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#ficlet of sorta
iwasthenightingale · 5 months
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Maybe it's just the feral ace person who resides within me, but I desperately want Crowley and Aziraphale's first real kiss to be entirely awkward and innocent and honestly kind of chaste
I want Aziraphale, desperate to hold Crowley, words tumbling out of him as he says "You know, the first time in my bookshop didn't count. And I should very much like to try, er... kissing again. Perhaps. If you were amenable?"
I want Crowley, mute with shock, but nodding incredibly enthusiastically. And Aziraphale's hands, hesitant but still reaching, hovering over Crowley as he shuffles forward and tries to learn how to touch him
I want blushing as Aziraphale asks softly "so, um... was it something l-like... like this?" and Crowley doing everything in his power not to move or self combust as he inches closer
I want the gentlest, most barely there brush of lips, so soft and sweet, and a sharp inhale as Aziraphale wrenches back to take in Crowley, his beautiful Crowley, and feel the tingling warmth against his lips
And then I want them to melt together, not even because the kiss is particularly charged, but because they adore each other and have been kept apart for far far too long, and no amount of closeness or intimacy could ever be enough for them
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batlovestomarry · 4 months
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This idea has been in my mind for WEEKS now and I need to write a fic about it but before I do that I need to share my idea with all of the tomarry lovers out there so here is a short little ficlet:
——
Tom is an investigative auror, who investigates criminal cases and solves them, on top of the normal auror duties. Usually, his job is so boring it makes him want to tear his eyes out. He often gets assigned cases that have to deal with finding family dogs and searching for little kids who ran away in childish fits of anger.
The Dark Lord Harry is more than just a passing thought in his mind most days. Tom, from the time he learned of magic (and subsequently him, the dark lord) has had a certain fascination with this famous figure. A particular pull to the Dark Lord Harry that has led him to investigate every part of Harry’s life (though not much is known about it) to sate this endless urge to learn more about him.
Unfortunately, the dark lord hasn’t been active in the wizarding world in more than 5 years, and Tom doesn’t think he’ll be back anytime soon, much to his disappointment.
That is, until Tom is called to an urgent meeting one day where he is informed that the Dark Lord Harry has struck again, seemingly out of nowhere. Tom and his colleagues are warned that they could be called to battle any day now, if the dark lord decides to be a bit more bold in his moves “against the wizarding world” (bullshit. The Dark Lord Harry only wants equality for all witches and wizards and for all types of magic. It’s for the benefit of the wizarding world, not “against” it, Tom angrily thinks).
Just a week later and seemingly out of nowhere, Tom is called to battle. Immediately upon arriving at the site, he and his fellow aurors have to fend off squadrons of Harry’s devoted followers. The battle continues on.
Tom is in the middle of a particularly vicious one-on-one duel when he sees him out of the corner of his eye. And oh, he is glorious.
Quickly sending a stunning spell at the other dueler when his guard was down, he surreptitiously made his way over to where the dark lord was.
Harry notices him anyway, despite his efforts to go unnoticed.
Harry quickly overpowers his opponent without much of an effort. He then casually starts a conversation with Tom, and it devolves into them slightly flirting. None of the other aurors or followers of Harry notice their conversation.
The battle ends when Harry gathers his followers and leaves quickly (though not before sending Tom one last teasing reply), and the battlefield goes silent. Tom’s mind is reeling.
He already can’t wait for the next battle.
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ender1821 · 5 months
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(back on my shiny duo brainrotting time, featuring Secret Life 9AM Pearl!)
— — —
It was a beautiful day out. Autumn had arrived in its wonderful grace, bringing nice but not too breezy afternoons and picturesque views of the forests that stretched beyond the world’s borders. The scenery was simply too breathtaking to not—
“What are you doing?”
Pearl perks up from the sketch pad she had on her lap, discovering that Gem had approached her.
“Just a lil’ doodling.” Pearl answers, using the pencil in her hand to point to her work-in-progress.
Gem quirks an eyebrow up at the reply, trying to have a glance at the picture before questioning her friend more. “Really? Right here?”
Pearl looks around. Well, she couldn’t really see what’s wrong with having a break in front of her mound, unless Gem was referring to the whole…game situation. In that case, she supposes it’s a fair query.
“Inspiration waits for no man, GeminiTay!” Pearl puffs out her chest, as though her declaration was meant for more than just Gem, but for the whole world.
Unfazed by Pearl’s theatrics, Gem sighs, “I knew I should’ve stopped Jimmy from calling you Shakespeare.”
With that, any attempt Pearl made at refocusing on her drawing were thrown out the window, and she took Gem’s words as a challenge.
“Why, doth thee not hold the same enthusiasm for the arts as I?” Pearl set aside her pencil, then mimicked holding a skull in her palm, preparing to monologue to thin air if Gem doesn’t stop her.
“Weirdo.” Gem giggles at the grand gestures Pearl made.
“Oh, you love it.” Pearl waves off the remark without a thought. It never gets old, and Pearl’s sure that Gem must’ve called her that a hundred times by now.
Just as Pearl expected, Gem lets out another fond sigh before taking a seat next to Pearl. Out of the corner of her eye, Pearl catches Gem trying to hide a smile.
Pearl returns to working on her sketch soon after, pausing for a second when she feels a weight press onto her shoulder. Gem was leaning on her to get a better view of the sketch pad, and as she shuffled closer, the unmistakable scent of pumpkins and flowers wafted into the air. Pearl makes a mental note to add more orange shades to the final picture.
The sketch at the moment is of the fields of sunflowers scattered around the grass fields of where the Mounders chose to set up camp at. Nothing too out of the ordinary, which is exactly what Pearl needs after days of chaos, all in the hopes of completing secret tasks.
“It looks pretty.” Gem breathes out after a brief lapse of silence between the two.
“Aw, thank you!” Pearl cranes her neck slightly to look at Gem. It doesn’t take long before she snorts and captures Gem’s attention, wondering what Pearl found worthy of laughing at.
Pearl points to the sunflowers. “They match your eyes.”
Gem pushes herself off of Pearl with an offended scrunch of her eyebrows. Her hand hovers dangerously close to the diamond sword she kept sheathed beside her waist. “Remind me again, can yellows kill greens? Because I’m really tempted to right now.”
