be embarrassing how relieved the older man feels just knowing Rafe is here, if anyone was around to witness the way his shoulders sagged and a small smile pulled at the corners of his lips.

Then bright eyes and even brighter swim trunks turned the corner, and in strolled Rafe.

"Thought you were supposed to be miles out on the ocean by now," comments Barry, not glancing up from the bike he's currently rushing to finish working on, a tinge of pink dusting his high cheekbones.

Rafe counters, "Wasn't supposed to be alone today."

And yeah, that's fair. The last thing the mechanic wanted to do on a Saturday was go into the garage and do another man's job, but someone had to cover the shift and get all the shit done by Monday.

"Yeah, well, some of us got jobs instead of trust funds, country club." Barrys sitting on a misshapen wooden chair and it pleasantly surprised when it doesn't collapse as the boy drops down to straddle his thigh.

Two arms twine around the older man's neck and Rafe is leaning in to press a kiss to his handsome face, all while Barry's focus remains on the task at hand, all too used to this sort of behaviour from his easily bored boyfriend.

Rafe asks, "Thought your job was taking care of me?"

"Ain't that what I'm doin'?" retorts Barry, nodding at the bike like it's a physical embodiment of the career he keeps to contribute to their lifestyle.

"Not what I meant." Leaning forward, Rafe licks a broad stripe up Barry's tanned throat, salty with sweat. A oil-stained hand smacks against the boys thigh, smearing grease on the milky skin exposed there.

Barry snaps, "Watch yourself, boy. We're in public."

Only they're not—not really.

The shop is quiet except for a shitty radio playing some fuzzy country music station and the faint sound of birds chirping outside the open garage door, barren road in the near distance.

Barry's only supposed to be filling in until noon, giving them another thirty minutes or so before his scatterbrained coworker shows back up.

Still, it's a bad idea.

Ignoring the warning, Rafe nips at the older man's earlobe and whines, "But I've been waiting all day." The dramatics are accompanied by a peppering of kisses to heated flesh and Barry doesn't have to see Rafe's face to know he's pouting.

"Don't be a brat, country club, you can wait 'til we're home."

Or at least in the truck on a back road.

Rafe tucks his chin down to bite at Barry's collarbone, coveralls unzipped just enough to grant him access, and he shuffles back to give himself more space. With a slight tilt of his hips, Rafe's clothed erection is pressed firmly to the muscular thigh beneath him, material dragging against material.

"Rafe," scolds the older man, lips pressed firmly together and hand hovering in the air, midway between him and bike with a tool he suddenly forgets how to use.

The kook rolls his cock onto Barry's leg slowly, almost as if he's trying to be discreet, like he doesn't want to be caught. Like he wants to get away with going against Barry's direct orders.

Exhaling deeply through his nose, Barry repeats the boys name sternly and gets nothing in reply but a pathetic whine, the continuous rocking speeding up.

Rafe whispers, "Please, daddy."

And metal clatters to the floor, whatever tool previously held now skittering beneath the lifted bike. Barry scans the yard with frantic eyes before wrapping a strong arm around the boys trim waist, hauling him in closer.

"Needy little bitch, gettin' off on my dirty clothes," Barry spits, free hand curling around Rafe's thin throat and squeezing just a little too tight to watch him wince. "You need cock that bad? Came all the way down here just to piss me off enough to give it to you?"

Wide, desperate blue eyes hazily follow the motion of Barry's hand falling to yank his leg up, the side of his knee pressed flush to the mans bulge, large and warm and throbbing.

Rafe whimpers, "Oh." "Could strip you down right here, sit your pretty ass on my prick," suggests Barry in faux nonchalance, grinning when the boy cries out and bunches his own shirt up, guiding the older man's warm mouth to his nipple. Barry busies himself with licking and sucking the tiny bud, rejoicing in the needy sounds falling from the boys slack lips. It's a scene of depravity; the two rutting against one another like if they stop, they'll die. Rafe's slender fingers twisted in dark hair, dry humping his man's thigh while simultaneously getting Barry off with the constant rub of his knee against the big, fat dick obscured by the coveralls.

Lust drunk eyes peer up at the panting boy above him when Barry leans back against the chair, wood squeaking in protest with every jerky movement Rafe makes.

Barry asks, "Would you like that, baby? Get caught bouncin' in my lap?" Shaking his head like a broken doll, Rafe insists, "Just for you, daddy, please."

"Please what?" prompts the older man, brow cocked and eyes heavy-lidded. It's getting harder and harder to keep his composure, cock giving a violent twitch every time the kook whines.

"Fuck me, please," begs Rafe brokenly, fingers flexing at the base of Barry's skull.

"I can't," Barry grits out, jaw clicking shut tensely at the thought. "'Cause you couldn't just fuckin' wait."

Rafe doesn't have much time to be frustrated over being told no, glistening lips wet with drool trying to form a plea his fuzzy brain can't come up with. Then the thigh he's shamelessly riding bounces and it's too much, the boy sinking against Barry with a cry.

The boy whispers again, "Please, please, can I—please!"

"I wanna let you come, baby boy," confesses Barry with a mean tilt of his head. "It's just you sound so goddamn pretty when you beg."

Tires squealing in the distance has Barry's head snapping up to the road lying right outside, sharp gaze searching for the passing vehicle before realising there isn't one, whoever it is pulled into the shops parking lot.

The hand that isn't buried in his curls makes a grab for the white undershirt peeking through his semi-open coveralls and Rafe is rutting wildly, hips stuttering.

Barry takes pity on him, given the situation. At least one of them should get the chance to come.

"Aight, fine. Come, baby, go 'head," he whispers in the heated space between them, attention never straying from the look of relief Rafe wears, which melts into bliss in seconds.

Fusing their lips together in a bruising kiss, sloppy and messy and desperate, Barry effectively swallows every pathetic sound Rafe makes as he comes.

There's no time for the boy to ride out his high, glassy eyes blinking back into focus while big, rough hands make a grab of his hips.

It's a scramble then to right themselves, Barry manhandling Rafe into a less suggestive position on his lap just as a car door slams.

Rafe squirms in place and Barry grins. "Made a mess now you gotta sit in it, huh?"

"It's gross," mumbles the boy, but doesn't look too bothered about it when he leans in against Barry's chest.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, gon' take 'em off and shove them in your mouth in a few minutes, keep you real quiet while I use you," Barry says while wrapping his boy up in a tight embrace, chin resting atop Rafe's head.

Before Rafe can react in any way besides shuttering in excitement, Barry's flaky coworker is rounding the corner with a sour look on his long face, offering nothing but a wave in greeting on his way into the back.

Rafe asks quietly, "We can go now?"

"Yeah," answers Barry, tucking his chin down to press an affectionate kiss to blonde hair. "But you'll be lucky if I even let you make it to the truck."

#rafebarry #rafe x barry #rarry obx #kinktober

[wrencatte]

"Still not doing whumptober!" I claim -- oh hey look, a little ficlet in the same world as majesty of lions!

...I wrote this at work again 😅

Whumptober '23 no 5 "It's broken."

It's a scene from a horror movie. That's the best way to describe it, to explain the sick fear and terror that yanks high then drops low, making everything sway, making him dizzy.

Titus's tail wags hard, like it's done a thousand times before. Excitable. And excitable for a dog his size means welts on shins and knocked over paperwork and canvases.

And then this -- Damian watches in muted panic, feet rooted to the ground as Titus's tail whips through the air at the perfect height to knock the contents of his bedside table to the ground. The lamp breaks, light bulb intact. The book he'd been reading loses the page he was on. The empty glass bounces with a dull thud.

The wooden figurine -- a delicate thing of a lioness and a small little bird that could be a robin but could also just be the promise of freedom -- hits the ground and --

Breaks.

The lioness's tail and raised paw snap. One of the bird's wings, both spread in flight, breaks off and skitters under his bed.

Titus freezes the moment the lamp falls, backing out of the room with his tail tucked and his ears back. He knows Damian isn't going to do anything to him but scold him in the low, almost Batman-esque tone he's been practicing, but he knows he's done something wrong.

Damian gently scoops up figurine and cradles it in both hands.

And sobs sharply.

Titus wavers at the bedroom door before he turns tail and scampers away. Damian doesn't notice, too busy gathering the broken off pieces of the last gift his mother was able to give him. He hasn't seen her a full year. She's alive, he knows this, but it's not enough to know. He misses her so much, and this was made by her for him.

Now it's broken.

There's glue in his desk drawer, he remembers. He carefully places the pieces on his bed and pulls open the drawer. It's organized in a very particular way which means glue -- all glue -- would be in the back right corner. Paper glue. Fabric glue. For some reason glitter glue. But no wood glue or even super glue.

Damian yanks the drawer out of the track and dumps the contents on the floor. He swears he had more glue than this. He does projects in his room all the time. There should be the right kind of glue in here! The other drawer gets yanked out and dumped, but this one is just his usual electronics when he's playing games.

He collapses bonelessly to the ground, throat burning and eyes stinging. The figurine is at eye level. Mocking him.

It's been a...rough couple of days and this? This is the straw that breaks the camel's back. Because Damian would normally be more level headed than this, he swears. He would've made Titus leave his room as soon as he saw how excited the dog was so this never happened in the first place. Or he would be remembering that there is an entire arsenal of different materials that would fix this just a few levels under his feet.

But he didn't and he doesn't. Instead, he sits on the floor of his bedroom and buries his face in his hands, and tries really hard not to cry too loudly. Defeated and helpless in a way that comes from this being that one thing, this one thing that just breaks him.

"Whoa," comes a voice, surprised and a little bit sad. Damian peeks out to see Jason at the doorway, dressed down in gym shorts and a hoodie that is definitely one of Stephanie's oversized ones. It's powder blue and says This Barbie is Tired of Your Shit in glittery pink.

It's such an eyesore and inappropriately out of tune with the moment Damian can't help but laugh even as he chokes on it.

The wrist brace and the compression sleeve on one arm and the wide pad of gauze taped down on his calf explains why Jason's hanging around in the manor in the first place. But how did he know about Damian's emotional turmoil...

Titus shoves his head between the door and Jason, tongue rolled out as he pants. Oh. Good boy.

Jason cleans up the fallen items and puts them back on the table before he takes a seat on the bed, the ground a bit much for him right now with the leg wound, and carefully picks up the broken figurine and its pieces. He drags a thumb over the lioness's back and hums softly.

Damian wipes his face roughly but doesn't get up. "It's broken," he wobbles out even though it's pretty obvious.

"Mom made it."

It's not even a question. Damian nods anyway. He watches as Jason puzzles it together, testing to see if everything lines up. There’s an extra piece missing from the bird's wing, leaving an obvious hole. That just makes Damian sob again and cover his face.

It feels like whatever's precious to him always breaks in some way. No matter what it is. An item. A person. Everything.

Jason hums again, drawn out and pitched carefully. It takes him a second to pinpoint the song he's meandering through, and when he does Damian can't help but smile. Shaky and a ghost of what it can be, but a smile nonetheless. Jason takes his hand away from his face, suddenly on the floor with him. There's pain pinched around his eyes.

"I can fix it," Jason tells him, then pauses, gaze flickering away then back. "Can I fix it?"

Damian exhales slowly. "Do you want to?"

"Yeah."

"I trust you."

Trusts him to know how important this is to him. Trusts him to do it right. Doesn't trust him to not send himself into a stress-filled mess about it though. They're still working on that aspect of his...former conditioning. Knowing when to stop. But it's important for him to know that he's trusted. They're still not sure where that one came from.

"I will finish...tomorrow," he says slowly, thinking on it. He grimaces as if he thinks that's too long.

"That's perfect. Thank you," Damian says sincerely. He could fix it himself honestly, Talia taught them both how to wood carve, but Jason being the one who fixes it, who offered with his own free will, that makes it seem right.

Jason smiles. It's almost like the smiles Damian remembers. "Any time, little bat."

#jason todd #damian wayne #batfam #whumptober 2023 #my writing

[owlish-owlhouse]

Hi! I really like ur writing content and I was wondering if maybe u could write (one-shot or headcanon is up to you) about Darius and a gn reader who sends him secret admirer letters and its just simping at first sight. Also, I appreciate ur writing a lot and hope you have a good day!