There’s an amused flicker in Pearl’s face, and she clutches her chest with a horribly faked expression of terror. “Ooh no, am I being threatened by the great GeminiSlay?”
“Dork.” Gem huffs and rolls her eyes, moving to rest her arms on the ground below instead.
Pearl replies with a toothy grin.
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sprog-writes · 4 months
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Soulmates AU but it's like this:
Just like in the real world, the idea of soulmates is just a myth. A story. A part of culture's folklore, but generally regarded to be some kind of romantic thing that's not actually real.
But after Simon gets rescued from the desert, after he wakes up in that coffin, after that brush with death, he starts seeing red threads connect people by their fingers.
He can touch them, sometimes, if he focuses enough. He thinks he's going crazy for a while. Having some kind of hallucinations.
So he does some research, he learns about the strings, and at first it does nothing to reassure him he's not going crazy. But then he finds a forum, a gruochat, something like that, with people recounting their own experiences with it. All with the same common denominator: they died, for a bit. And they didn't stay dead.
He doesn't visit the forum again after that. He still thinks it's bullshit. His eyes don't linger when he sees how a really entangled red line connects Price and Nik. He doesn't stare when he notices two practically invisible circles wrapped around two recruits pinkies, holding each other's fingers while they talk and they laugh.
And he avoids looking at his own hands like the plague. He tells himself he doesn't care. He tells himself it's not important. Not even when the other end of that thread is closer than he'd ever imagined. Not even when the hand it's connected to hits his shoulder.
He does cave, after a while. He spends some time in that forum. It's the only thing he can do not to actually go insane when it feels like his hand is being constantly pulled towards his Sergeant and him with it. Those people... At least they understand. There's a woman who was resucitated after a heart attack. She was declared dead for 2 minutes. When she woke up she thought the strings were because of something wrong with her eyes. When she went online, she couldn't help but stare and agonize about how the father of her children wasn't connected to her. They loved each other, but the universe didn't deem that enough, it seemed. It ended up ruining her marriage.
Some of the people there hated the string, just like her. Predestination doesn't match with everyone.
There's those that are hopeless romantics, who see this as the best thing to happen to them. That pass their days trying to follow the line.
Some others saw their "soulmates" as just their perfect match, but still believed you needed to put in the work to have a relationship.
Ghost doesn't know where he stands.
The more time he spends with Johnny, though, the more he understands how perfect he is for him. He's certainly disappointing some of the people in the forum, proving the universe, Destiny, whoever is responsible for it, right. But he can't help it, when everything that comes out of his Sargeant's mouth makes his eyes crinkle, when every quip and jab is met with equal responses, when seeing those blue eyes light up when he enters a room makes him want to be Simon again.
Price notices. In all the years he came back, Ghost has never been as obviously bothered by the strings as much as he is now. Not since he first thought they were hallucinations.
So, when he finds himself in the Captain's office, he expects some kind of reprimand. A well meaning question about his health.
Instead, he's met with, "Congratulations."
He blinks. "Pardon me?"
"Soap's a good lad. He's got his flaws, but who doesn't?" Price goes to light the cigar he'd been holding when Ghost walked in.
"... I don't follow, sir." He says, even though he knows exactly what Price is implying. He wants the Captain to stop pussyfooting and say it.
Price takes a drag of his cigar and blows the smoke out in a way that doesn't directly hit Ghost, even though it doesn't bother him anymore. "I don't care if you're dating or just fucking or what have you, Simon." He looks him in the eyes when he says his name. It leaves Ghost feeling prickly and oddly vulnerable. "But... You seem happier, lately."
"Fraternization -" the weak excuse he had started to pull out by instinct was interrupted by Price's laugh.
"Son, I couldn't give a single fuck. Look what we're doing here! Look at the people involved. No one cares as long as we get the job done." He chuckles again. And Ghost wants to tell him. He wants to explain about the threads, he wants to ask about Nik, he wants to spill all he feels for his- for Soap. Wants to go to his room, pull him out, kiss him in front of everyone, and intertwine their pinkies just like those rookies were, so that their fingers are so close that the string is barely visible.
But he doesn't. Instead, "There's nothing going on, sir," he tells Price, like a coward.
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someforeignband · 9 months
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It was always strange, sort of like the world was cracking open again, like all that they’d nearly died for had been for nothing. It was like the ground was crumbling under his feet, like the goddamned sky was falling. His heart thudded away in his chest, painfully hammering, clenching and releasing, clawing at the inside of his rib cage, like it was trying to crawl out of his body.
It was strange, and sort of beautiful, like one of those paintings in a museum that you look at. The swirls of paint are made even more beautiful on account of the fact that you find out the guy who painted it killed himself. And it’s sort of funny, the way that works, the way the art reads like some kind of magnificent headstone, and he figures that he wouldn’t even know what those kinds of paintings were like, if it weren’t for Steve.
His Steve.
The Steve that was calm under pressure, while bleeding himself, who would’ve given his life if it came down to it. The Steve that dragged his half-devoured, nearly-dead corpse out of the gate, who jammed his fists into a shuddering earth and screamed fierce curses at the blood-red sky. The same Steve that returned tears with a sarcastic, utterly bitchy comment, who’d never hesitate to send you one of those wide smiles that made you forget everything.
The Steve that stared death in the face and laughed.
It’s beautiful and tragic, like when the world split open and almost swallowed Eddie with it. And he could stop the world with the way he feels in that moment, he could call himself Atlas, could muster the strength of a titan, with the way he feels like he could cradle the earth if it could make it stop.
But now they’re here, at the edge of the end of the world, surrounded by useless things, just boxes and boxes of nothing, and Steve is crying.
When Steve Harrington cries, the world splits open. It’s like he’s dying all over again, watching his boy sit in a pile of his own objects, a binder full of baseball cards to his left, multiple pairs of swim trunks spilling out from under his bed, dozens of pairs of unworn sneakers laying near the closet door. He’s sitting on a box of something and clutching a pearl necklace in his right fist, there’s pages upon pages of notebook paper in piles at his feet, and tears are streaming down his face.
When Steve Harrington cries, the world splits open. And in that moment, Eddie had never felt more like a damned god, cast to live in the wretched depths of hell for eternity. Like he was Hades, like Steve was his Persephone, damned to weep at his feet, cast out by his loved ones to live miserably within the confines of a future they’d created together.
When Steve cried like this, Eddie wondered if he’d been meant to die that night, if maybe the chasm in Hawkins would’ve sealed itself back over at his offering, if he hadn’t been so lucky. When Steve tried to tuck himself away, tried to lock himself in his room, it was like a part of Eddie died anyway, in that fucking place, where the sky shone red as the blood inside of Eddie’s flesh.
“Steve, honey,” Eddie sobers. “You’ve gotta take a deep breath, sweets.”
Steve throws the pearls to his right weakly, they hit the wall with an unsatisfying crack. He sobs harder, coughing, choking on his own emotion, head down. He won’t look at Eddie.
“Can I come sit with you, baby?” Eddie asks, staying at his perch along the wall.
Steve had said he needed to do this alone. Eddie was inclined to let him, inclined to stay downstairs and mind his own business, but then he heard the sobbing and-
“No!” Steve shouts. “I-I told you to stay downstairs god-goddamn it, Eddie.”
And yeah, a part of Eddie died with Steve that night anyway.
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sashaforthewin · 2 months
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"What the hell are you listening to?" Eddie asked.
Steve looked up from the record player where he had just changed albums. He held up the cover for Eddie to see.
"GTR. Bet you thought I never listened to any good music."
"I still think you don't listen to any good music."
Steve put the album down and glared.
"Whatever, man, I bet you GTR is going to still be famous in 20 years and nobody will know who Dio or Metallica are," Steve said. 
"So confident! Okay, I'll take your bet. If I win, we get married."
Steve did a double take. Had his curiosity and interest in Eddie been too obvious? Or was Eddie actually interested like Robin claims he is?
He flounders for a brief moment and then settles on, "do you think we would even be able to get married in 20 years?"
"I dunno, maybe. How about I bet you that in 20 years, nobody knows who GTR is and that we can get gay married."
Steve shrugged, unable to hide his smile. “Sure, bet is on.”
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tennessoui · 6 months
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ko-fi fic uploads
hey guys, I'm going to start putting some of my new tumblr prompt fills and writing warm-ups (ficlets of 4k-6k length) up on my ko-fi!!
Monthly supporters will be able to go into the gallery tab on my ko-fi and click on an uploaded image. The title will be which tumblr-based au the ficlet fits into and how many words it is. The description beneath the image will be a quick summary of the au and a link to the google doc containing the ficlet. The "root" au post, aka the post that started the au on my blog, will be linked as well on that google doc.
This will not affect my wips and progress on them in any way! I feel like that's very important to state - I write these sorts of ficlets all the time because it helps get me in the writing mindset for writing ao3 fics. I will just be spending a little extra effort on them to put them up on ko-fi.
I will NOT be posting any ficlets on my ko-fi that you need to read to understand a fic on ao3 - that's some disney monster conglomerate kind of shit. I will also still be posting shorter ficlets (1k-3k) on tumblr as I write them, especially if I'm answering a prompt someone sent me here. Again, I think it'd be a bit of dick move to not do that
I'll try to vary which ficlets go up on ko-fi and every time I upload one, I'll make a post about which au it is as well as a link to the page in case anyone wants to, idk, unsubscribe for a month because they hate the hopeless in coruscant au, and then refollow next month because they enjoy the playmaker au etc etc
I'm definitely still trying to figure out what I want this to look like and what feels fair or reasonable, so hopefully this isn't a huge mess on my end!
All this being said:
I've posted the first ficlet/fic on ko-fi: it's for the Senator Menace AU, an au that's basically "What if phantom menace but reversed? how fucked up would anakin get over the youngling his father master died to protect?"
the first au post is here // my ko-fi is here
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indigosabyss · 4 days
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Unexpected Baggage Pt 3
Erik left the bar with three cooling bodies inside, hands tucked into his pocket as the door shut itself behind him.
Kamala was watching him carefully, positioned far away from the windows. He had asked her to wait outside, but he knew she had heard everything. Whether she could speak German or not, the gunshot and screams and blood splatters should be enough context for her to know what happened.
"I know..." He started off uncomfortably, "I know you have nowhere else to go. But that had to be done. The things they've done- you can't imagine."
"It happens, I guess." She replied dully, "Not, not really my place to say, is it? I just want Monica back."
Right. The woman named Monica Rambeau, who Kamala had come from the future to rescue.
"I have no idea how to do that." He admitted, "Searching the entire world is... An impossible task. But I'll try to figure out a way."
Kamala nodded, and briskly began walking away from the bar, "Let's get out of here. You get any information from the Nazis that I didn't hear?"
"He's in Miami." Erik replied, following after her.
"The... Herr Doktor guy or some other person connected to him?" Her question was disinterested, but he knew she was just pretending at it.
"It's Schmidt." He confirmed, and didn't add Finally, but the bitter excitement still poured through.
"He work for HYDRA?"
"Huh?"
Kamala nodded, readjusting her grip on her bag, "HYDRA, scientific weapons development division of Nazi Germany? They took over an American counter-terrorism wing after WW2. Huge scandal when the documents all got leaked. My friend Bruno and I learned cryptography to help decode them."
All this she delivered in quick expressionless monologue, and then tacking on, "Or, you know. Things could have gone differently in this dimension."
But too many details were lining up perfectly in his mind.
"Well." Erik decided, "Good thing America is our next stop."
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hob’s unsent love letter <3 (text by @wordsinhaled )
transcript under cut:
Dearest My own
Dear nameless Stranger:
First, I must endeavor to impress upon you how wretched I feel in the very writing of this Letter, for it is true that we have never before uttered such words as these to each other, and indeed I have but little cause to hope that the wholly untoward affections herein expressed shall ever be returned by you. I am consoled only in the knowledge that I will soon fling this paper onto the fire presently burning in my study, banishing my sentiments once again to the realm of Fantasy where they rightfully belong…
It is seventy-two years to the day until our next meeting, dear Stranger, and I have sustained myself all these long years since our last with the most earnest and fanciful hope that I might one day yet unburden myself to you and be absolved of this monstruous longing. I am a different man; I am certain you shall not recognize me; for I walk in the world, yes, but as one walks in a dream.