Here's some bread for u 🥖

(Thankyou for bread but it is my one weakness lmao)

~~~

You had liked Darius for a long time. Since your Hexside Days when you attended the prestigious witch school together. He was always in a higher level class than you. He was also popular and you were well... you. You had friends at school but you didn't shine, you weren't on his level. However years later your crush still going strong you feel you might finally have a chance. After all you had become much stronger and you now worked in the same circles. Him being a coven head and you being a high ranked official in the Emperor's Coven.

"... But what would he like?" Tapping your pen to your desk done with your coven workload you sign. Darius struck you as the type to be an old fashioned type of romancer. So maybe you should take an old fashioned approach?

Glancing at a blank paper off your desk you smiled head full of daydream like thoughts as you begin to write about him.

"... Dear Darius..." You could send him a D.M via Hexagram or something else less complicated but you wanted him to receive something personal. Something... physical and intricate. Something as put together and beautiful as him.

So you started with letters. Sweet little nothing's that got written with more detail and care the more you started falling in love with him. Always starting with Dear Darius and always ending with from an admirer, never sighing your true name.

Than came the flowers, only the highest and nicest priced ones from the market place. And you were going to give him chocolates too but he didn't seem the type to indulge so you got him fancy fabrics instead. Just things you thought he'd enjoy or make him smile. Soon it spread through the castle that the coven head had an admirer (a new one as you were apparentally one of many) and you had to be more careful about your little excursions when you dropped off your letters and gifts. But no one ever noticed you.

At least you thought no one did.

One day as you were writing another letter at your desk wondering what you should write about this week, you heard a light tapping coming from your window. Confused but intrigued you dropped your pen and pulled back your curtain to push open the glass. Poking your head out you looked around for a branch or maybe a bird.

"..." You pause when you feel a little tug and as you look down you gasp. It was a little abomination creation!

The glowing green eyes and hairstyle give away who it's from and you blush realizing Darius knew your little secret. Taking the purple envelope it held out you smile watching as the creature hops down from your window sill and skitters across your room before slipping under your door out into the hall.

Tracing Darius' seal before opening the envelope the smell of lilac made your head spin in a happy way. Staring at the purple letter curious on what the coven head thought of you and your writings you paused again as you heard a knock. This time coming from your door.

Holding the letter to your chest you walk across your room and open your door only to pause as you see Darius. Staring at him wide eyed clutching the letter close he had a bouquet of white and purple lilies with red roses. His abomination creation was on his shoulder munching on a cookie and kicking his legs out as he sat on his master's shoulder.

"Did you get my letter?" He asks and you blink before nodding dumbly unable to speak as you can't process he's standing here infront of you. You never really thought the letters would get anywhere, you just wanted your crush to be happy. "Well did you read it?" Nodding no he smiled softly and glanced to the letter.

Looking down at your hands staring at the paper you can barley breathe as you read the short message. The words, "Go on a date with me?" In his cursive handwriting make you go into shock. Staring at Darius eyes wide he smiles at you.

"Well? Dear (Y/N) what do you think?" He questions using the way you started every letter to him to address you. Face red and smile growing bigger by the second you nod.

"Y-yes!" You state quickly almost worried he'll take it back. Holding out his arm you look from his face to his arm before you loop yours with his.

"Than let's have a magical evening. Shall we?" He questions handing you your flowers. Taking them with your free hand you cradle them close and nod.

#toh darius #toh darius x reader #darius #darius x reader #toh x reader #the owlhouse x reader #owlhouse x reader #owlhouse darius x reader #the owlhouse darius x reader

[discordapples]

PT. 2 | Poltergeist Tears

Word count: 2.3k (10 mins read)

Characters: Livia Novik, Laurence Novik, Fastidio.

Summary

Imprisoned within the treacherous labyrinth of the poltergeist, Fastidio, Livia Novik endures the sinister whims of her captor. Reduced to a mere plaything, she clings to her plan of convincing the entity to shed its tears for her, inching her ever closer to resurrecting her dead brother. In a startling twist, the tables turn, and Livia emerges as a formidable opponent.

Read the second chapter below.

TW: Mild mutilation, cursing.

Livia | Hogsmeade, Late August, 1893.

A tangle of mangled chairs ceils over Livia Novik’s head as she races through the mansion.

The corridor chases her, slinking upon itself like a limbless centipede. It pushes her forward; the floor rolling under her feet. 

She runs faster, then cuts left around the angle of the corridor. Passing the threshold of a yawning door, she finds herself in yet another blind room. 

The door slams behind her. 

“Lumos.”

The tip of her wand throws a garish glare that washes her retinas with pain. 

On the four walls, mirrors parrot themselves into infinity. 

She folds her palm around her wand and allows her eyes to adjust to the light. 

She is surrounded by hundreds of raven-haired girls who stare back at her. Wicked smirks here, mournful pouts there, their irises the same olive green as hers, all wearing her golden locket, the one her brother gave her, all sporting on their left cheek and neck the patch of burned flesh she loathes to look at.

 A laugh rumbles through the walls. The sheathing groans as if it will collapse.

Livia looks up, aware of the thousands of rooms pressing around her. 

Will she ever get out of this maze?

She has been at it for five hours, judging by Laurence’s pocket watch, but she has no way of knowing if the poltergeist can alter the flow of time in this world of its own design. 

Her throat is raw with thirst and exhaustion drives needles at the back of her skull. 

She has to push forward. 

Her fingers rove about the looking-glass, following the tiny cracks like she would the dashes of ink on a map. 

At once, all of her mimics start whispering. 

Amidst this labyrinth of infinite reflections. Seek the key to liberation, defy all imperfections. Through shards of glass, find the clue concealed, for only truth shall guide, your freedom revealed.

“The key to liberation,” she mulls out loud, her heart ramming against her ribs. “Defy all imperfections.” Sweat breaks on her forehead as the solution sketches itself into her brain. “Shards of glass… Fuck.”

Above her head, the poltergeist’s despicable jeer drives cracks through the ceiling. “A worthy playmate. But does she have what it takes to win?”

Livia bites down on her lip, crouches in the corner and lifts her wand before her. “Reducto.”

The mirror shatters and snows on her. Grabbing a mutilated piece, she stands up as her reflections burst into laughter.

Flames fill the room behind her. 

Illusions? 

She feels no heat on her back, but the idea alone is enough to send tremors into her limbs.

The images of that terrible night visit her in their cruelty: Laurence’s fists slamming into the sashed window, a heap of smoldering beams hissing angrily behind him, the stench of peat singing its way down her throat, thousands of nerve endings exploding with a harrowing pain, the stink of her own hair melting away. 

Shaking, she lifts the shaving to her scarred cheek, her heart fluttering like a wild bird against the bars of its cage. 

Pain blisters as soon as the glass bites into Livia’s skin. Blood purls, slinking over the slope of her jaw, and the tang of wet copper fills the room, oppressive—sickening.

Her teeth grind together as she slowly shaves the scarred tissue from her face.

Her progress is slow. Excruciating.

Tingles skitter to her fingertips.

White inkblots swarm around her like angry gnats.

She will faint if she keeps going.

Dropping her improvised scalpel, she bends forward, heaving. 

When she lifts her head again, her scar is intact; the sundered flesh basted back in place by the poltergeist’s witchery. 

“Have I broken you yet?” The entity whistles into her ear, its frigid hands raising the hairs on her shoulders.

Livia cannot see it, but she feels the mass of gelid air roaming the skin draping her clavicle, her nape, her scalp.

“You’ll never get out of here,” it taunts, a necklace of cold closing around her windpipe. 

The entity’s hold is feathery, however, an ethereal brush against the pit of her throat.

Her copies in the mirrors have vanished. Now all Livia sees is a boundless darkness, so thick and inky, it eats at the light emanating from her wand, gulping it whole.

“You’re mine.” The voice ghosts over her lips. 

“Not until you bargain with me,” Livia says. 

She has been waiting for this moment. Five hours solving the poltergeist’s pathetic riddles, running through a snarl of corridors, making herself interesting.

Designing the perfect prey is as minute an operation as brewing a potion. 

A dash of wit, a lick of brazenness, a smidge of distress, a hint of hopelessness.

Spirits crave for life, Livia, her brother, Laurence, told her as they planned her time with the poltergeist. They envy each throb of a beating heart. They long to have another taste of love. Even hate is better than nothingness, but lust and fear… Lust and fear are honey to the dead tongue.

A curl of breath wings up behind her ear. “What can you possibly bargain with, living one?”

“My life,” she says, her blood cataracting through her temples. “Let me ask you a riddle. If you solve it, I will stay here with you forever. Send me through a hundred more mazes, watch me wither with thirst or have me lure innocents into your trap—do whatever you want to me.”

Immaterial fingers key along the notches of her spine, enticing a shiver that climbs up to her nape. “And if I fail?”

“You’ll give me your tears and let me go.”

Although she cannot see it, Livia can hear the smile in the entity’s words. “Deal. Ask away, living one.”

She takes a deep breath, the conundrum rehearsed with Laurence until she could recite the words as fast as she would her own name. “I am born from nothing, yet always remain. Unseen, untouched, beyond human domain. I have a beginning, but lack an end. Infinite and eternal, my essence transcends. I exist in all places, yet never can be. Forever elusive, an enigma to see.”

Silence cotters into the room. 

The entity’s fingers have gone from her chine as it ponders over her aporia. 

For it is exactly that: an aporia, an impasse—a puzzle defying logic.

The kind she and her brother, Laurence, used to concoct to ease their boredom. 

Time slips, aching forward, and in its flow, Livia can almost taste the poltergeist’s irritation. 

When, at last, it speaks, the voice is half-cautious, half-convinced. “Love. Love is the answer.”

A smile plays upon Livia’s lips. “You are incorrect. The answer is time.”

“No,” the entity hisses, its anger blustering through Livia’s hair. “No, it has to be love!”

“Love isn’t born from nothing,” she says calmly. “It isn’t elusive or eternal or infinite. It certainly isn’t beyond human understanding.”

Aerial fingers scuttle along her arms, her neck, through her hair, the touch custodial, soft, tender. The voice comes, wheedling. “Stay with me, living one. Together, we would lord over this world and send fools into the arms of madness.”

Her lips curl at the attempt. “I believe you owe me your tears.”

A force pushes her against the mirror. Cracks slither through the glass. Livia gasps with the pain, but she weathers it.

So close, she is so close. 

“You are a fool, living one! Poltergeists don’t cry.”

“You are right,” Livia concedes. “But humans can, and I can make you one, if only for a time.”

The voice that comes is curious. “Why would I want to be human?”

“So you could know what a kiss feels like. Have you never wondered about it? You chanced ‘love’ as the answer to my riddle. Surely it has been on your mind, you have asked yourself what it was to feel loved. What if I could show you?”

“I... No.”

“You can conjure rooms at will, stretch corridors endlessly, but nothing compares to the bliss of being kissed. An eternity spent without knowing this feeling is not worth living.” Livia whirls around, unsure from which corner the entity observes her. “I can turn you into a human and you can dance with me. A boy, a girl, and their own pocket of existence. I will kiss you, or you will kiss me, and you will cry for me.” She swallows in a dry throat, hoping that her words find their mark. “I will leave you for a while, but I’ll come back… You have an eternity to spend and I have a brother to save. My absence will be a trifle to you, a drop in the ocean. What say you, immaterial one?”

“Will you swear to come back if I accept?”

In this instant, Livia tastes the victory on her tongue. “Kiss me and convince me to come back.”

A cold lick of air touches her cheek. “Make me human then.”

“Look into the mirror,” she says, crouching to grab a shard of glass. She drives the edge against her palm. The slit weeps blood. She presses it against the mirror, closing her eyes. “Touch me through the glass.”

There is a thrum through her palm, a lash of fire smoldering through her wound. When she opens her eyes, she is faced with a flaxen-haired boy with eyes an elysian blue. He is dressed in blue-damasked samite and a flourished red silken cravat. 

For a trickle of seconds, the poltergeist takes in his new body, his fingers caroming over his clothing. Livia extends a hand, and his arm materializes through the mirror, slipping through the barrier as if he shrugged out of a shroud. 

When his hand touches hers, the room shifts. The looking-glasses vanish, so do the dust of splinters, and they find themselves in a deserted ballroom, under the coy light of the chandeliers.

Violins warble and flutes chirp and their fingers intertwine. His hold is strange, not quite material, akin to holding an empty glove, but already he presses against her back and leads her into a waltz.

Livia’s heart flutters in her breast, and even if he has no blood to pump through a mesh of veins, a flush vines behind his cheeks. 

His mouth hovers close to her ear, and he breathes her smell in, and they twirl on the checkered floor in a shiver of silks, and when the music fades, when the boy’s eyes connect with hers, he leans in for the kiss and she yields it to him. 

He explores her mouth gingerly, as if the illusion is a piece of porcelain that will ruin with his urge, but it is there, interred underneath the reluctant gestures.

An urge to call upon and mold.

Livia’s arms loop around his neck and she draws him in, her tongue parting his lips with none of his prudence. She moans, a whit of heat paddling between her thighs.

It is a strange thing, to be kissed by a phantasm, but Livia takes it. Why wouldn’t she? It is a victory, and victories are best savored in excess.

When she breaks their embrace, she does because her lungs burn with the lack of air.

The boy’s eyes turn vitreous. “Is this love?” He asks her, his voice cracking.

“No,” she says, pulling her wand from her pocket. “This is lust, and it’s but a taste of love.”

A pearl-colored tear slips past his eyelid, and Livia catches it with her wand. She opens her locket and watches the silvery drop roll on the pure gold like a bead of mercury, then lifts her eyes to him. “You have to let me go now…”

Tears stream freely on his face; thick and milky like trickles of molten wax. “When will you come back?”

Livia culls the substance from his cheeks with a thumb and graces him with a smile. “When I have the Promissum Mortis, and thanks to you, I’m one step closer to finding it.”

* * *

The sun has long been washed away by the ink of night when Livia climbs back into the carriage.

“So?” Her brother, Laurence, asks her. 

Her thumb presses against the locket. 

In the low light, Laurence is but an outline, his translucent shape more akin to air simmering than a full-fledged apparition. 