I think it will amuse you to learn how insistently this officious summer society dotes on me. Wherever it is you remove to when we are not together, let it be a more pleasant place than this! In a fortnight I return early to London, and the day cannot come quickly enough for my liking. For months I have endured covetous glances, suffered in airless ballrooms, all the while my mind fixed, steadfastly and ceaselessly, on you…
How this present society wearies me, my friend
My friend!—No, I do not fear your reproach; I shall not. I pray you will allow me, within the sanctuary of this Letter, and perhaps without, to attach this word to you, in all its manifold complexities of meaning, for in my most private heart it is how I think of you. And is it not true? Are we not friends? For what is a Friend, if not one’s dearest counterpart, that mirror of one’s soul, who abides with one in constancy through all the dreadful and glorious seasons of one’s life? You are all this to me, and more…
Here I end, lest I reveal more of myself and turn you from me for ever. Though it is all I would deserve, I ask that you withhold too harsh a judgment on me, for I am always, most ardently and humbly,
yours in friendship,
HG
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optiwashere · 11 days
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Also Shadowheart/Asheera, B9? I swear you did write something like this before but hey, new angles,
I have written something to this effect before, but like you said - new angles and all that. Plus, it's not like it's something that Shadowheart just "gets over" you know? Either way, thank you for requesting this one!
Let's end the prompt bash with my two favorite ladies 💜
---
B9. Convinced that their past makes them irredeemable, Character A struggles with Character B's affections (This technically takes place after Chapter 2 of one of my ongoing fics, Blades in the Night, but all you need for context is that it's post-canon)
Night fell on the Trade Way, stars in haphazard patterns that Shadowheart couldn't read for any constellations.
All she saw were dots of light in the sea of darkness. Seams in the black fabric of night, none of them strong enough to light the world. The moon was dim that night. All was dark save for the small fire she and Asheera built together.
Stargazing kept her mind from staring at the shadows of the trees around them. Yet another forest.
More trees. More hiding places for the Sharran assassins set on ruining what future Shadowheart thought she could have. Each of the shadows in those trees, distant enough that her darkvision couldn't reach them, could have been a shifting figure with a nocked arrow.
"Quiet tonight," whispered Asheera near her.
She was sitting next to Shadowheart by the fire. When she sat down, Shadowheart didn't know.
"I suppose it is. Not much reason for most to travel this way, I assume." Shadowheart glanced her way, then returned her gaze to the sky.
"I meant you."
"Oh."
The low hunting call of a nocturnal bird was the only sound on the road for a handful of breaths. Shadowheart couldn't keep her eyes off the stars.
All around them they were bathed in darkness, yet still they shone. Did the stars too, then, understand what it felt like to consider the darkness? Think it preferable? Did whichever god that hung them in the sky know the feel of its creator's blood on its hands as Shadowheart felt of her parents? Had that god ever heard its parents scream as it worked the interrogator's techniques on them in ignorant devotion to some other, greater god?
It must have. Its work showed in the sky. On some mornings, the sky bled red, and the clouds were stained the same way Shadowheart knew her hands were stained.
Tainted.
"Love, are you all right?" asked Asheera, her voice so soft that Shadowheart shivered at its softness. Her hand fell on Shadowheart's shoulder, thumb rubbing gently. "You've been quiet for hours."
"Have I?" Shadowheart turned to stare at the hand on her. When she tilted her head up to look at Asheera, her tusks glinted in the firelight. "If I said I was contemplating the night sky, would you laugh at me?"
"Depends on why. I have a feeling it's not exactly a humorous occasion."
Waiting a moment, Shadowheart sighed. She didn’t know how to word this. "When you see a star in the night's sky, what do you think of it?"
Asheera shifted her jaw, grinding her tusks against her lip as she thought. Her brows knitted together above the bridge of her nose. "I see a forge weld, like pieces of a breastplate stitched together. Each of those stars keeps the world from falling into total darkness. They're beautiful that way. Why, what do you see?"
"Naïve children that think they can fend off eternal darkness. Destined to die, fade away. Become nothing."
At once, Asheera sat closer, her arm shifting to hold Shadowheart at the waist. Her arm wrapped around Shadowheart and pulled her tight. She was warm. Warmer than the fire. Instinctively, Shadowheart rested her head on Asheera's shoulder. Despite the distance - perhaps because of the oath Asheera swore to protect her - Shadowheart swore she could hear the echo of her heartbeat.
She was so damn warm, and Shadowheart could only think of the darkness blanketing the light in the sky. How a star could be snuffed out in an instant, replaced instantly by shadows.
Shadowheart's breaths hitched. For a moment, she worried her thoughts mingled with Asheera's mind. But the tadpole was gone. Her thoughts were her own, completely free from unfortunate sharing or melding of emotions.
The warmth of Asheera's body enveloped her deeper as Asheera slid her palm down Shadowheart's arm. Close, covered in that palm. Fingers slipped between hers. Held tight.
"You have no reason to fear that," whispered Asheera. "You are not that darkness."
"I broke people for decades. Including my own parents."
"You didn't know—"
"And that absolves me? That's meant to stop me from remembering what I've done?" Shadowheart growled, lifting her head to meet Asheera's gaze. "And what would you know of such loss?"
The words tasted like poison, specifically the extract of carrion crawler innards that could paralyze and trigger violent spasms in its victim. Acrid like burnt flowers. Disgust welled at the bottom of her throat, and she meant to turn away from Asheera, but she could only stare into the deep, ruddy brown eyes that searched her face.
She expected Asheera to pull away.
Instead, she reaffirmed her grip on Shadowheart's hand.
Instead of pulling away, she smiled weakly.
Instead of leaving Shadowheart to wallow in that darkness, Asheera said, "It's not meant to do anything. It's a reminder. But I understand. I understand, though if you think I'm going to sit idly while you compare yourself to the empty night sky, you're more clueless than I expected."
"You think me clueless, then?"
"Let’s just say that I remember hearing the zealot that I met on a floating squid ship regurgitate Sharran dogma." Asheera lifted the corner of her mouth in a curved half-smile. "She was so very different from the smiling drunk that said she cared about refugees."
And somehow, Shadowheart smiled again. She nearly laughed too.
Rather than say a word and ruin what Asheera offered with open arms, Shadowheart nestled back into her embrace.
The two of them watched the stars until the fire became a glimmering, constant light that refused to die. Though they were wrapped in the dark for a moment, darkvision revealing the world in grayscale again, the stars still shone.
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hypertic · 8 months
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avatrice MMA AU (? idk just enjoy
“Ava?”
Beatrice’s voice echoes through the empty changing room, making Ava freeze in her spot. Beatrice had just come out of the gym shower, a towel in hand and tiny droplets falling from her hair. The simple sweatpants and white shirt made her look younger than she usually did, the soft glow on her skin softening her features.
“What are you doing here?” The light from the single old lightbulb was scarce, but Ava could still see different emotions flashing through her eyes. It was a rare sight on Beatrice, and Ava would’ve given herself time to appreciate it had they not landed on anger. “You went back?”
Ava’s grip tighten around the old gym bag as she opened her locker, taking a deep breath and biting her lip to keep herself from speaking.
“You went back to Vincent.” Beatrice stated in disbelief. She took a step closer, which forced Ava to hide behind the locker door and take another deep breath.
Ava was tired, she had bruises everywhere and her clothes were sticky with her sweat and someone else’s. The skin of her knuckles was most likely raw and bruised, and every breath she took in a poor attempt to keep her composure made her ribs hurt.
She didn’t need a fight with Beatrice, not now, but her mouth seemed to run faster than her brain.
“Got a problem with that?” She admitted sharply, turning to look at Beatrice just as a flash of hurt crossed her eyes.
“A couple, in fact.” Beatrice retorted, her expressionless mask back in place, if only with a hint of annoyance. “You made a deal with Superion, remember?”
“Vividly.” Ava’s voice was cold and dripping with rage. Beatrice didn’t move an inch, even as she loudly dropped her gym back inside the locker. “But she’s not the only one I’ve made deals with.” Ava added, busing herself with finding a towel inside her messy locker.
“What deal?” Beatrice asked, trying to mask her concern with anger. She failed, as her voice faltered when she spoke again. “What did he-?”
Beatrice was cut short by the locker door slamming shut, as Ava turned around to face her completely for the first time.
The sight of a furious Ava, with blood on her face and bruises starting to form around her lip cheek pained Beatrice in more ways than one. If she were to be honest, having that bitter anger directed at her hurt almost as much as seeing Ava that injured; almost.
“It’s none of your business.” Ava spat out, trying to walk pass Beatrice, who moves to block her way. “Move, so I can have a chance at training tomorrow.” She added bitterly, pushing pass Beatrice.
“Wait!”
Beatrice voice felt too loud in the stillness of the locker room, her hand wrapping around Ava’s wrist in a strong yet gentle grip. Ava instinctively tries to pull away but falters halfway. Still, Beatrice let’s her go.
“I’m sorry.” Beatrice let’s out, her voice softer. “You’re right, it’s none of my business. I just… Let me help?” she asks tentatively, as if afraid Ava would lash out again.
“What?” Ava turns around, now inches away from Beatrice. The smell of her shampoo still fresh on her hair is disarming, and Ava feels her shoulders drop at the sight of Beatrice’s worried frown.
“I know for a fact it’s not pleasant to patch up with broken ribs.” Beatrice states matter of factly, concern hidden beneath a small, amused smile, hoping to lighten the mood. Ava let’s out a snort that lets Beatrice know she succeeded.
“They’re just a little purple.” Her voice is still defensive, but much softer than it had been, and Beatrice takes it as a win.
“Let me help.” Beatrice insists, taking a step forward.
The smell of Beatrice’s soap and clean clothes, mixed with Ava’s own sweat and blood is nauseating.
They’re inches away, yet neither of them make an effort to move, eyes fixed on each other before Beatrice allows hers to flicker just a little further down, to the younger girls slightly parted, busted lips.
As if snapping out of a daze, Beatrice moved pass Ava, who’s suddenly hit by a wave of disappointment and fear.
“Why?” Ava all but yells across the locker room, her voice desperate and slightly aggressive, but stays rooted in her spot.
Beatrice doesn’t respond, her steps echoing in the silent, empty locker room before she comes back out with the massive first aid kit they keep in the common bathroom.
“Why?” Ava repeats a lot softer, smaller, once Beatrice makes her way back. Her eyes shine with something that Beatrice can quite name; a mix of confusion, exhaustion and hope and hurt, a look she doesn’t want to see again.
“Because l care and want to help you.” Beatrice replies as if it were obvious, her eyes fixed on Ava’s. Her reply comes so quick, so confident and so strong, without an ounce of hesitation, that Ava feels her eyes prickle a little.
She flops down on the bench in what almost looks like defeat, Beatrice’s words echoing in her mind as if trying to pierce a hole through her head.
Care.
“Can you take off your clothes?” Beatrice’s question brings Ava out of her thoughts, but shes too slow to answer —too flustered— causing a light blush to spread on the taller girls cheeks. “I need to check your injuries. I can help, if you need.” Beatrice kept her voice low and steady, ignoring the heat rising to her cheeks and Ava’s stunned expression.
“No, I- I can do it on my own.” Ava answers after a while, sounding much more confident than she felt.
“Great. I’ll go get the ice packs then.”
Beatrice leaves the first aid kit in the bench before quickly making her way out of the room. She takes her time with the ice packs and fills up a small basin with water and clean towels to help Ava clean up. Admittedly, Beatrice takes a lot longer than it was needed, hoping Ava had enough time to undress in privacy.
Beatrice makes sure to keep her eyes fully trained on Ava’s face as she makes her way back to the lockers. The smaller girl had slid down from the bench onto the floor, leaning her back comfortably against it with her legs spread out in front of her. Without the bloodied shirt and the old dirty sweatpants, Ava was left in a sports bra and the shorts she often wore for training, revealing the purplish bruises marring her rib cage.
“Where does it hurt?” Beatrice asks, taking hesitant steps towards the girl before kneeling down next to her left side, which seemed to be the one causing her the most pain.
From Ava’s point of view, it was a stupid question: it hurt everywhere. She had to bite her lip to keep herself from saying that out loud, taking a deep breath that she regretted immediately.