He is fading a little more every day, and Livia wonders if he will disappear completely before she has time to find the relic.

She casts a spell and a shy light glows awake. Laurence’s phantom is made of asperities; the burn scars covering most of his aspect. He no longer has hair or eyelashes or brows. 

He no longer looks like her brother, and the artifacts of the boy he was can only be found in his voice. 

His eyes rove to a distance shrouded in gloom. “I can’t follow you there,” he says. “To Hogwarts.”

“I know.” Her hand hovers before him. His fingers slip right through her palm, leaving a cold imprint. “I don’t know what I’ll do without you, Laurence.”

He graces her with a faint smile, difficult to make in the low light. “You lived a full year on your own when I wasn’t yet born.”

“I don’t have memories of it. You were always with me for as long as I can remember.”

He nodded, melancholy painting his features. “You are late to your sorting ceremony.”

“As if any of this matters.”

A neat line draws itself between his brow bone. “Life matters, Livia. In the pursuit of restituting mine, don’t forget to live yours.”

“I’m the big sister, Laurence. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“But I do. I always will. The dead are left with nothing else but concern for the living.”

The carriage startles and groans, wheeling through the cobblestones streets of Hogsmeade.

Livia reclines in her seat, her eyes going to the road ahead. “And what are the living left with but the lingering pain of those who fell out of life?”

#hogwarts legacy fic #dark retelling #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts oc #hogwarts legacy mc #harry potter #harry potter universe #hp fanfic

[ripeteeth]

10 lines tagging game

Rules: share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written less than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway!

Thanks for the tag, @likelightinglass!!! Like yourself, I'm doing first paragraphs instead. I've been struggling with writers' block over the last couple of years, so many of these are short or are wips (as noted).

zoetrope (mdzs, songxuexiao, 10k)

This is how it goes. I’ve been trying to tell you something. I’ve been trying to tell you something for a very long time.

blood, bones, and butter (mdzs, songxuexiao, 12k)

The day he meets them is a red-sky day. Of course, everyone knows the old saying: red sky at morning, sailors take warning, but Xue Yang isn’t a fucking sailor, so why would he fucking care? 

Revachol Calling (disco elysium, harrykim, 35k wip)

Spring is pale in Revachol. The May bells bloom first, then the daffodils, then the tulips, then the cherry blossoms. But the May bells always bloom first, promising warmth again. Spring is coming, they seem to say. Spring will be here soon, in showers of white and gold. It is nearly May. The winds blow thick with petals, like a late snow.

long slow love song (tgcf, fengqing, 3k wip)

The walk home is lonely. He locks his office door, and the halls are already empty, save for the sound of a vacuum somewhere and the effervescent buzz of industrial fluorescent lighting. His shoulder has a perpetual sag in it from the weight of his bag, and there are lines beneath his eyes that no amount of sleep ever seems to touch. 

impact (beyond evil, jwds, 2k)

He wonders how he’ll die. Some people can open a car door and buckle up without giving any thought to the way the chassis around them would twist on impact, the way the gear shaft might puncture through skin and sinew, and leave safety glass in a shattered constellation on asphalt. Juwon is not one of those people. He never enters a car without thinking about how he might exit from it, just as he always touches the outside of an airplane, just in case. 

shotgunning (kinnporsche, vegas/kinn/porsche, 1.2k wip)

When Kinn had been a boy, he’d had an old tomcat that liked to sleep in his bed. The cat had the run of things, coming and going as he pleased, crawling in through an open window as the desire struck him. Missing a part of his left ear and a patch of fur on his neck, he’d taken to Kinn for some unknown reason, coming to curl up at his feet, or on his pillow. He brought gifts to Kinn: dead birds and dead mice, dropped between his sheets. One morning, Kinn woke to pawprints in red, like a greeting card scrawled across his face. Hello, the red smear on his cheek seemed to say. I missed you. 

june hymn (ofmd, gentlebeard, 3k)

The room is large. A fine bed in the center, raised upon a dais, and windows on each side like attendants. Gentle air spills through the window sashes, bringing summer and birdsong. The dusk half-light casts long arms over the room, draping itself across the duvet like an impatient lover might. The birds sing evensong; Edward has forgotten how to listen.

Asterius (greek myth, theseus/asterius, 25k wip)

They say I am my mother’s fault.  Pah. What do they know? (They’re right.) 

A beetle skitters in the dark. I stamp my foot on it, feeling the carapace crunch between my toes and spit on my hand to wipe it off. My stomach growls and I look at the thing, thinking about eating it, but a beetle against an ocean of hunger seems pointless. I scrape it off and throw it in the corner. The rest run. 

bellyache (ofmd, steddyhands, 3k)

His mother had told him that he should keep his softness safe. The vulnerable underbelly of himself, kept safe for those he loves. She had kissed him on his red right cheek, just as she did every night when she tucked him into bed.

hapax legomenon (2ha, ranwan, 2k)

It begins on a sunny day, in the wide middle of a broad street. A crowded street is so busy as to be meaningless, and he is not paying attention. The heavy sack of groceries cuts into the meat of his shoulder, bruising his skin as surely as the plums in the bottom of the bag. He has not forgotten the milk. He has not forgotten the bread. Chu Wanning has gotten everything on his list, and he crosses each line item off with a black pen, feeling the bone-deep satisfaction of a completed task. A woman lifts her child onto her left hip. A man buys a bun from a streetcart. A train comes, and it goes. 

Tagging: @mia-ugly, @soft-october-night, @iodhadh, @itsevidentvery, @jouissants, @wildcard47, @reserve, @et-in-arkadia, @areyougonnabe, @perverse-idyll, @danpuff-ao3, @flanneryoconnorfanfiction, @weatheredlaw, @racketghost, @robotmango, @rcmclachlan, @pearwaldorf, @longstoryshortikilledhim, @veganthranduil, and anyone else who wishes!

[jaws-and-canines]

The Butcher and The Fool

A Verschlimmbessern story. Fennec falls afoul of the butcher - a Special division specialist in causing lasting pain and lasting damage. Contains depictions of torture, gore and canon-typical violence.

---

The carrion-birds are still perched atop the barbed wire. Rotting skin barely holding slick feathers in, milky-white eyes and razor-sharp beaks and claws. The scarred heads and bloodstained beaks turn to watch as the peeling-paint door opens and out comes what they have been waiting for.

A man, dressed in a dirty white coat and blue work trousers, slamming the door behind him so hard that the wall shakes. He has a full yellow bin bag over one shoulder, a plastic blue bucket under the other. Bloody saline laps at the rim of the bucket as he steps off the breeze-block lip of the door and shifts the bucket into two hands. The birds caw at him, chirping and whistling as they recognise him.

The butcher throws the dirty saline down the drain beside the door and dumps the empty bucket beside it, filling it back up from a yellow hose. The water that swills in is ice-cold, and quickly runs a browning red as the dried blood from the sides of the bucket dissolve into it like ink. He glances up at the birds, and with a chuckle, rips open the yellow bag and tosses it onto the asphalt. The birds descend in a frenzy, ripping pieces out of the dead meat in the bag and tossing it down their throats. The butcher bows his head, putting a cigarette between his lips, and lights up, watching the birds tear into their meal. 

The door opens again with a squeak, and slams shut with a bang. The birds don’t scatter, fixated on their meal. The Special stands beside the butcher, grimacing at the gory scene in front of him. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says. “It’s foul.”

The butcher shrugs. “Saves a trip to the incinerator.” The Special watches the birds, disgust written across his face. The butcher ignores the Special for a few moments more, finishing the cigarette, before he drops it and grinds it out beneath a steel toe-capped boot. He just looks at the Special, and grunts for him to continue. “What do you want?”

The Special holds the peeling door open for the butcher and lets it slam behind him. Something skitters across the floor- a mouse, a rat. The Special watches it go, clearly revulsed, and then continues. “Seven-nine-three. Euro war criminal.” Flies crawl over the fluorescent lights, and over the plastic tables of filthy tools that jut out into the corridor.

The butcher leans heavily on the table and snaps on a pair of nitrile gloves. He starts by swilling a handful of them around in the plastic cup of pink antiseptic resting on the edge of the table. “What needs doing?” He takes an empty syringe from the handful in the antiseptic up to the light, and then tosses it aside onto the tray beside him.

“Needs the fear of God putting into him,” says the Special. He leans across the table to pick up a manilla folder that had been discarded across a tray of drill bits. “A taste, just a taste,” he says, holding up a hand to the butcher, indicating a tiny distance between finger and thumb. 

The butcher glances at the tiny distance and starts to pile things into the tray. A handful of scalpels and dental tools go in first. “Hm. Condition?”

“I am not your doctor.” The Special tuts. He flicks open the folder and holds up an X-ray film to the light, angling it towards the butcher so he can see the bright white pins in the shadow of the bones. “GSW left knee with femur involvement. Surgical closure, internal fixators.” He pauses, turning another page. “Complains of moderate-severe pain most of the time.”

The butcher laughs. It is not a nice laugh. “No fucking shit.” He piles three large screws onto his tray- a little longer than his handspan, a plan already forming in his head. 

The Special continues, putting the negative back into the folder and whetting his lips. “Two prior episodes of catatonia, psychiatrists can’t agree whether to say he has post-traumatic stress or call him manic-depressive.” He turns the last page, and pulls a face, knowing the predictable response from the butcher. “And, to be the bearer of bad news, minimal English. First-language German.”

The butcher’s face sours. “I don’t fucking speak German.” He spits onto the tiled floor and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then goes back to sorting through the tools in front of him. “Tell them to stop sending me numbers who don’t understand me.”

“Don’t you worry about understanding the numbers. What they say doesn’t matter anymore, they’re past that.” The Special sets the folder down on the table. “You aren’t here to get information out of anyone. They do that.” 

The butcher slams the tray full of tools down on the table and turns to square up to the Special. “They don’t understand me,” says the butcher, poking himself in the chest. “Me. I’m the one who matters. Fuck the numbers, I don’t give a fuck about the numbers. Me. They don’t understand me.”

The Special is entirely unintimidated. He just smiles, as if he were a waiter taking someone’s order, and not arguing with a man renowned for senseless violence. “If you can’t intimidate someone without screaming and shouting then this job is not for you.”

“Oh, I’ll do it without a fucking word, just you see,” says the butcher. He looks at the tray of tools, and snatches the three screws from the top of it, leaving the rest behind.

He peers through the spy-hole of the workroom’s thick metal door- a small, tiled room with a papered-over window well out of reach and a serious case of black mould, damp drippng from the cieling. He’s expecting to have a fight on his hands, to have to call for backup to pin the number down. 

But the butcher practically bursts out laughing seeing the state of the number. Cowering in the corner of the room, legs splayed out in bloodstained trousers, the man has thrown his coat over his head, as if to hide beneath it. The cracked lenses of his glasses catch the light as he shivers, peering out from underneath the greatcoat.

The butcher wasn’t sure to begin with whether three screws would be enough to even make a start with this one. War criminals tend to be of a particularly hardened breed- whether they’re Euro or the unfortunate State traitors that get sent the butcher’s way. They either have a stiff sense of duty and will die before they show they’re afraid, or they’re sadists. This one seems to be neither. Three screws is all it will take, he knows that for certain now.

The butcher opens the door with a set of keys from his belt and sets the three screws down on the floor. He leaves them there for a moment, shutting the door behind him, making sure it won’t lock them both in here- although, he supposes, the cowering little bastard won’t hurt him. He turns back around and squats down to be at the level of the number. 

The number’s curiosity gets the better of him and he takes the coat off his head, stuffing it beneath his back. His white shirt is crusted with sweat and tears and smells like it too. His hair is worse, almost down to his shoulders, his beard matted and greasy. He just stares at the butcher through cracked glasses.

The butcher moves faster than the number does. Of course he’s faster. The number looks like he can barely walk, let alone scramble away faster than the butcher can move and grab him by the collar of his filthy shirt. The number cries out, terror on his face, and struggles against the grip on his shirt collar as the butcher drags him out of the corner of the room and pins him down on his side in the middle of the tiled floor.

“I told you everything!” cries the number, hands up to protect his face.

The butcher says nothing, just grabs the number by the leg, just above the knee, finding where the fabric of the trousers has been torn to shreds by the bullet. The number continues to struggle against his grip, but the butcher puts an end to it- finding the barely-healed scar beneath some stained and fraying bandages, picking up a screw from the floor, and pressing the point against the skin.

The number goes limp, apologising in a language the butcher doesn’t speak. “Es tut mir leid, es tut mir sehr leid!” 

The butcher swaps the hand on the man’s shoulder for a heavy boot, and uses two hands to hammer the screw in with an overhand strike.

The number practically convulses beneath him, clawing at his leg with an animal howl. Then, inexplicably, starts to laugh. “I told you everything,” he mumbles, shaking so hard the butcher can hear him trembling against the tiles. He wipes his face on his sleeve and goes back to laughing between pained gasps for breath.

The butcher picks up the second screw and holds it up to the number without a word. Still, he just laughs, tears streaming down his face. “I-I-I told you everything,” he sobs, still laughing. 

The butcher wedges the second screw under the head of the first. That same full-body spasm of agony, that same reedy, pathetic scream. The number collapses into another fit of tearful laughter, a hand over his face, even as the butcher twists the screw in, drawing fresh, bubbling blood out from the wound. The blood is almost entirely liquid, dripping down onto the tiles and spreading into the grouting. Still the number laughs, cheeks damp, eyes bright.

The butcher decides to put a stop to the laughter. He readies his weight through his shoe against the number’s shirt to pin the man down. Screw three goes in at an angle, twisting against the other two, pushing them both out further, deeper, scraping into undamaged tissue. The laughter falls out of the number’s voice as the third screw gets driven in. The butcher pushes it right the way down until it stops, grating against the bone, until the laughing stops.

The butcher takes his foot off the number’s shoulder. The number just lies there on the floor, sobbing into the blood-sticky tiles.

“I told you everything,” he weeps. 

#anton fennec #whump writing #whump #whumpblr #yeah idk #what came over me #but hey #its a thing i guess