“It’s just my ribs.” Ava lies after a while.
“And your face.” Beatrice ads, and Ava feels her cheeks redden from embarrassment. “And you’ve been putting most of your weight in your left foot.”
Shit.
How did she even notice that?
Even Ava forgot the way her ankle had twisted painfully at some point, leaving her with a throbbing pain and an apparently noticeable limp.
“May I?” Beatrice asks, her hands hovering over her bruising ribs.
Maybe it’s because of their closeness, or because of the caring, almost pleading look on Beatrice’s eyes, but Ava felt her chest warming up despite the cool air of the room.
Ava gives her a firm nod, preparing herself for what was to come. Beatrice didn’t need to warn her that it would hurt, she knew that already, but that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate her soft warnings and mumbled apologies as she poked around her ribs.
“They’re not broken, at least.” Beatrice stated after a while, taking one of the ice packs.
“Told ya.” Ava breathed out smugly.
“Hold it against your ribs.” Beatrice instructs, handing her the ice wrapped in a thin towel. She shuffles a little closer to Ava’s feet before looking back up at her. “It’s the right one, correct?”
“Correct.” Ava mirrors her way of speaking, and Beatrice has to divert her eyes back to Ava’s feet in a poor attempt to hide her smile.
“Is it alright if I-?”
Once again Beatrice’s hands hover over her bare skin and Ava wonders how she can be so gentle to her, after all of their yelling and fighting, both in an out of the ring. Ava gives her a small nod, switching her position to make it easier for her to examine the ankle.
“Does this hurt?” She asks after a couple of minutes of moving around Ava’s foot and pressing on different spots, none of which seemed to cause her much discomfort. Ava shakes her head, prompting Beatrice to switch the position. “What about this? Does it feel alright?” Beatrice inquires with a small, focused frown forming between her brows, to which Ava shakes her head again. “It’s probably just a light sprain, it should be fine with some ice.” She concludes, gently pressing a new ice pack against the inner side of her ankle.
Eventually Beatrice manages to balance the ice pack on the inner side of Ava’s ankle and finds enough courage to shuffle closer to Ava’s face.
Injury-wise it’s not too bad. At first glance it just looks like a busted, bruising lip and a shallow cut on her left cheek, but her face is covered in blood splatters that make it hard to tell the extent of the damage.
Ava watches her closely as she goes through the motions of opening the first aid kit and wetting a towel with cold water. Beatrice brings it up to her cheek, wiping away the traces of dry blood; always so gentle.
Ava’s eyes flutter close, maybe a little longer than they should, and gets lost on the feeling of Beatrice’s hand making her way down to her neck. She relishes on the small, fleeting moments where Beatrice’s warm fingers brush softly against her skin.
She opened her eyes as Beatrice’s hands made her way to the other cheek, eyes fully trained on the cloth as she works. When she rinses the rag and pats it against Ava’s nose, she can’t help the smile tugging at her lips at the sight of Ava wrinkling her nose at the contact.
When the only bloody spot left on Ava’s face is the one on her bottom lip, Beatrice snaps out of her trance like focus, hands hovering over the small cut before pressing the cloth against it. Ava let’s out a small hiss, but this time Beatrice doesn’t apologize, letting her thumb run over the smaller girls jaw and lip, as if merely touching the bruising flesh could make it better.
It doesn’t, not in the literal sense, but Ava feels her skin burning and momentarily forgets about the dozen wounds all over her body. She feels the heat pooling on her stomach at the sight of Beatrice dark, hard eyes with a hint of what Ava wishes is hunger.
“Your hands.” Beatrice demands suddenly, leaning back to put some distance between them. Ava is too caught up in the moment to question her words, extending her hands without a second thought.
Neither of them speak as Beatrice’s nimble fingers take off the bandages, revealing bloodied, raw skin that hurts just to look at. Beatrice wonders if Ava is sued to it, if Ava fights so often, so roughly and so desperately that her hands have grown used to that.
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angelsdean · 2 years
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stanford era dean had an abortion. he thought about keeping it for a brief moment because he was so alone and he thought having someone around to care for and to care about him might be nice and he’s always liked kids but he shoots that thought down quick because he’s literally living in his car and he has no money and he’s a goddamn hunter and no kid deserves to be brought into this life. he doesn’t know who the other parent is, might be some random guy, might be lee. doesn’t matter. he drives across the country alone to get it done. crosses a line of bigot-ass protesters who think he’s there to meet his girlfriend, shout at him to convince her not to do it. he flips them off because fuck that. john calls him about a hunt right after, dean doesn’t answer, curled up in the back of the impala just trying to get some sleep. he ignores his dad for a whole week and boy is he pissed when dean finally answers. says he was on a bender and john scoffs, tells him to get his head on straight, stop messing around, you’re not some punkass kid anymore, dean. you have a job to do. responsibilities. and dean wants to say, what do you know about responsibilities? you had a job to do, too, dad, and where were you? i did your job for 18 years! and i won’t be that guy to my own kid, one day, if i have ‘em. i just did the most responsible thing a person can do, so don’t lecture me about responsibility. but what comes out is, “yes, sir.” and he drives on to the next hunt, and he doesn’t talk about any of this until he’s 43 and krissy chambers calls him out of the blue asking for a ride. 
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Harringrove camp counselors x werewolf au anyone?
Camp starts in a few days, Billy is getting ready for the shift and is thus super grumpy and practically starving. Steve is the only thing that stands between him and doom and destruction.
-
Tomorrow night is the full moon.
Billy's been on a short fuse all morning. Snapped at Jonathan and Keith and anyone else who so much as looked his way.
The only time he's somewhat calmed down all day is when he sat down to eat a little while ago. Of course, he plowed through his meal, and looked mildly upset enough afterwards for Steve to slide his tray over. Billy fixed him with grateful, almost teary eyes before he tucked his fork into the mashed potatoes.
Steve feels bad that he can't offer the usual treatment. Can't have Billy bundled up on the sofa with steak and French fries sitting in front of him at every meal.
The best he can do out here is make sure the tank is full of something, even if it can't be purely protein.
That, and he came absolutely loaded with jerky and Slim Jim's.
By the time mid afternoon rolls around, Billy is sluggish. Sitting by the lake in a lounge chair, umpteenth meat stick in his hand, stomach glaringly full.
He's not as cut as he used to be. Steve appreciates soft abs, thick thighs. Seeing the blond with a rounded tummy like this makes him feel...
Domestic.
Like he could scoop Billy up and lavish him with kisses and attention until he's breathless from it. Or buy him a house.
Whichever.
It's just their luck that someone else would take notice to the fact that they’ve disappeared from the main campground. Eddie's snickering alerts them to his presence before he ever shows up, Chrissy trailing next to him.
"Damn, Hargrove, don't let Keith catch you slacking off," he says. Stands too close for comfort and earns a scoff from Billy. "How many strikes until he boots your ass off the program?"
Munson glances over at Steve, who's been sitting crisscross on the ground flipping through his itinerary, looking over the names of his soon-to-arrive list of campers. Steve shakes his head, raising his eyebrows in hopes that Munson interprets it as lay off. He doesn't, of course.
Just winks at Steve and crouches down next to Billy's chair.
Although Billy's wearing sunglasses, it's obvious from his demeanor that he's glaring daggers at Eddie.
The two aren't exactly friends, aren't exactly enemies. Billy buys off him occasionally. Laughs at a joke every now and then. Playfully flirts back when Eddie deals the first cutesy pet name.
But Billy doesn't put him on a pedestal like other people tend to do. He isn't nice to him just because he's got good weed; no one crosses Billy Hargrove and gets away with it. Something that Steve learned the hard way when they first met.
Before they became friends. Before they were gentle to one another.
So Billy doesn't hesitate to smack Eddie's hand away when he reaches out to pinch teasingly at his side.
"Guess we know the snacks are good at Harrington's place," Eddie teases. "Hell, I'd get fat too if I had name brand shit at my disposal all the time."
Billy grits his teeth. Steve wants to usher Eddie away for him, if for no other reason than it might help Eddie keep all of his limbs intact. But Eddie's too fast and too stupid to be stopped.
He snatches the Slim Jim from Billy's hand and goes to take a bite, but it doesn't make it to his mouth before Billy has risen up from his seat. Steve, fearing the worst, jumps up as well. Readies himself to intervene if he has to, to remind Billy of his own strength before he does any serious damage.
But Billy doesn't pick Eddie up by his throat to strangle the life out of him. No, he manhandles him and swings him over his shoulder, stomping towards the lake with Eddie kicking and screaming all the while.
When he gets nearly knee-deep in the water, he throws him. Far enough out that Eddie actually sinks and takes a moment to resurface.
When he does, he swipes his wet bangs out of his face, clearly about to blow his gasket.
But Billy stays standing there. Chest heaving, shoulders squared, and the anger relaxes off of Eddie's face. Turns into fear, briefly, like he's worried that if he swims to shore, Billy will crush his skull between his hands. Or shove his head under the water and not let it come back up.
Neither of which are too far from the truth, just based on the way that the veins are popping to the surface on the blond’s neck.
Steve jogs out to where Billy stands in the water, setting a careful hand on his shoulder.
"Hey, c'mon, let's go take a walk, huh?" Steve coos.
Gently grabs Billy's hand and guides him out of the lake, leaving Eddie floating just a ways off. Slim Jim bobbing on the surface of the water.
When the two pass by Chrissy, she mouths an I'm sorry to Billy before she jogs out to help Eddie back to shore. And probably to lecture him for being mean, which is something she does fairly often.
Even if he doesn't have bad intentions, the guy can't keep his mouth shut to save his life.
By the time supper rolls around, Billy is antsy. It takes Steve rubbing his back while seated in the dining hall to calm him down enough to eat.
Their friends give them wary glances. Clearly concerned, but too afraid to ask what's wrong. It's not like Steve could really tell them anyway. He just tries to soothe the blond the best that he can.
That turns out to be easier after dinner, when the two sneak off to the bathrooms and Steve tugs Billy's shorts down. Presses up behind him as Billy leans his hands on the sink, legs spread as he pitches forward to take all that Steve has to offer.
The blond isn't even quiet. He moans loud. Watches their reflections with half-lidded eyes in the mirror, cock bobbing between his legs as Steve thrusts into him.
When he comes, his brows knit together and his mouth parts around a pretty sound. It's the most at ease that Steve has seen him all day.
It makes him want to prolong this moment. He keeps pushing into Billy, savoring his whimpers and gasps as he grips at his hips. Smooths a hand over his abdomen, relishing how soft and full he feels against his palm. Billy pushes back into him, trying to take him deeper.
"Y'know, fuck Munson," Steve pants. Drags kisses against Billy's neck and nibbles at his ear, earning another moan. "I like your tummy."
Billy whines. Another pearly bead dribbles from his tip, the first of many as Steve keeps plowing into him.
After having his soft underbelly squeezed by a slender hand, he spills another load. Steve is soon to follow, pressing his fingers into his lover's pudge until his hips are stuttering and he's tipping over that edge as well.
Billy moans as he's filled up. Cups his hand over the back of Steve's and holds it there as they both sit on that high together.
The brunet smiles against Billy's skin. Lavishes his neck with attention as they come down together, still linked, still cradling Billy's full tummy.
"Do you feel better, bubs?" Steve asks.
Billy just pants for a moment. Smiles at Steve in the mirror and winks at him.
If their little bathroom hangout was heard, no one says anything about it. Not even when the two of them climb into one bunk at the end of the night.
-
Part 1?
I have more of this, but idk if it’s even something people wanna read, so I haven’t completely flushed out the concept yet. I guess lmk?
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jacksprostate · 1 month
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the other two prompts i was delightfully gifted were valentines day (do they do it) and fishing trip and i am like.... these are the same thing i think
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hintatake · 3 months
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Santana’s working from home a lot these days - it’s peaceful, especially in winter. Brittany is Brittany - finds jobs when she needs them, gets bored 6 months in. She’s currently happily between, and has been working on decorating the spare room again, this time in a lurid green.
Santana once came home to find Brittany had built - from wood she’d found in a forest (and Santana had, she admitted to Brittany, been confused to find a pickup truck full of logs outside their house) a desk, sturdy, classic, and painted in a sheen of pink glitter paint.