[profmj]

One of our CoS players is a kenku bard named Cassander Bolander. He was trained as a scholar, but once he heard music for the first time he decided to run away from home and pursue the performative arts.

He loves being the center of attention and rarely thinks of the consequences of his actions. This has resulted in him nearly dying or getting us killed on at least three separate occasions.

This includes the time we were investigating a certain winery and came upon an enemy with a strange hatred for "little birdies."

Full scene below the cut for anyone interested :)

She signaled to Adrian, who dropped quietly from the roof. He was shirtless, barefoot, and covered in raven tattoos. In hindsight, I am a little surprised that I didn't think anything of it... in multiple senses of the phrase. But adrenaline was running high as I could hear the incessant rustling of the plants beyond the porch, and a lock was preventing us from reaching safety.

Adrian pulled a key from his pocket and released the padlock. He then quietly wound the chain around his arm, and slowly pushed open the double-doors. An unexpected scent wafted out to greet us; it was wrong, like a fungal rot that seemed out of place. Adrian entered, and I followed closely behind him to find the source of the smell. However, we both paused as something skittered on the balcony above us. Once it stopped, he signaled to the rest of the party to enter (though again, everyone was invisible except for Doris).

Adrian unknowingly led me from room to room as he checked the ground floor. Woodworking room--clear, glassblowing room--clear. We returned to the main room and froze as a lilting voice called out from above, "Little birdy, little birdy, come out and play." Fortunately, we were tucked under the balcony and completely out of sight. Unfortunately, Doris was at the base of the stairs and completely within view.

She asked the figure at the top of the stairs, "Are you open for business?" The voice threatened to take her apart, but she remained humorously undeterred. "Do you have any wine I could try? Any tours available?"

The voice then shifted its approach and threatened to go to the camp, "where the birdies think they're safe." Adrian signaled for me to follow and attempted to continue along the wall under the balcony. But before I could take a step, he tripped on some of the barrels, alerting the voice to our position. "Ooh, there you are..." and footsteps could be heard approaching the stairs.

Cassander then jumped out from his invisibility at the base of the stairs. "Am I the bird you're looking for?! My name is Cassa--"

He didn't get the chance to finish his long-winded introduction. A thorny whip cracked down the stairs and grabbed Cassander; I lost sight of him as he was pulled up toward the voice...

#dnd #dnd art #curse of strahd #cos #kenku #bard #play stupid games win stupid prizes #profmj-art

[shotgunshellsau]

Break The Chain

Chapter 2: Tension

  The sun bubbled at the horizon and blue light began to flow and pool on the uneven floor of the valley like an unwatched pot on a great stove. Birds shook the sleep from their feathers and turned their beaks to the sun. Small rodents skittered over the ground sniffing and surveying; the fluffy ends of their tails kicked up trails of the fresh purple dyed sand. The light continued along its path until it reached the baseboards of the ranch house.

The four of them sat shoulder to shoulder in the mouth of the porch, covered in the dust of the desert clay that lay just beneath the shifting sands. The tools they held were siminilary arenose. Donatello sat to the left, his chin resting on the tarnished handle of a shovel; Raphael sat next to him with their thighs touching. To the right Mike sat slumped against the column that marked the start of the railing; his eyes were affixed to the horizon. In the center sat the eldest, with his knuckles pressed to his mouth; he stared ad the space between his boots. The pickaxe he was studying was unordinary; a brown wood handle, tarnished silver point, and a blunt hammer on the back. With the unassuming instrument now seared into his mind he rose and hiked up his pants. 

“I’m going back .” He gestured to Rapheal with his naked shoulder. “ You coming?”

“No.” Raph stood up and looked at him with wide eyes.” No. Im not going anywhere; Im staying here, where I’m needed Leo.” 

“Okay.”

In last nights commotion they hadn’t tied the horses but they were gathered about the barn anyway, perhaps out of habit. He found his and rode off , dust trailing in his wake.

The day was still young when he reached the courthouse; the one window barely let in enough light to see. He opened the door loudly ans strode in. A callous voice had emerged from the dark corner where the desk sat. “ No good morning?”

“Buenos días.” He started up the stairs.

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine today”. He awaited Leo’s response but there was none.You can’t just leave your post, you better spin me quite the yarn kiddo.” 

“Our Pa died.” 

There was a long pause.“Natural causes?”

“No.”

“ You boys gonna do something about that?” 

“ I don’t know.”

“ You better figure it out .” Leo stood motionless in the stairwell. “ When you put on that badge you signed up for making big choices. You’re lucky you get to think on this one.” 

He continued up the stairs, pulled on his shirt at sat on his cot in the loft. He stared at the wall  in front of him till the sun from the window crept far enough to reach his toes. His eyes shifted to the peg on the wall where his gun belt lay. He grabbed it. 

…

Leo burst through the door. His brothers and April sat at the table with coffee, except for Raph who stood at the wash basin. 

“Don!” He looked up at Leo, “ Saddle one up for Raph, we’re leaving.” 

Don stood and left without speaking. Leo moved forward and placed two small objects on the table. 

“ I look the liberty of grabbing us some provisions some the cantina.” He looked at Raph from the corner of his eye, “ And your Derringers.” 

Raphael, still drying his hands, turned a walked toward the table; he dropped the towel and picked up the guns. He faced Leo as he gently placed them in the pockets of his vest,“ Longer coming?” 

“No.” 

Mike stood up quickly; despite their differences in age him and Leo ‌were practically the same height. 

“ Leo thats crazy! You’re not a real sheriff! You don’t have the authority to just up and..”

Leo pointed his chin upwards, taking advantage of what little extra height he had,“ Sheriff Longer gave his blessing. Even if he didn’t , legally there isn’t anything to stop us.” 

Michelangelo sat down slowly, and looked down at his coffee. April leaned forward and spoke, "Where would you go? There’s no point in riding out if you don’t know who you’re looking for.”

 She was interrupted as Don sped into the room; ‌his stride didn’t break, even as he spoke, 

“ Pa goes to San Antonio on his gambling trips,” he continued, now yelling, from the room adjacent to the kitchen, “ We can ask all the way over, and if we haven’t found any leads..” He re-entered and began to rifle through the drawers, “ We can ask at the card houses. They probably keep a pretty good eye out for anything unusual. Ack… anybody got a pencil?” 

Raph handed him a short pencil from his shirt garter; went across the room and looked out the window. “ Anybody know the way? What about the cows?” 

Mike looked up from his cup with crossed arms,” I know the way.” 

Don pressed a brown ledger book onto the wall and scribbled on its pages, “ The next drive isn’t for months, Tia can handle things till I-  hey where’d she go?” 

While they were talking April had snuck away unnoticed. They found her in the living room; she removed an old tarnished rifle from the wall and stood, feeling its weight in her hands. She turned to face them. Donatello stepped forward and swapped the pencil and ledger for the gun. She looked down into his eyes, "Be safe.” 

He dropped the butt of the rifle, reached up, pulled her face close and gently kissed her cheek, "We'll come back to you.” 

The rest of them lined up, single file, and followed suit.  

Outside the sun balanced at its highest point in the sky; the desert grew silent in the afternoons, nothing but the jumping of grasshoppers and the drone of the heat upon the playa. The brothers mounted and turned to face the horizon. Leo turned to Michelangelo, “All right little brother. Lead the way.” 

Mike spurred his horse, and they were off. 

…

They rode for several days without speaking, rested the horses a few times but never broke camp. They came across a shallow well; a mere depression in the sand where ‌water gathered underneath. Donatello dug at it a while before there was enough water for the horses. Mike stood beside his horse as it drank; he spat grit from his mouth, and finally broke the silence,“ You name him yet?” 

Leo straighted his posture once he realized he was being addressed; he walked over to the horse and patted its flank with a proud smile,“ Im thinking, Ol’ Faithful.”

Don, who was sat on a rock rolling a cigarette, scoffed, "You can't name him that.”

“Why not?” said Leo. 

“ First of all, hes a young horse. Second, you haven’t had him long enough to know if he’s faithful or not.” 

“Oh.” Leo put his hand to his chin in thought  and then put a finger in the air, “ Hey, what about Stud?” 

Mike grimaced, “ You cant name a geilding Stud, its cruel. The other ponies will tease him”

“What about Bobo?”, said Raph as he turned to Don,” I caught him trying to eat a fence post the other day.” 

Don leaned in, “No. Then we’d get the two confused.” 

He grinned with the cigarette in his teeth; Raph gave him a soft slap on his back. Mike stiffled a laugh and Leo chewed his lip at the embarrassment. He pointed at them,” You two better knock it off or I’ll leave you here! Let the bobcats eat you. Now come on, we’ve got places to be!” 

They saddled up and rode off; they went for about an hour, then the sun began to set. 

“Well,” said Mikey with a sigh, "This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home. In this direction at least. How about you guys?” 

They all looked about; the answer seemed to be unanimous. Leo leaned back in his saddle to look at Donatello, “ Speaking of the ol’ place… what are you and Mike gonna do now?” 

Don raised his brow, “What do you mean?” 

“You know, now that you’re not tied to it anymore.” 

“Tied?” Don’s voice soured. “What are you talking about?” 

“Oh come on Donno.” Leo looked forward with his face to the sun,” Now that… I mean, considering the circumstances, we can finally move on.” 

Don cut his horse forward to be next to Leo’s, “ We? Move on? Move on from what? Our home?”

“Yes.” 

Don looked flabbergasted, if he was standing he might have lost his balance. The other two shared a knowing glance and pulled their horses back a ways. 

“You’re going to sell Pa’s ranch? You can’t do that!”

Leo didn't answer. Don lunged his mount forward and turned her perpendicular to Leo’s. The buckskin that Leo rode was frightened by the advance and reared violently; he yanked the reins to the side and turned the horse in the opposite direction, so the riders were face to face. 

“You cannot sell Pa’s ranch Leo!” Don’s horse stepped nervously. Despite the excitement, Leo’s face was relaxed; he looked down at his younger brother with lidded eyes and spoke calmly,“ Pa is dead. It’s my ranch now; I’m selling it.” 

“What are we supposed to do? Prance around the town and  play lawman like you? Is that what you want? You want to screw us over just so you can feel in charge?”

"I'm selling. Thats final.”  

Don didn’t speak any further, but he didn’t need to. He looked up at Leo with a rage neither of them expected. His eyes were wild and glazed over; his flared nostrils sucked air so hard the cherry of his cigarette flickered. He leaned in as close as possible; inches away from Leo’s chin, huffing like a bull. Leo sat high upon his saddle; only a small furrow in his brow. Michelangelo galloped forward and pulled in beside them; he put his hand on Don’s saddlehorn,

“Don. There was some brush awhile back; let's go take the ponies to graze.”

“That’s a good idea Mikey,” said Raph, as he dismounted clumsily,” Leo and I will set up camp for the night.” 

Their gaze didn't break. 

“C’mon Donnie… lets go.” 

Donatello snorted at Leo  and yanked his on his pony; he rode over to Raph’s horse and threw a rope about her neck. He waited silently. Leo hopped down and took his things from his saddle, Mikey gently tied the horse to his, then joined Donatello. 

…

They set up camp quickly; Leo gathered some brush for a fire and Rpah set to work on a meal. When the fire was healthy and the pot was boiling they sat back and stretched their legs on the ground. 

“You know,” Raph stretched his arms,” If he were me, he would have punched you.” 

Leo prodded the fire with a wispy sage branch,” Oh great. You’re on his side, lovely!” 

“Leo, you can’t sell his ranch.” 

“Its not his ranch!” He pointed to himself, as if Rapheal was somehow confused, "It's my ranch. Mine. Its my birthright; my name is on the deed! Im selling it and thats final!”

“Leo. You gave up your right to that ranch when you left; I did to.” He looked Leo dead in the face, “ He’s put more work into keeping that place running that we’ve put into anything.”

“Yeah; cause he dosent do anything else! Maybe if we get him out of there he’ll find somthing to do with himself!” Leo swung his arms like he was conducting an angry symphony.

Raph scowled, “ We left him that place when he was what? Fourteen- fifthteen? When we were that age we were still arguing over who could piss farther.” He jumped onto his knees and leaned in toward Leo,” He has nothing else because we never gave him the chance! We left and he had to pick up the slack! You can’t sell his ranch; it isn’t right.”

“And letting him work himself into an early grave is? Is that what you want me to do? Let him kill himself out there?Thats way too much work for one guy alone; we can’t help and we all now Mike won’t stay around long enough.” 

The sun had almost fallen and the fire cast an orange light over them. Raph settled back into a seated position and sighed, "I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.” He looked over at Leo,” I don’t want him there either, but you can’t just sell his life out from under him.” 

They were quiet for a long while; the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the whooping of owls. Leo stoked the fire, “ We’ve got time to think on it.” 

 …

The horses grazed without issue; sand gently fell from their mouths as they pulled up clumps of grass. Little lizards skittered about the rocks looking for a place to bed down for the night. Don sat squatting in the sand; his arms were straight forward on his knees. He puffed at his cigarette mindlessly. Mike walked up slowly and sat cross legged in the sand at his side. 

“ Be paitent with him Donnie.”Don didn’t react,” He didn’t mean it; he's upset right now. He needs time.” 

Don’s eyes moved as fast as bullets; his stare was so icy the devil would have shivered. “You’re upset too; I know that. We’re all upset,but you gotta remeber, we’ve lost one Pa. Leo’s lost two now.”

Don took a long drag, be blew it from his nose as fast as a steam engine.

“ I’m sorry I don’t help you enough. Its not right, but maybe this could be a good thing.” Don’s eyes landed on him again, then rolled back to the horses. 

“We’d figure something out!” He gestured toward his horse,” Me and Bullet will run off somewhere, maybe we’ll go south with Tia! You could move to a big city. You’re a smart guy, you could probably get a job at a bank or something! Wear a fancy shirt and flirt with all the rich big city girls!” 

Mike smiled but Don didn't break, “Or not. I dont know.” His eyes lowered and his face fell, “ To be honest with you… I’m not sure if I want to go back to that place.” 

They sat there for a long while and watched the sun fall. The horses slowed their grazing and wandered about. As it got dark the tiny flicker of firelight in the distance split the horizon. Don stood and put his hand out toward his brother, “Come on. If the food burns before we get there Raph will get all huffy.” 

Mike took his hand and got up; they gathered the horses and went back to camp.

…

Leonardo sat in the sand; he scraped at the bottom of his clay plate with an old spoon, “A little undercooked tonight.” 

Raphel scoffed and threw up his hands,” See! This is why I don’t cook for you; you’re so critical!” 