“Stole it from Sugar,” Brittany had said proudly. “She’ll be fine, she has more.”
So: it’s a quiet, lazy morning. They’re both up early for once. They’ve been for their runs, which Santana likes doing together but Brittany prefers a solo jog, so they switch it up every few days. Today was solo, and even sweaty and okay, maybe a little grouchy from the lack of sleeping in she could have had, Santana still smiles when Brittany walks in, minutes after she does.
After showers and drying, Santana is making the first of what’ll probably be many mugs of coffee. Cold, blue sunlight streams in through the window, even early, the first hint of winter’s end. She’s in comfortable clothing; a nice sweater, lounge pants, fluffy socks, warm.
Brittany is making breakfast for them. At home, Brittany is a staunch proponent of being comfortable: today, as with many days, that means she’s completely naked - with just an apron on whilst she made the scrambled eggs.
(She’s confident, but hygiene is important.)
Santana’s used to it, sure, but she still thinks seeing her wife there in the all together is the most gorgeous thing she’s ever seen, and that might be her tiredness talking, her lack of sleep and aching limbs from the run (and maybe some other activities the night before) but she knows wide awake and fully functional she’d think the same.)
She also wonders how Brittany isn’t completely-fucking-freezing, but she supposes she has no reason to complain. When she does ask, Brittany shrugs, “It’s just cold. Besides, I’d be cold in clothes. Rather be cold and comfy.”
Santana is so in love with Brittany’s mind, and so happy she’s had years now where she’s able to say so.
They leave the dishes to soak, a gesture at the laziness part of them wants to indulge in on such a quiet morning.
Santana goes to work (with a reminder to Brittany to please wear clothing if she comes into the office, Santana has meetings today, and “I love you babe but I don’t want another chat with HR.”) and Brittany goes to figure out what she’ll do with herself today.
Maybe she’ll figure out faster than light travel. Maybe she’ll play video games for six hours. She’ll probably do some yoga.
Even when the rest of the day is a maelstrom of stress, bad memories, and the bitter cold of winter… they still have those mornings.
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hotcocoabuns · 1 year
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I think this was the first shot that subverted the idea I was getting of Dream’s character in the show. He’d seemed so still, like a statue. Beautiful, never meant to be touched. It felt as if simply laying your eyes upon him would be sacrilegious.
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Presenting a little meta and character analysis of Morpheus in this scene from the first episode of The Sandman in the shape of a drabble. Feat. Dream’s Tears, Jessamy-oops-she’s-dead-now, and Roderick and Alex Burgess’ horrible decisions.
By me.
He looked like coiled rage, cold disdain, barely suppressed power. Unfathomable and of incomprehensible nature. Everything that was being done to him—the kidnapping, the disposal of his clothing, the theft of his tools, the humiliation—, gave me the sensation that what they were doing was foolish. Crazy. That they couldn’t even begin to comprehend the severity of their actions. Measly little humans trying to cover the sun with the tip of a finger. Trapping that which is more eternal than holy.
An attempt to contain the uncontainable, control the uncontrollable, inhibit that which cannot (should not) be inhibited. They were being stupid. Maybe their ignorance would spare them from the worst of the Dreamlord’s fury, but with each passing day their sins only bred.
It striked me as nothing but a matter of time. Not an if, but a when. And I’m sure it felt that way for Morpheus too. He’d break out of this greed-made, crystalline prison, bring vengeance upon his captors, recover his scattered tools, and carry on with his duties.
Like nothing happened. Here, Morpheus’ patience is deadly, maddeningly so. He is in no rush in front of them. He outright refuses to be. He betrays nothing. Gives nothing. Not a hitch in his breathing, nor a twitch of his eye, nor a parting of his mouth.
Immutable. Although he’s caged like the sweetest songbird that’s been captured only for its (jailer) master. Although the dreamers and the dreams and the nightmares call out to him. Even if they believe he has abandoned them, left them to fend for themselves.
He remains. Until Jessamy (loyal, good-natured Jessamy) decides she’s taking her chances. And what chances they are. She’s done waiting around for these greedy humans to slip. To mess up the well-oiled machine they’ve become to maintain the Lord of the Dreaming ensnared.
Even for Morpheus to conjure the help of his siblings, as inconceivable as that is. Eons could’ve passed them by. Earth could’ve collapsed in on itself, before he’d do anything of the sort. But hope is a mighty thing, and hope gets you to dream.
(Even of the impossible. Of the absurd.)
So, she glided.
She glided through the Burgess Estate, caused a distraction, reached her Lord. And THAT’S where everything changes. There, in those few moments, an emotion betrays the impassive face concealed behind hefty metal bars, holding his prison together.
Hope is contagious, and so are the emotions that accompany it. Morpheus stirs—not only stirs; stands. On his own two feet, after decades of waiting, waiting, waiting, ever vigilant—, and is moved. He looks up at Jessamy, his friend, his companion. She wouldn’t leave him.
Wouldn’t cast him aside. He smiles. There she is; she’s pecking on layer upon layer, impenetrable. They both know she can’t get through them. He knows well when efforts are gone to waste, and this is one of those occasions. Yet, there is comfort in her presence.
(In knowing he’s the one that hasn’t been abandoned.
Forgotten.)
Then, there’s a blast. Blinding, cruel. It’s so sudden, so loud, it makes him flinch. Blood, there is blood and innards and shards of bone splattered against his glass contraption. Outside, out of reach.
For a moment, it appears that Morpheus does not comprehend what’s happened. His eyes dart around, confused, disbelieving. That was a shot, a shot fired.
Then, oh.
Oh.
It’s Jessamy crumpled on the floor. It’s her organs sprayed on the glass, on the floor. Jessamy’s been shot.
Everything changes, in a second. Morpheus, unmoving, severe, statuesque-
cries.
His tears cling to his eyelashes, they wet his eyes, slide down the length of his nose, gather and slip off his Cupid’s bow.
He looks down, the crumpled shape of Jessamy being taken away, and he fixes the Burgess fledgling with a stare more frigid than the Antarctic itself. Everything’s changed now. Alex has sealed his fate. Morpheus rarely forgives. He does not forget.
This is personal now.
There shall be no rest for the wicked, and he’s going to make sure of it.
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