“ Ah you see, that’s why you need me. I’m you’re most loyal costomer and your biggest critic.” He gestured to himself, “ I’m you’re most valuble asset.” 

“Asset is not the word I would use.” 

Leo got up and walked toward the pot on the fire; he took the bandana from around his neck and opened the lid with it. The other two brothers rode in and tied the horses. Donatello looked for a place to sit. Leo thrust a plate of beans toward him and sat down, “ Chew carefully; every fifth bean puts up a good fight.” 

Don took the plate and sat down next to him; he took a bite, crunching loudly on the elusive fifth bean.“ He did a pretty good job considering.“  He gestured to Raph with his spoon and kept eating, "Usually he soaks them all day.” 

“Thank you! Finally some recegnision!” Raph threw up his hands in exasperation. 

Mike giggled with a full mouth. 

#long post #shotgunshellsau #storyposts #chapters #tmnt #tmnt fandom #cowboy au #cowboy #fanfic

[brimbrimbrimbrim]

UMMM yes to Eddie The Queen of Swords he has captured my heart I am sooo excited for the next chapter hehehe

Thank you, Anon! I just dropped Ch. 3 moments ago. Hope you like it. <3

Eddie's not sure what the protocol for breakfast is around here, but judging by his digital wristwatch, he's been up since four-thirty, and his stomach's been rumbling longer than that… probably since he drained the dragon before passing out in his new row boat bed. He's already climbed up everything climbable inside the boathouse—jumped off all the ledges and used the latches under the ceiling like monkey bars. Anything to keep his mind and body occupied while the sun rises. 

By the time he starts getting jittery again, the birds begin chirping. 

He takes a peek outside, bent down at the knees to avoid anyone lurking in the shrubbery. Looks peaceful enough… almost like all the crazy shit last night never went down, but it did. Once he locks his knee, fist around the door handle, the anxiety and paranoia kick in pretty fast. He gives the blue, pale-morning lake behind him a once over, then rekindles the joint from before. The erratic buzz of adrenaline falls to the welcome blanket of an excellent high as he gives himself a few more minutes of alone time…

Technically, he's not sure what he's waiting for, but something tells him the fair maiden's not gonna like him banging on her door at six in the morning just cause he's hungry. Eddie's gone longer without food, a lot longer when there wasn't an option, but… maybe she's an early bird—maybe she's not pissed anymore.

Eddie checks the driveway and edge of the forest one more time. One more hit off the spliff before he quietly kicks the boathouse door open and crouch-walks around back with the empty lake spooning him.

A couple squirrels skitter noisily up a drunken tree. Several birds squawk and fly off, but nothing else notices him.

Eddie hikes up the wooden steps and shoves his forehead against the back door panes, peering into an empty kitchen and part of a deserted living room, and then—as if his midnight conjuration spell triggers—Rick's half-naked daughter walks into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of one eye.

Oh, shit. Oh… shit…

Eddie freezes.

She's in a pair of pink underwear and a tattered gray shirt—the hem slashed up so far he can see the soft indent of her navel. There's a band name on it he's never heard of, but he's not focused on obscure heavy metal right now. Instead, his eyes dip down to her thick thighs, back to that cute tummy, and—she turns to grab a bowl from the cabinet— that fucking ass! 

Psionic rocker chicks have butts that hypnotize…

She's a fucking wet dream that totally doesn't see him standing there by the back door. 

Eddie curls his fingers inside his palms and watches while she pours herself some honeycomb cereal, half-blindly stumbling to the fridge for a carton of milk until— finally —mid-pour, she notices him.

"Jesus FUCKING shit?!"

Check out the rest of the Chapter HERE!

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #stranger things #fanfiction #anon #ask #<3 #metalhead boyfriend

[queenofapeacefuldawn]

When Worlds Crash, Myths Meet [Part 3]

●●●●

Part 1

Part 2

●●●●

WILL "Is that a squiggle?" Mini asked, squinting at the note.

"I thought we firmly established that that was a squiggle," Rudy countered, his gaze trained on the piece of paper.

Nico was in the kitchen, hunting for Oreos and coffee, because hospitality dictated that their guests be treated well, despite the fact that there was a dead corpse in the middle of the room.

"We have no Oreos!" Nico hollered from the kitchen.

He poked his head out, and stalked in. "Any luck?"

"No," Will said, thoughtfully. "Seems like our cult leader chose a very rare symbol for themselves,"

"Alleged cult leader," Mini pressed.

"Same difference," Nico shrugged.

"One second," Rudy said, lifting the note, and holding it against the sunlight.

"There's another signature," he gasped, clutching the paper.

"It's an ourboros," he said, through gritted teeth, and he looked at Mini, who paled.

She went towards him, and squinted at it. "If you look hard, it'll say... C16," she said.

"Don't tell me," she groaned.

"I'm sorry, but we'll have to go," he grumbled, crumpling it in his fist.

"Where?" Nico asked, touching the bracelet that disguised his sword.

"The Crypt of Eclipses," Mini muttered.

"Also known as the place where we nearly got killed by a bunch of yalis,"

"Y'know, given our collective life experiences, you shouldn't be too surprised by the fact that something is out to kill you." Will explained, while Nico sighed, "All we ever wanted was one stinking weekend of peace,"

●●●●

The Crypt of Eclipses was a decrepit place, Will realized, when the four of them exited a portal.

"C'mon, we don't wanna hang around," Rudy said, leading them out of the alleyway and into the lobby of a tall building, looking unassuming on the outside, but when they entered, the patrons were actually hooded spirits, who grew restless.

They all were silent in the elevator, however, the air hazy and thick with whispers.

A cheerful ding interrupted the elevator's playlist of '80's jazz music, and they walked out, faced by a large door.

"Weapons out," Both Mini and Rudy said, in unison.

His and Rudy's bows were drawn, as Mini's staff shimmered into existence, and Nico's sword glinted in the artificial lights.

The double-doors opened, revealing... a humanoid-mongoose statue.

"Huh? Where are Rahu and Ketu?"

As soon as Rudy spoke, light skittered across the statue, as a fire burned in its stone eyes.

The mongoose grinned, revealing sharp teeth, a red glow in its now-living eyes.

"Welcome," it rasped. "I presume you are the prince of Naga-Loka?" He addressed Rudy.

The latter took a step back, and said, nervously, "Are you going to kill me if I say yes?"

The humanoid mongoose looked scandalized. "Of course not!" It laughed, and flexed his muscles.

"We have been expecting you," it said, snapping its clawed fingers.

"When you say 'expecting'—" Mini began, but couldn't finish, as a wooden bird flew out, and plucked the note out of Nico's pocket.

"Hey!" Nico said, angrily.

The bird dropped the note in the mongoose's hands. "Very well, all this seems in order,"

It adjusted the shimmering scarf around its neck, a very familiar "scarf", a strange light entering its eyes.

"Follow me, please,"

They hesitated, as Rudy blurted out, "One sec,"

"Should we trust it?" Nico asked, glancing at the mongoose.

"No, I don't think so," Mini said.

"Did you see what was around his neck?" Will asked, his stomach squirming.

"I know," Rudy said, with a clenched jaw. "It was Geralt's skin,"

"Ew," Nico muttered, glaring at the mongoose.

"It was probably what killed him— mongooses and nagas are enemies. It was wearing his skin as a trophy."

"Aren't birds your enemies too?" Mini asked, looking at the mongoose with renewed suspicion.

"We have lots of enemies,"

"Could it have sent the note?" Will asked, bringing them back on track.

Rudy squinted at the mongoose once more.

"No, I don't think so. There were two signatures, remember? Look at the sigil burned into its forehead: the same as the first symbol."

"What, is it a henchman?"

"Gods, I hope not. I'd prefer finishing off the mastermind and call it a day," Mini grumbled.

Rudy raised his eyebrows. "Never thought you'd be so enthusiastic for violence."

"I have assignments due,"

"Are you ready?" the mongoose asked.

"Um... yes?" Mini said, with a nervous laugh.

"Follow me."

They followed it, their footsteps echoing off the gilded walls.

They reached Level 'C', and after a few minutes of walking, they stood outside a vault door, which had, 'C-16' carved into it.

"The owner of this vault has... a surprise waiting for you," the mongoose said, lightly.

The vault door opened, revealing... a gold bar.

Nico picked it up. "That's it? It looks fake,"

Rudy was about to inspect it too, but the door slammed shut.

The mongoose flexed his muscles once more, giving them a sharp-toothed grin.

"The master sends his thanks for agreeing to play to his game."

There was a faint clank, as the gold bar dissolved, giving out noxious fumes.

"What's that?" Mini shrieked, putting her hand over her face.

The mongoose's eyes burned, as he unsheathed his sword.

"I must say, I will enjoy crushing the bones of some little demigods,"

Nico muttered an unrepeatable word, before backing up, trying to get into Will's shadow.

He flicked his wrist, but nothing happened. The fumes increased, making the air hazy and painful to breathe in.

Will's head began to spin. Mini raised one hand, coughing while covering her mouth and nose with the other one.

Nothing happened.

"My powers aren't working!" she wheezed, falling to her knees.

Will put his fingers to his lips, and tried to summon a sonic whistle, but no sound came out.

He, too fell to his knees, his head fogged up.

"What's going on?" Nico choked out, leaning against his sword like it was a walking stick.

In the haze, Will saw the mongoose pounce at Mini, but Rudy shot an arrow at it, momentarily distracting it.

Rudy's eyes glowed red, and he turned into half a serpent, his eyes slitted.

Why are his powers working...?

He was struggling to duck the mongoose's blows, and finally, dragged Nico and Mini towards Will.

"Hang tight," he said, snatching Nico's sword.

"Sorry," he told Nico, but the latter was already unconscious, and as Will saw the snake prince slither into battle, he felt his own consciousness fade.

●●●●

RUDY The yali was, unfortunately, strong. And hell-bent on killing the other three.

He blocked one blow, but his own bow shattered. Wincing, he awkwardly held up the iron sword that Nico had had.

The fumes had increased, but they had no effect on him.

He felt the scales on his forehead tingle.

He blocked another blow with the iron sword, making a scar on the yali's hand bleed.

He growled, and swiped at him, but he ducked, and, with rising panic, watching it go towards the unconscious bodies of Mini, Nico, and Will.

He pounced at the yali, wrapping his tail around it.

He pressed the tip of the sword against its throat. "Stop the fumes. Now."

"I don't control them," it snarled, trying break free.

He pressed the sword tip deeper, anger rising inside him.

"Then let us go. Or I'll kill you."

"Do it then, princeling. Kill me."

He hesitated, and the yali took this chance to push him off, as the sword skidded away from him.

His figure loomed above him, is he groaned, "Urg,", and felt his scaly tail morph back into human legs.

He scooted backwards, feeling blood trickle down the side of his skull, as his fingers closed around a jewel.

He had no idea what it was going to do, but as a last ditch attempt, he threw it at the yali.

It bounced off its head.

He began crawling faster, mentally writing out his obituary, when the jewel hit the ground, and emitted a loud, painful shriek.

Rudy covered his ears, and ran towards the others, before shifting back into his half-naga form.

"C'mon," he whispered, gathering Mini in his arms, and putting Will and Nico in his tail.

The yali covered his ears, writhing on the floor, as he snapped, "I won't stop the jewel until you let us out."

He pressed his foot against the jewel, and it shrieked louder, loud enough to give him a headache. That, coupled with the head-wound, made him dizzy.

"Please! Stop!" The yali screamed. "This— this brings back unwelcome memories!"

"Open the door!" he said, angrily, shifting Mini in his arms.

In his own mind's eye, he saw flashes of writhing scales, deep laughter, and lightning.

He blocked all that out. Focus.

The yali crawled towards the door, and unlocked it.

He glared at the yali. "This... game that you mentioned. It doesn't end here, does it? Where do we need to go next?"

He held up the jewel threateningly.

"The shifting mazes," it said, as the fumes began to clear. "Seek out the shifting mazes."

Rudy slithered towards the doors, hugging Mini close, his heart pounding, and stumbled out into the dying sunlight of the evening.

●●●●

#the pandava quintet #yamini kapoor mercado lopez #aru shah and the end of time #aru shah and the song of death #aru shah and the tree of wishes #aru shah and the city of gold #aru shah and the nectar of immortality #mini x rudy #roshani chokshi #prince rudra of naga loka #nico diangelo #william solace #solangelo #percy jackson and the olympians #the heroes of olympus #the trials of apollo #the sun and the star #crossover #riordanverse #rrverse #rick riordan #rr presents

[jamieanovels]

Find the word!

tagged by both @aohendo & @late-to-the-fandom so i'm doing them both in one post lolol

my words: earth, mud, stone, stick, ground, sight, cake, subtle, tongue

your words: face, rise, terror, mind, question

tagging some of my most recent followers: @emersonjydestein @eccaiia @alnaperera @moonscribbler and anyone who would like to play!! open tag~

all of my excerpts are from tea cow with the exception of one word that i couldn't find in it lol

Earth

Ruby’s blood ran cold. For a moment, fury at her sister swept through her like an indomitable current, rising in the tight space of her chest until it bottlenecked. Why on Earth would she tell their mother any of this? Wang Yaling was not even close to Ruby’s list of contingency plans for any emergency; in fact, Ruby had contingency plans for interactions with her. Her hands balled into fists. This was a nightmare scenario. How could Belle have done this to her?

Right on schedule, her phone started vibrating and Ruby flinched, dropping it back on the couch where it skittered a bit.

Mud

The man frowned. “Is it at least…nice?”

“It’s shit.” Ruby shook off her legs, cleaned out the mud from between her toes, and snatched her work pants from the half-moon boulder. “You can’t go for a swim or anything because of whatever machinery’s down there. All you can see is white concrete, water, and a bunch of signs from ecological organizations asking to defund it.” She paused. “It’d be better if it just weren’t there. Unless you’re a kid, I guess. They go there to make out.”

“That’s an idea. Perhaps I will schedule a visit, then.”

Stone

“I told him about it, of course.” Yaling took a long swig of her wine. “But not before I refused his first three calls. You weren’t home yet—what was the point of him being here if he couldn’t see you like he asked? But after Meimei called and told me about your…ah…situation, I thought it could be a rare opportunity.”

“You’re not helping your case,” Ruby muttered, but her mother paid her no heed.

“What’s that saying you Americans use? Kill a bird and get two stones? Kill a stone—?”

Stick

“You’re not going to go out there and listen? Apparently, for the fans, it’s much better live.”

“You don’t need me to stick around?”

“I told you, just meet me back here after the show. If I can’t find you, I’ll sell your shit at the next marketplace.”

“Oh.” Ruby let out a surprised laugh. “Nice.”

Ground

“Mother, we were just talking, and it was only about work—wait—!” She was halfway out of bed, toes just off the ground, but her mother was already closing the door behind her. Fists balled, Ruby strode to the door, paused in front of it, and then shouted, “We’re BUSINESS PARTNERS!!”

Mason blinked. “We are?”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

Sight

“Go faster, and it starts screaming and cranking and doing all sorts of wild shite,” Adi explained from the driver’s seat, as if this was a completely ordinary thing to describe.

“I see,” Ruby said stiffly as the car behind them, even in the slow lane, blared its horn at them. The cacophony lasted for several minutes before the Volvo finally gave up and passed them in a red blur. Ruby thought she caught sight of a middle finger somewhere in the mix and ducked her head in shame.

Cake (not found in tea cow; this excerpt is from emergence, my 2021 nano project)

Society’s little lab rats, Quin’s voice echoed in her ears. He was always so much more bitter about the way they were treated than she was. It had never particularly bothered her, as long as she ate well, slept well, fought well. The Society’s praise for her actions had only ever been the icing on the cake; it had never been necessary. She just did what she was told, and expected to be paid handsomely in return.

Subtle

“Thank you,” mumbled Mason to the glass counter.

“He’s just shy,” Uncle Diego told the grizzled man. The two exchanged subtle glances before Uncle Diego added, “He loves this store. His family lives in Eldham Park, ‘else I’d be bringing him in every week. Isn’t that right, little man?”

“Yes, sir.”

Tongue

“I hear you’re called Ruby.” The man beamed as the crowd roared in assent. He then added, as a tongue-in-cheek aside with an accompanying wink, “I’m Tony.”

This solicited a boisterous laugh from the show-goers. A couple people waved their signs and conspicuous floral banners. It was something Ruby should have known, had she bothered to put the face behind the song to memory, but she never had.

#tag game #tea cow #wip: tea cow #emergence #wip: emergence #tbh emergence is probably not gonna go anywhere but the idea was good #lucie is a delight and i love her. she chooses violence always #writing #writeblr

[theresugar]

Bask in the glory of all our problems

Summary: Stiles Stilinski finished high school at the top of his class... well, almost. The only person he couldn't beat was Derek Hale. But now he's going to Yale University, starting a new life (and this time, he will make the top of all of his classes). When he gets to his dorm, his roommate hasn't arrived yet. In fact, he doesn't get to meet his roommate until he gets back to his dorm from the first day of classes. And who does he see, but his rival: Derek Hale

On AO3

Rating T

Chapter 1 - 1380 words

Next Chapter

Squirrels skitter across the ground, collecting nuts as birds sing in the colorful trees. A gust of wind pushes a young man’s voice across the courtyard as he jogs up the steps of Yale University, talking on the phone and continuously shuffling the bags in his hands. 

“Yes, dad, I made it here okay… no I wasn’t pulled over… yes, I will behave myself…” He rolls his eyes as he runs a hand over his hair, ruffling the brown locks.  “Dad, I’m an adult now, I can handle myself. Trust me, I’ll be fine.” 

A muffled voice can be heard from the other end of the phone as the man stifles a sigh. 

“Okay, I have to get going now… yeah, love you too.” He pulls the phone away and quickly presses the red end-call button, shoving the phone into a back pocket. He presses a fist to his mouth and inhales deeply, then drops his hand and pulls open the doors at the top of the steps, exhaling. 

Inside, there are wooden benches along the wall, all of them empty; in the center of the open area is a circular desk with several computers, but only a lone woman sitting in front of one. She is staring intently at the screen, hands occasionally moving to type or scroll down. 

The man approaches and stops in front of the desk, placing his suitcase on the ground and fidgeting with his backpack straps. The woman doesn’t look up. Glancing at her screen, he can see that she is scrolling through some sort of clothing website. He clears his throat, the sound echoing through the nearly empty room. The woman jolts and looks up, clicking out of her tab. 

“Hello, how can I help you?” She asks, her voice like sandpaper against wood. 

“Yes, um, I was wondering what my dorm room number is?” 

“What’s the name?” She clicks around on her computer, then poises her fingers over the keyboard. 

“Uh- Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” Stiles smiles stiffly, tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk. The woman smacks her lips.

“Uh huh… it says that you are in Baker Hall, room C32.” She shoves a keycard at him, then clicks back into her shopping tab. Stiles pauses for a minute, biting his lip.

“And, uh, where… is Baker Hall?” He asks after a moment of silence. Without looking up, the woman points her finger to the left. Turning around, he stares at the wall advertising various clubs and seminars, then looks back at her. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Picking up his suitcase again (why didn’t he just get a rolling one?), he makes his way out of the building and down the steps, heading in the general direction that the woman pointed in. 

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

“Fucking finally.” Stiles mumbles, slapping his keycard against the scanner on the oak door, falling against it to push the door open as he turns the handle. Stumbling, he catches himself against the open door. He groans and pushes it closed with his back, leaning against it. Stiles glances over the kitchen just inside the door to the left, then stares across the dorm at the couch under a window with three panes, barely seeing it. Nothing is visible, the world outside pitch-black and the windows reflecting the couch, coffee table, and lone chair. 

At last, Stiles pushes off of the door and, grabbing his suitcase again, walks further into the dorm. He first enters the room at the end of the short hallway, to his left, then walks across the small living room to the second bedroom to the right. The rooms are the same, just swapped: a desk with a two pane window, twin bed, five drawer wooden dresser, and a small walk-in closet. Stiles goes back to the first bedroom, the one closest to the kitchen, and tosses his suitcase on the bed and slings his backpack off onto the floor. After half-heartedly stuffing his clothing in the dresser and piling his other miscellaneous things on the desk and dresser, he shoves the suitcase under the bed. He haphazardly makes the bed, then falls face-first into the pillow. 

And then he turns over onto his back.

Then his side. 

Back onto his stomach. 

Then to the other side. 

Glancing at the time on his phone, he can see that only five minutes have passed. He tosses the phone back down, covers his face with his hands, and groans loudly. 

After doing this for another thirty minutes, Stiles throws his legs over the side of bed and stands up, running a hand through his hair as he makes his way back out to the hallway kitchen. He opens the top cabinet and stares at a package of ramen noodles that is likely expired by now. Huffing, he grabs the package and rips it open, tosses it into a bowl that he pours some water on, and shoves it into the microwave. He stares at the slowly rotating bowl, the whrrrr sound stabbing his brain. 

Stiles tugs open the microwave, grabs the bowl, hisses and drops it onto the counter, which causes water to spill out onto his hands. He grunts and pulls his hands back, cursing. As he runs cold water over his hands, he can hear his phone ringing from the desk. 

“Fuck, what now?” He groans, shaking his hands off and wiping them on his pants. He stumbles back into the room and grabs the phone, answering it without glancing at the caller ID. 

“Yoo, dude, you’ll never guess what happened today,” a familiar voice says, skipping right over the pleasantries. Stiles rubs his nose bridge, putting the call on speaker as he walks back over to the kitchen. 

“What happened, Scott?” He asks, grabbing a fork and stabbing it into his bowl of ramen. 

“I met the prettiest girl ever. Seriously, I’m not shitting you, I’ve never met a girl like her before,” Stiles’ best friend practically gushes, like a middle schooler talking about borrowing a pen from their first crush. 

Stiles lets his voice fade into the background, shoving a forkful of noodles into his mouth. “Mmm, mhmm,” He mumbles around the mouthful, nodding his head like Scott can actually see him. 

Suddenly, Stiles is sitting on the counter with an empty bowl in the sink and the sun has risen outside of the window. He looks at the time. It’s nine and he has a class in an hour.

And Scott is still talking. 

Stiles stumbles off of the counter, tugging his shirt off as he goes. Rummaging in his dresser drawers, he tosses the phone on top of the dresser. 

“Hey, Scott?” “And, like, I get that we just met, but I can really feel it: she’s the one-”

“Scott?

“-but I just don’t know how to tell her-”

“Scott.” “-without coming across as creepy-”

“Scott!” “-or needy-”

“Listen, man, I’ve gotta go, I’ll catch back up with you later.” Stiles tugs on a pair of pants and quickly hangs up before Scott can protest or continue. 

It will be fine, he’s probably still chattering away.

Stiles grabs his backpack from the floor and shoves his computer, a notebook, and a pen into it. Throwing it over his shoulder and snatching his phone, he rushes out of the room, barely remembering to grab his keycard on the way out. 

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

Stiles walks down the hall, trying not to look like a brain-hungry zombie. One would think that graduating salutatorian would mean that Stiles would have all of this school stuff and a routine figured out by now.

Nope.

He still feels like a freshman staying up all night to study for his first AP test. Maybe because he technically is a freshman again. 

Stiles stops. Looks around. Sighs. 

Backs up several paces.

And presses his keycard to the door that he just passed. It flashes green, and he shoves the door open, rubbing an eye with the other hand. 

Walking in, he heads into his chosen room. 

Stops. 

Was that a person? He backs up again and turns around to see that, yep, there is a person sitting on the couch under the window. 

And it’s not just anybody. 

“Hale?” Stiles says, dropping his backpack onto the floor.

#sterek #derek hale #teen wolf stiles #stiles stilinski #teen wolf #ao3 #bask in the glory of all our problems #BIGOAOP

[ohctranscripts]

Season 1, Episode 2: Secondly! - The Cricket

Narrator: As night begins to fall on Paris, backstage at the broadcast ballroom, busy preparations for this evening’s broadcast of The Orbiting Human Circus of the Air begin.  

[Music in the background]

But, before we listen, there’s one thing I think you ought to know.  You’ll remember, last week, seeking forgiveness, the janitor snuck backstage to clean host John Cameron’s dressing room as the last song of the evening played.  And that music – and this is what I really wanted to tell you – was performed by the Orbiting Human Circus Orkestral, a rare African bird that can mimic all 47 instruments of the orchestra at once.

The Orkestral is something of a Parisian bigfoot, believed only to land where orchestras are rehearsing.  Many people claim to have seen them, but one has never been filmed or recorded.  Yet, there one was, perched in its cage on the stage in full view of the entire studio audience – beautifully mimicking a waltz!  With no visible strings or wires!  Even the stagehands don’t know how it’s done.  And it’s that way with all the acts.

With that thought, we take you back to last week [Cleaning noises] in host John Cameron’s dressing room, where the janitor cleans with greater and greater enthusiasm until—Look out!

[Muffled explosion]

In his exuberance, the janitor accidentally knocks a small crate, marked, ‘For Mister Cameron’s Eyes Only! (exclamation point!)’ off the table.  Out of it spills several tiny tomes of sheet music and some bird seed.

Suddenly, the door opens! [Door and floor creaking] And in sneaks stagehand Jacques, guiltily starting to light a cigarette!

Jacques: Kid, I was told to throw you out on your ass.

Julian: I won’t tell Laeticia you were smoking!

Jacques: You wouldn’t?

Julian: I won’t if you let me finish cleaning!

Jacques: Cleaning? [Scoffs] This place is a wreck, look at that on the floor.  Oh—whoa, look at that crate.  Is that what the bird came in?

Julian: …Yeah.

Jacques: Hey, lemme see that.  Whoa, look at this.  He’s gotta know how this bird works, I was—I was thinking it’s gotta be a robot.

Julian: It’s not a robot!

Jacques: What’s this white stuff? [Groans] It’s not a robot!

Julian: It’s not a robot.

Jacques: Ugh.

Julian: Here’s a paper towel.

Jacques: Alright, so what do I got here?

Narrator: Suddenly, a commotion out in the hall!

Laeticia: Allons, allons, attention, get out of ze way, zis machine, it is ‘eavy!

Jacques: Ah, shit, I’m supposed to be out there helpin’ her!  If she catches me in here, and I’m talking to you?

Julian: Please, you’ve gotta let me finish cleaning.

Jacques: Okay, but you get me in trouble, I’m gonna break your legs.

Narrator: Meanwhile, at home, the listeners sat back and listened to… this.

[Drew Callander sponsor message]

John: Eldrid, the tap dancing mouse!

[Mouse skittering and squeaking]

[Opening music]

John Cameron: Broadcasting from the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Orbiting Human Circus of the Air!  To start us off, as part of our continuing series on the reformative influence of Judaism on rock and roll, we give you this 1921 recording by Cantor Moishe Lebowitz.

[Music and ballad-like singing]

Narrator: Meanwhile, as the broadcast continues, high in the shadowy outer walls of the Eiffel Tower, far from the microphones’ hearing, the sound of a single mop [sound of a mop hitting the floor] and the lonely silhouetted figure holding it.

[Julian sighs]

Narrator: This of Julian, janitor of the Eiffel Tower, banned from the broadcast ballroom for his on-air interruptions.  Follow him as he mops the tower’s outer walls and climbs higher, dangerously high, without scaling gear ropes or scaffolding to hold him!

Julian: I don’t need that stuff.  I’ve been climbing my whole life.

[Voice yelling ‘Julian’ from far away]

Julian: I gotta go.

Narrator: With one free hand, he scales the tower, spilling soapy water from the bucket he holds and nearly dropping the mop.  [Julian breathing heavily] Still he goes higher, and higher, and higher, like a small animal climbing a tall tree to escape its pursuers!  Much too high!  My god, what’s he doing?!  Has he no fear of heights at all?

Julian: Heights are the last thing I’m afraid of.  Up high, you’re safe.

[Bucket clanging]

Narrator: But still, he climbs higher, and higher, and the higher he climbs, the colder he becomes.

Julian: Everything looks so beautiful from up here.  There’s not a thing that can touch you.

Narrator: The janitor leans back on one of the tower’s upmost girders and gazes off, as if lost in memory.

Julian: When I was a kid, my stepfather used to be afraid of heights.  I used to climb this water tower, we had this water tower—it was the tallest structure in our town and I’d, like, climb up it, and I’d stay up there for hours.  But the first time I came to Paris, I never saw anything like this.

Narrator: Yes, Eiffel really knew what he was doing.

Julian: I mean, it was the tallest thing I’d ever seen in my life.  I would—all the buildings were, I mean, I was ten.  I ran away.

Narrator: To Paris?  At ten?

Julian: Well, I knew I had this great grandpa, and he was a stage hypnotist…  So I snuck on a train.  [Chuckles] I went to the train station, I went into the turnstile, I—I went down and nobody saw me, and I got onto one of the trains when no one was looking.  And I got under the bench seats, and I was down there, um, by everyone’s feet, I could see everyone’s shoes, and…

The train started moving, like – nobody caught me!  And, uh, I didn’t even know – I hadn’t thought about where I was going, or how I was gonna eat or survive, and—and the next thing I knew, we got in Paris.  And when we got in Paris, there were posters for my great grandfather’s show – everywhere!

[Chuckles] I—so I—I found the theatre where he was playing, and I snuck backstage.

Narrator: Well, what happened?

Julian: He took me home with him.  And he lived in these wonderful apartments.  There was red velvet everywhere, and, and, uh… there was all these famous people, like actors and actresses.  People I knew, I mean from posters, and—and there were always parties.

And my great grandpa was just handsome and elegant and—and, oh my god, and I remember, I remember some nights he even forgot to feed me.  Like, he didn’t know how to take care of kids, but I didn’t care.  I mean, he forgot that I had to go to school, he never thought about that – which was amazing.  Um…

I just wanted to be near him.

Narrator: Sounds like he was very special.

Julian: There was this one time…  I was in his, I was in his office.  And I was hiding, he didn’t know I was watching him.  And he was sitting at his desk and he was writing, and he started—he had this cigar in his mouth, and he started blowing these smoke rings.  But he wasn’t looking at them, and they started getting bigger, and bigger, and bigger, and he still wasn’t looking.

And they slowly, slowly started getting smaller, and smaller, and smaller, and then, without looking, he just lifted up his left hand, and he extended his finger, and he stuck it right through the center of the ring.  And he put both of his hands in front of his face and he started puffing, and when he took his hands away, there was a perfect smoke polar bear… just floating!  In the middle of the room!

And there was even a polar bear-shaped shadow on the carpet!  And it drifted up, and up, until it reached the ceiling.

I wanted to know how to do that!  I want—I just wanted to stay with him, I wanted him to show me how to be a show person…  I wanted to live like those people.

Narrator: Did you get to?

Julian: [Sighs, laughs softly] No.

Narrator: The janitor takes his bucket, looks down at the glowing lights of the city far below, and begins to mop.

[Wind whipping]

Meanwhile, below, in Paris, people gather ‘round their radios.  You see, there’s a rumor that something unusual, something quite unprecedented, is going to happen on The Orbiting Human Circus.  It’s going to happen during the feature presentation!  You know, the strange story that ends each episode, which all Paris waits for?

What’s going to happen?  Well, all Paris is going to have to wait to find out.  But I can show you…

We zoom in on a small, enclosed space that looks a lot like the janitor’s pocket.  A dark, womb-like space, where a small figure lies curled in a fetal position…

Well, I don’t know if they have fetal positions.  You see, it’s an insect.  And what does an insect have to do with the feature presentation?  Well, it must be something, because backstage at the broadcast ballroom, the large tape machine which usually plays the feature presentation is still tucked away.  And stagehand Jacques pays little attention to it!

Jacques: Hey, hey, somebody help me lift these pies onto the stage for the next act!

Narrator: Meanwhile, above, at the tip of the Eiffel Tower, the janitor leans perilously off the side, mysteriously pauses mopping, and puts his ear to the metal girders to listen.

Julian: If you put your ear up against the metal, you can hear things.  The tower picks up radio signals from all over the world depending on which girder.  Here, listen.

Narrator: The janitor presses his ear against the girder.

[Slow music]

Julian: Or listen over here!

[Hawaiian-style music]

Julian: And if you put your ear up to this girder here, listen to what you can hear.

John: That was Yurmac, the pie-eating Cossack!  Yurmac, ladies and gentlemen!

Julian: You know how I live in the janitor’s closet… there’s no electricity, so I can’t have a radio.  I come up here for hours and listen…

John: Yurmac!

And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s nearly time for our feature presentation!

Julian: I gotta go!

Narrator: Where are you going?

Julian: Down to the show, it’s almost time!

Narrator: And so, the janitor begins a frenzied climb down to the ballroom!

But they won’t let you in.

Julian: Look, look at this.  I got it here in my pocket.

[Cricket noises]

Narrator: It’s… a cricket.

[Voice yelling ‘Julian’ from far below]

Julian: Oh, come on, we gotta go!  I’ll explain about the cricket.  Late at night, after everybody goes, I’m allowed to clean the acts’ cages.

Narrator: An important job!

Julian: I was just finishing up, and I went to the—the new orchestra bird’s cage, and it wasn’t in there!

Narrator: You mean the Orkestral, the rare African bird that can mimic all 47 instruments in the orchestra at once, the Orbiting Human Circus’s one-bird band?

Julian: I looked everywhere for it, and it wasn’t anywhere!  It was all my fault!  Sometimes the lock doesn’t lock.  I was scared it ran away!  Everyone was gonna know I did it.

But then I heard something in Mister Cameron’s office!

Narrator: You mean John Cameron, host of the Orbiting Human Circus, whose dressing room you’ve invaded on multiple occasions?  You didn’t.

Julian: I had to!  It was dark, and I turned on the light, and there it was!  The Orkestral was standing right over this cricket like it was gonna eat it, but it didn’t.  It was… listening.

Narrator: Listening?

Julian: I swear to god.  It looked like the cricket was telling the Orkestral a story!

Oh, through here.  It’s time!  [Clapping] Listen, he’s talking about me on the air!

John: Last week, ladies and gentlemen, we demonstrated the Cricket’s Song Trans-Migrator, a machine that allows us to hear the cricket’s song as the cricket hears it.  After the show, I discovered Julian toying with that machine, violating a great many rules.

But for once, we’re glad he did!  The machine caught a cricket backstage in mid-anecdote.  And for the first time, a cricket story was translated into the human tongue!  I realized we simply had to share it with you!  We discovered not only that crickets are the greatest storytellers in the world, but why they are.

When a cricket is caught by a bird, it is always given a chance to tell a story.  And if it’s a good one, that bird will spare that cricket’s life.  So, let’s bring out the cricket!

[Clapping]

Our janitor, ladies and gentlemen.  [Quieter] Put him in my hand, Julian.  [Cricket chirping] Roll out the machine, Jacques.  Little cricket, up on the platform you go.  [Cricket chirping louder]

And now, ladies and gentlemen, we make radio history – a cricket’s own story, our feature presentation, “The Extraordinary Tale of Ladislas Koskovsky”.

[Technological noises]

[Gurgling, followed by laughter]

[Clearing throat]

Cricket: Hello, ladies and gentlemen!  It is we, crickets, who see what no one else does.  But there is no mystery more beloved amongst us than that of Ladislas Koskovsky.

Ladislas Koskovsky was a promising young clockmaker who believed, due to some incontrovertible laws of physics, clocks would run more accurately counter-clockwise.  And he was correct, his clocks were too accurate, in fact!  Who wants to own a clock that runs a different time than all others?  Nobody!

He cannot afford to eat, his whole life is his shop – and his shop is failing.  He had to find some way to make people want his clocks.  But he finds it impossible to work.

Through the ceiling in his workshop come piercing the voices of the two children who live upstairs, as if in the room with him.  The children constantly beg for dolls he knows the parents cannot afford.  Christmas will come, bring disappointment.  [Babbles]

Ladislas finds himself gathering small bits of fabric from his wardrobe, materials from his workshop, and beginning to fashion the children two dolls – one for the boy and one for the girl.  They will be good dolls; he will ask only for peace and quiet in return.

When the family opened the door to reveal Ladislas holding presents, they are stunned.  Ladislas had never been the least bit friendly to them, and yet here he is.

“Merry Christmas,” is all he says, “ask them to keep quiet for me.”  And avoiding all eye contact, he dumps the packages in their hands and runs away.

The battle of curiosity of even the parents cannot be contained, the packages unwrapped immediately.  How much the children loved their dolls cannot be measured in words.

Then, a miracle happens.

Customers begin coming into Ladislas’ shop!

Narrator: As the cricket’s voice rings out, the cast and crew listen, and chief stagehand Laeticia is so touched that later that night, she tells the story to her downstairs neighbor.

Laeticia: They are, like, coming into his shop!  All of a sudden, where are zey coming from, you know?  Is not like the people who used to come, no zese people are, zey are wearing stylish clothes and, more importantly, zey begin buying his clock!

And, er, they smile at him when zey come in and zey are like, “Oh, Ladislas, you know, you are, you are a genius!” and all this, oh.  And he is like, [gasp]!

Some of zem, zey are very beautiful women, you know, and say, “Si, Ladislas,” you know, he is like, whoa.  [Laughs] You know what it is like when you have not been with someone for a long time and zen zis beautiful person come in and is, like, looking at you, you know, he is like, “Oh my,” like he’s, uh, his face is on fire, you know.

But he’s like, “I’m going to buy myself a new suit, and I am going to buy myself, like, a new hat, and is gonna make a difference and I’m gonna go, uh, talk to zose people!  I’m going to go to ze party!”  Because zis one girl, she had invited him to zis party.  So he’s gonna go!

He arrive at ze party, so he come to Marie’s door.  He knock on the door, and, er, ze butler open the door, and, you know, “I am Ladislas Koskovsky, I have come—come to ze party.”  And he look inside, and zere is Marie, and she is like, [gasp]!  You know, like, uh, kind of a little bit, like, shocked or something?

But zen, “Oh,” you know she is very happy, she’s inviting him in, and he walk into zis amazing party with ze champagne, you know, and ze trays, and everyzing is, like, sparkly zere, like, it is all so beautiful.  You know, ze people but also ze ways zey laugh, it is like [French word?] or something.

So zis blush on his cheeks is just deeper and deeper, you know, like a beet or somezing.  But it’s okay, he’s like, going from room to room, you know, with Marie, and she is like, “Zis is zis room and zis room and ze terrace, and, uh, you know, ze terrace, it smell like, uh, like a whole garden is out zere, blooming, you know, in ze midnight with the stars and the light, it is all so fragrant, you know?”  You come back inside and every room he go into with Marie, zere is a clock of his.

Ze people are all smiling at him and he see his clock is in every room, like, uh, “I did not know zis was my home, I did not know zis was always where I was going.”  And then, suddenly, zere is somezing in him, it is, like, coming up, like tingling.  What is zis feeling, it is like, rising, and rising, and rising, rising, what is zis?  It is in his throat and out of his mouth and…

It’s a sob?

Zere is somezing in him, like, coming up, like a… like a boulder, gaining speed, you know, rushing toward him, and he feel it coming up through his body and just as he come into ze big grand ballroom and he see his clock on ze other side of ze wall, it is like, “[Gasp]!  Zey are laughing at me!  Zey don’t like ze clock, zey think it is a joke!  Zey brought me here to make fun of me.”

And he cannot control the pain and ze rage, it is like, uh, pours out over him and through him and it is rushing over, like, the whole ballroom, like, uh, like ze snow just *pow*, just, you know, like he is, like a doorway through which winter comes rushing.

And, uh, he is crying on ze carpet and making a scene, and just, like, cannot move, like, uh, frozen to ze floor.  They ask the butler, ze butler, you know, he comes, everyone’s a little bit nervous, you know, because there is zis, uh, crying clockmaker on ze floor.  And zey pick him up, and, uh, zey kick him out, because, you know, zey are going to clean up zis mess on ze carpet now.

Narrator: And stagehand Jacques tells it to his elderly aunt!

Jacques: So, listen, that night, he smashes all the clocks.  He smashes his own prized possession.  He takes, you know, his little squeaker clock?  The one that goes off in the morning, and he fuckin’ hurls it across the room.  Smash!  He takes his grandfather clock, he pushes it down the stairs.  It tumbles, it tumbles, it tumbles, and crack at the bottom, alright?  He’s just chucking ‘em everywhere, it’s hittin’ the ceiling, you know.  One of ‘em, you know, crashes out the fuckin’ window.  It’s unbelievable.

Like, like, this guy is so pissed off.  Everybody’s wakin’ up in town, you know.  The neighbors, the people upstairs.  He hurls one, it smacks against his fuckin’ plumbing, you hear water comin’ out.  It’s crazy, this guy’s goin’ crazy.

So then, they hear, like, a shuddering of the doors.  Here’s the thing: after all that, he never came out.

Narrator: And, even later that night, janitor Julian tells it to Coco, elderly night watchman at the Eiffel Tower, who counts on the janitor’s nightly telling of the radio show to help pass his lonely watchman’s hours.

Julian: They thought he was dead.

Watchman: Okay.  [Laughs]

Julian: And after a few weeks, kids started, you know, saying that it was haunted, and they’d dare each other to go up, and tap on the window.

Watchman: Oh, yes.

Julian: Or to try and get as close to the window as they could, and of course they’d all run off, and then, some of them started to hear these sounds.  Um, late at night, there’d be these crazy sounds, like knocking, uh, banging.  Really scary sounds.

And it would terrify the people living upstairs, and all the noise would happen all night and then in daylight, it would stop and it would get quiet again.

And this went on for weeks!

Watchman: Wow.

Julian: And then one morning, the sun was rising and the shades on the shop window just went up!

There was a doll shop!

Watchman: No!

Julian: Nobody could believe their eyes!  And the window displays were amazing, and the dolls?  The dolls had this thing that just makes you feel safe and happy and warm.  Kids loved them, it became a sensation.  I mean, kids just wanted to even be in the shop, and they’d press their faces up against the window and their breath would fog it up.  There were people lining up for blocks!

Watchman: No!

Julian: And Ladislas was there, right in the middle of it.  He went out and he found all the people, um, that were at that party, and he gave them dolls for free, just as gifts for their kids, and—and, well he found the people that used to come into his shop just to keep warm that he used to kick out and yell, and he gave them dolls for their kids and their friends’ kids.

It got to where Ladislas was, like, the most famous person in Bucharest.

Narrator: But, Ladislas’ story does not end there!  In fact, it doesn’t end at all.  But I’ll get to that in a moment.

As we all heard, live on the air…

Cricket: One morning, Ladislas Koskovsky disappeared.

Narrator: Both he and his doll shop, gone!  Without a trace!  All Romania wanted to know – what happened to Ladislas Koskovsky?

But, it is not what had happened to Ladislas Koskovsky – it is what he had done.  On every doll he had created, there was hidden a tiny catch.  This catch was protected by a thin layer of vaunge, which, lovingly handled, would wear off in no less than a year – the exact same amount of time it would take for a child to bond with their doll completely.

Cricket: Then, the first time that the child would drop the doll, or place it down roughly, the catch would trigger and set into motion a mechanism that, faster than the eye could see, would replace the original face with another that lay hidden inside, the same face but with a new expression – a horrific expression, of hatred, such pain, such monstrous, mortal accusation.  It would traumatize the child who loved it for the rest of their life.

For their dolly turned to them, now hideous with pain – Ladislas’ pain.  With bitterness - Ladislas’ bitterness.  With hatred - Ladislas’ hatred.  To fill the dreams of the children of Bucharest with nightmares to last a lifetime.  And once the faces had changed, the mechanism would lock forever.  No one would know how it happened – only the horror it produced.  And so…

Narrator: But, the story went no further!  Because, though stagehand Jacques, chief stagehand Laeticia, and our janitor Julian all thought it was a good story, there was one key member of our cast who did not!

Which will become increasingly apparent in just a moment as—look out!  [Screeching followed by screams] The Orkestral escapes its cage and lunges at the cricket who, abandoning the story, skitters off, with the bird in hot pursuit – and the janitor, dashing madly close behind!

Julian: The Orkestral’s gotten out of its cage!  Oh, my god, I didn’t lock it.  I didn’t lock it!  Oh, my god, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry!

[Cricket chirping, flapping, screaming]

John: Good lord, save that cricket!  Good lord, he’ll eat him alive!  I’ve grown very fond of that cricket, whe—

Make the Orkestral play the end music!

Narrator: And, the Orkestral does begin to play the music while chasing the cricket while being chased by the janitor, round and round in dizzying circles!

[Music]

John: And that’s it for this week!  Tune in next week when our safely returned cricket will continue his story!

Broadcasting from the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Orbiting Human Circus wishes you a good night!

[Ending music, clapping]

#orbiting human circus #orbiting human circus of the air #the orbiting human circus #the orbiting human circus of the air #tohc #ohc #tohcota #ohcota #julian the janitor #narrator #john cameron #tohc transcript #tohc transcripts #ohc transcript #ohc transcripts #season 1 #episode 2 #transcript #season 1 episode 2

[tossawary]

2,500 words of the Moshang Forced Marriage AU, in which the PIDW plot is turned off and Tianlang-Jun doesn’t fall, but this only causes even more problems for Mobei-Jun and Shang Qinghua. Written on my phone. 

- 

Shang Qinghua stumbled back into his leisure house with a jar of Zui Xian Peak’s best light wine in one hand and a sack of Qian Cao Peak’s tastiest specialty melon seeds in the other. He kicked the door closed, kicked off his shoes, and then kicked back for some quality lounging. 

   “Ahhh, now this is more like it!” he declared, wiggling into the cushions worthy of a head disciple’s house. “It’s all shoving off my chores onto other people from here on out! Having flatcakes on order with a snap of my fingers! Making some other poor bastard deal with Shen Qingqiu and Liu Qingge - at each other’s throats even at Yue-Shixiong’s nice dinner to celebrate our future ascension, eugh. I’ve really earned this! I’ve suffered enough!” 

   He dropped the sack of seeds onto the side table and fiddled with the wine, embarrassingly clumsy despite the fact that he was sober. As always, he’d been much too chicken-shit to really indulge around other people. He needed his fast reflexes for ducking and running away when he was out and about! Plus, people would freak the fuck out if a transmigrator started running his mouth, giving everyone existential issues and shit, so him waiting until he was alone to drink was really more of a societal service here than sad. 

   The Transmigration System had also been a concern before, but not anymore! 

   Shang Qinghua raised his jar and laughingly declared, “The plot is dead! Long live the free author! Ah, this toast is a little late, but better late than never, huh?” 

   At long last, this transmigrator had managed to get into the Transmigration System’s settings and turn off the plot! It had honestly been a little infuriating just how easy it had been, once he’d hit on the right combination of things to open the right settings menu. There may or may not have been a lot of outraged shrieking and frustrated crying, after all the sweat, blood, and tears he’d shed to become the head disciple of An Ding Peak. All Airplane Shooting Towards The Sky had needed to do, in the end, was flick a few buttons from “on” to “off”. Outrageous. 

   “No more missions! No more restrictions! And no more bad endings for anyone! Ah, at least for everyone besides Huan Hua Palace Sect’s old master, that is… but, heh heh, I really think that I and the new Empress Su Xiyan can live with that,” Shang Qinghua muttered, then took a drink, wiggling deeper into his lounging and feeling very good about himself. 

   He felt as free as a bird! As free as the wind! Why shouldn't he celebrate his newfound freedom and future as a Cang Qiong Peak Lord by doing a little bit of nothing at all? 

  Shang Qinghua shamelessly did his best to become a lump. As he toasted to the distant happy couple and the bouncy baby protagonist on his way, with wine and melon seeds both, he removed all but one layer of clothing, tossed his belt and his jewelry on top of the pile, and yanked everything out of his hair. He slid from a sitting position to a totally horizontal one without realizing how it had happened, then he let heavy eyes fall closed with the knowledge that everything was going to be so much better now. 

   A person knew things were good when they could fall asleep just like this. 

   Then a burst of cold air startled him into looking up at a shadowy figure stepping out of nowhere above him. Shang Qinghua shrieked with terror. 

   "SHUT UP!” the shadow snarled. “Get up!” 

   “What- my king?!” 

   Mobei-Jun didn’t wait and grabbed Shang Qinghua by the front of his robes, hauling him to his feet. The wine sloshed against the floor and the melon seeds scattered around them. Shang Qinghua yelped, choked, and then wheezed and flailed, and then yelped again as his loose robes got a little looser with the rough handling and he slipped in Mobei-Jun's grip. 

   "What- get dressed!" Mobei-Jun snapped, and then dragged him into the bedroom right away. 

   "The sight of my naked chest offends you this much, bro?!" Shang Qinghua thought, stumbling along. "There's not enough room in this house for two tits-out outfits?! What the fuck is going on?!" 

   Mobei-Jun threw Shang Qinghua towards the dresser. He just barely managed to catch himself, taking a hard wooden edge to the gut and stubbing his toe on its base, instead of falling and concussing himself at least. Shit! It still hurt, though! 

   "Get dressed!" Mobei-Jun snapped again, pointing at the dresser for emphasis. "Now!" 

   "Right away! Right away, my king!" With shaking hands, his heart thundering in his ears, Shang Qinghua pulled out the first set of robes his fingers touched. 

   "Not those!" 

   "Aah!" 

   Shang Qinghua dropped the robes onto the floor. They were the regular everyday robes of an An Ding Peak disciple, plain and sturdy, something that the demon had seen him in many times before. 

   "Wh- what's wrong with th-these?" 

   "Too plain!" Mobei-Jun barked, and stalked forward to shove Shang Qinghua aside and go through the dresser himself. 

   Shang Qinghua stumbled away and took shelter near his bed, quickly retying his current robes to prevent another fucking nip-slip or worse. He watched with wide eyes as Mobei-Jun threw his clothing to the floor as not good enough. The next drawer was yanked open with so much strength that it splintered and tilted crookedly to one side. 

   "My king, why-?! What's happening?! Are- are we going somewhere?! Who does this servant have to impress?!" 

   Mobei-Jun finished throwing aside everything in this drawer and tried to shove it back in, but it was too broken to be moved. The demon snarled, yanked the entire drawer from the dresser with another terrible splintering sound, and threw the drawer out of his way. It hit Shang Qinghua in the chest and sent him sprawling back onto his bed. 

   He lay there and wheezed without shoving it away, just feeling the impact rattle through his ribs. He heard another drawer splinter. 

   "Ah, so this is how I die?" he thought. "Just as expected: with a bang AND a whimper." 

   He pushed the drawer to one side and sat up, only to be smacked in the face with the robes thrown at him. They were the nicest robes he owned. The An Ding Peak Lord had ordered them for him for the coming ascension of a new generation of Peak Lords, so they had all sorts of fancy embroidery and several heavy layers, which meant Shang Qinghua fell back against the bed again under their weight when they hit his head. He sat up again and then gawked at these robes he had never worn and wasn't supposed to wear yet- 

   "Tianlang-Jun." 

   "Aha, what?" Shang Qinghua looked at the demon lord scowling at him. "My king…? What about Tianlang-Jun…? This- no. What?! My king, you can't mean to take this servant before the Demon Emperor, that would be ridic-" 

   "Get dressed," Mobei-Jun snapped. 

   "It's not Tianlang-Jun, right? Why-?! What's really going on here? Are we going somewhere? Are we meeting someone?" 

   Shang Qinghua got to his feet, but he didn't dare put the fancy robes on, like being nearly naked would save him from being dragged off anywhere else. No amount of nice clothing would ever make the likes of this displaced author impressive to the likes of the OP Demon Emperor, finally sitting on his late sister's throne. 

   "This servant can't serve his king to the best of his abilities unless he knows what the-" 

   "My father is dead!" 

   “...Wh… what?” 

   Mobei-Jun’s expression was like a thunderstorm. Shadows curled around his clenched fists, as light and heat fled this room that was suddenly even smaller than Shang Qinghua remembered it being. 

   "My father…" Mobei-Jun repeated, slowly, daring Shang Qinghua not to understand a second time. "...is dead." 

   Shang Qinghua stared in horror, the robes slipping out of his hands, which itched to count all the years that had just been skipped even though he knew he didn't have enough fingers. Thirty years or so? Definitely more than twenty. His breath came out in a trembling fog as he demanded: 

   "H-how?!" 

   "Tianlang-Jun," Mobei-Jun said again, through gritted teeth. 

   Good point! Good point! Who the fuck else could it be? The real question was why the fuck?! And also what the fuck was Shang Qinghua of all people supposed to do about clashes between OP demon lords?! 

   Mobei-Jun advances on Shang Qinghua, the shadows in his fists writhing like he's strangling them. "Tianlang-Jun took offense to some of my clan's foolish disrespect towards his human Empress and he made an example of my father. He has threatened to destroy the body unless a suitable gesture is made." 

   "But… the power of your ancestors…" 

   Mobei-Jun, looming over him, shoved him down to his knees to pick up the robes he had dropped, and snarled: "Get dressed." 

   Shang Qinghua snatched up the robes and skittered away to dress himself up for the slaughter. His heart was racing fast, but his mind seemed to be going even faster, almost too fast to actually think and also do things like make sure clothes weren't inside-out as he put them on. 

   The power of the Mobei clan rested in the ascension ritual in which the new king "consumed" the body of the old king. Spiritually and… er… possibly also physically? Shang Qinghua had no idea if the System had picked up on those implications or not. Anyway, if Mobei-Jun's father's body was destroyed, then he wouldn't receive that power-up necessary to enforce his rule, which would make him the target of every ambitious cousin and every greedy neighbor. The Mobei clan would probably fall into civil war and the rest of the northern kingdoms would follow them into bloody battle. 

   Shang Qinghua's favorite character, currently glaring at him for the fancy clothes probably making him look even less fancy by comparison, was sure to die. Mobei-Jun's shitty uncle had probably already picked the poisoned knife with which to stab him in the back. 

    "My king… what… what gesture is being made here…? This servant… this servant really needs to know how he's supposed to be of service…" 

   Shang Qinghua also needed to know whether or not he needed to take the first available window to run away. He definitely wasn't above leaping out of literal windows. If Mobei-Jun intended on hanging him over to Tianlang-Jun as a human sacrifice or some shit, then promises of loyalty might expire a lot sooner than originally planned! 

   At the question, Mobei-Jun's expression only darkened and the room darkened again with it. The cold seemed to spread from Shang Qinghua's skin deep into his twisting chest.

   "Marriage," Mobei-Jun said, again through gritted teeth. "Tianlang-Jun has suggested marriage to a human as a worthy gesture." 

   "M-marriage?" 

   Mobei-Jun looked so fucking murderous that Shang Qinghua knew he hadn't misheard. He had to have misheard, though, because this was absurd. 

   "Marriage betw-between me and- and…?" 

   "Yes." 

   "And… you?" 

   "Yes." 

   Shang Qinghua should have been given an award for not fainting dead away. The System should have given him a million points for every second he managed to stay conscious, except… the System had essentially been turned off. No more points. No more plot. 

   No more Proud Immortal Demon Way plot, at least. 

   Ah, was this some kind of warped vacuum effect? A new plot come to take its place? 

   "There will be great riches." 

   Shang Qinghua refocused on the demon glaring at him. Riches?! What the fuck did riches have to do with anything right now?! 

   "Mobei Clan is the second strongest in the Demon Realm," Mobei-Jun informed him, but the demon was kind of scowling like he resented this now, instead of bragging. "You would not have to work again." 

   It was a really fucking weird day when being told that his Dream Guy wanted him and that he'd never had to work again was somehow bad news. It almost sounded like Mobei-Jun was… was… trying to persuade Shang Qinghua to marry him by offering wealth, power, and a life of indolence. All things that would tempt most people! Especially blindly greedy, thigh-hugging sect traitors like his character! 

   "Did… did Tianlang-Jun tell you… to just pick any human?" Shang Qinghua asked faintly. "There weren't… there weren't any requirements…?" 

   Clearly Mobei-Jun didn't want to be tied to Shang Qinghua of all humans! 

   "He asked - laughingly - if none of us knew any humans. I said that I did." 

   Okay, Shang Qinghua fully believed that Mobei-Jun didn't know any other humans. Mobei-Jun was on a deadline and didn't have time to go find the most acclaimed matchmaker or anything. By default, Shang Qinghua was the best, most handsome, most skillful, most wellborn, most desirable, and altogether most marriageable human Mobei-Jun knew - and he was not feeling super fucking thrilled by this victory. 

   "What… what did my king say about me..? What is the Demon Emperor expecting?" Shang Qinghua could only hope expectations had been set on the floor, preferably into the floor or maybe even underground. 

   "A disciple of Cang Qiong in my service." 

   "Oh…" 

   "Fix your robes." 

   "What? Oh, shit. Right away!" 

   Shang Qinghua didn't have a lot of experience wearing robes this nice and Mobei-Jun barking at him to look less like shit wasn't helping. The fact that he was sweating from nerves and his fingers were still shaking a little also wasn't helping. He skittered around to add tasteful ornaments and jewelry, some of which got violently rejected by Mobei-Jun as too ugly to show anyone, but looking down at himself, he mostly just felt like he was throwing shiny gold onto a pile of crap. How could this really fool anyone?  

   "My king, what… what am I supposed to say to the Demon Emperor? Do you want me to lie? To the Demon Emperor?!" 

   "Do not speak unless spoken to." 

   Sure, Shang Qinghua could do that, but was he really supposed to leave the talking to Mobei-Jun?! To Mobei-Jun?! The protagonist's right-hand man had not been known for his silver tongue! Did he think people weren't going to have questions? Like, "How the fuck do you know some random human?" Or, "Holy shit, you're really going to marry THAT one?" 

   "Isn't… my king, isn't Tianlang-Jun well known for his interest in humans and human stories… though...?" 

   Love stories! Shang Qinghua was pretty sure that the man loved a good love story! How the fuck were he and Mobei-Jun supposed to pull off a love story? And make it a love story compelling enough to convince a pissed-off Tianlang-Jun to grant the Mobei Clan mercy? Shang Qinghua wasn’t totally sure he was going to be able to do anything besides break down sobbing and curl up into a pathetic ball on the floor. 

   Mobei-Jun's face twisted slightly, in the way of an angry demon who didn't want to admit that his lowly human servant actually had a super great point. Tianlang-Jun had already proven himself a man who liked to play with his food a little. 

   "Do not tell some story," Mobei-Jun snarled finally. "Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not lie." 

   "Of course! Of course! Very wise not to lie to him!” Shang Qinghua told himself to focus on the logistics here; he was the logistics man; it was what he did. If he just kept focusing on the details, he didn’t have to think about the bigger picture. “This servant will remain silent until called upon, which… when… my king, when will that be? Tomorrow morning? I have to tell-" 

   "Now." 

  "-my martial sib- what?!" 

   "Now," Mobei-Jun repeated. "He is waiting." 

#moshang forced marriage au #tossawary updates #tossawary svsss #moshang #mobei jun #shang qinghua #svsss