Rowan

@highermagic.bsky.social

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32, she/her. Writer. 18+ account. HigherMagic on AO3 & Twitch HigherMagicVODS on YouTube 🧵 #threadfic ❤️ #bookrec ✏️ #doodles 📖 #rowansbookclub 🐉 #dragonthread Results May Vary banner by @sundaycat

The isle of the Lotus Eaters is beautiful, even with the graves. It's the first thing he sees as they approach the shore; dark plots of wet and disturbed sand - shallow and eroded by time and tide. Some are fresher, marked with a single bleached stake, others are older than he is. They anchor the ship outside of the shallows and row to shore - Ghost, Roach, Gaz, and Soap take up one vessel, Graves and a crew of half a dozen Shadows man the second. Price and Shepherd remain on the ship, naturally - Ghost wouldn't feel right having the ship unguarded by their Captain, even if he wishes he, too, didn't have to set foot on this accursed land. "Don't eat a single thing they offer," he warns the Shadows. "No fruit, no wine. You do that and you'll be ensnared by the lotus. A single drop is enough to wipe you clean, and we will leave you behind." The Shadows nod, casting furtive looks towards the gently swaying trees. It's a beautiful shore, even Ghost cannot deny that; brilliant white sand meets shallow, crystalline water. Small tributaries and pools where the tide has left some water behind teem with small fish and little crustaceans. Fruit grows in bounty, high up in the trees, giving off a subtle grow beneath their dark crowns. Gaz puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes once, and then leaves him with Soap, Gaz and Roach joining Graves and his Shadows to venture deeper into the land to find quarry to hunt. Ghost watches them go, and wonders how many of them will make it back.
What Do I Look Like? HigherMagic Summary: Now, Soap's got a healthy amount of superstition, as much as the next guy. He taps twice on the spines of his sketchbooks before opening and closing them. Wrenches his door handle up whenever he enters his room even though that does nothing to lock it, just because back in his childhood home the front door would stick and that was the only way to make sure it was properly shut before the deadbolt would work. He offers a mindless, habitual prayer whenever they pass by a roadside memorial. Taps his glass once on the table before drinking when on a night out, whenever he's drinking from something made of glass. Little things. Simple things he barely thinks about, and no one calls him out on in his team. Just another Soap-quirk, one of thousands of little rituals that every man who risks his life on the daily would do if they thought it would put Lady Luck on their side and let them see another sunrise. But this…thing. This thing has no explanation. No little ritual to make him stop seeing it. It keeps its distance but in that way a haunted doll in films does - with the implicit knowledge that it will get closer, it will move.
Should Know Better HigherMagic Summary: "You've lost it," Riley whispers, his voice crackling around uneven breaths - strained, shallow. Even now it hurts to speak, his vocal cords shredded to pieces by ash and smoke, his fur still singed, fingertips burned off so not even the coroner would recognize him. "Finally snapped whatever threads of sanity you had left, that it?" Tav sighs, his hand gliding down the edge of his bunny's soft, dark ear. He won't deny it, so he doesn't. Because this, Tav knows intimately: He should have fucking known better.
Rest Easy HigherMagic Summary: If you'd asked Soap almost a year ago where he thought he'd be, he'd have laughed and said probably dodging bullets and trying to stay alive during a firefight. That went sideways when two things happened in quick succession; he took an injury that messed up his knee so badly that he could barely walk on it at first, and… Ghost got pregnant.
Good Bones HigherMagic Summary: Below, near the river, are three of the new creatures. Their heads are bulbous, their skins sagging and bright, the same color as the fading sun-sky. They walk on two legs and carry things on their backs that have no heat. They are communicating in loud, discordant noises, rhythmic but foreign and punctuated with harsh breathing sounds. The one that removed its shell turns to its companions, baring its teeth, which are small and white. Well taken-care of, as all predators must. Ghost chitters quietly, prowling closer, listening to their call and response. The one without its shell must be the alpha of the pack, and therefore should be the one taken down first.
Nothing Loves You, Darling Boy HigherMagic Summary: "Ye ever heard of a whalefall?" Soap asks. Ghost nods. "Big carcass, settlin' down in the bottom of the ocean, and all these other things get to feast off it. Don't care where it swam, how old it was, dinnae even care what it's made of 'cept meat." He takes another drag, down to the filter. Ghost hands his over, doesn't even think about it until he sees Soap's lip close around the shine of his own saliva. His breath hitches, riveted beyond belief. "Kinda makes ye wonder, ye ken? If there is God, and He's off doin' whatever, what might come in and feed off what He left behind?" Things evolve to feed. Hunger is the oldest emotion there is.
Handfuls of Seconds HigherMagic Summary: The last two hours pass strangely. Fifteen minutes feels like nothing, but a single second takes forever. Ghost doesn't watch the clock for the sake of his own sanity, but he can hear its obnoxious ticking. Tick tick tock, like the seconds it took to ice Makarov and then throw himself at Soap's side, try to stem the bleeding, try to hold the pieces of his skull together. Tick tock, the handfuls of seconds it took to disarm the bomb and get medical to them. Tick tock, tick tock - the assembly of all those monitors, tubes and wires like Soap was a machine on the brink of self-destruction, a second bomb waiting to explode. The too-slow rise and fall of his chest, the manic-fast surge of his heartbeat. The long, long hours waiting to see if he'd even be able to be stabilized, rushed to surgery, the endless pacing outside of the ICU doors waiting, waiting, waiting…
Queen HigherMagic Summary: The creature's eyes rake down him, emotion impossible to discern. "Oh, look at you," it says softly. "Hodrian, were you?" Roach doesn't know. He's certainly never seen a creature like this one before - it must come from a planet much farther away. "If you say so," he replies, pleased that this language at least can be understood. "And what are you, stranger?" "Human," the creature replies. "And uninfested. I'd like to remain that way." "Of course," Roach says, fidgeting with his host's hands. "This host was dead when I found it." The creature tilts its head. Then, it turns back to stare into the bowels of its ship, raises its voice; "Soap, come out. Found you a friend."
He started seeing it three days after they were recovered from Las Almas, having liberated Los Vaqueros and made their way home. At first it was just a…a flash. A quick blink-and-you-miss-it thing out of the corner of his eye. He knows he's been jumpier since they got back on English soil. Too many stim shots, he'd thought originally. They were meant to burn bright and for longer than things available to the public. But it's been out of his system for days now, and he still sees it in the corner of his eye. In the dark rafters of the armory. Eyes. Bright, red, perfectly circular. Matte, not shining. Flat, not three-dimensional. There and gone again the second he tries to look at them properly. Now, Soap's got a healthy amount of superstition, as much as the next guy. And he was raised strictly Catholic, enough that the crucifix around his neck that catches on his tags and he nervously pets over whenever they're in the air offers paltry, reminiscent comfort. He taps twice on the spines of his sketchbooks before opening and closing them. Wrenches his door handle up whenever he enters his room even though that does nothing to lock it, just because back in his childhood home the front door would stick and that was the only way to make sure it was properly shut before the deadbolt would work. He offers a mindless, habitual prayer whenever they pass by a roadside memorial. Taps his glass once on the table before drinking when on a night out. Little things. Simple things he barely thinks about, and no one calls him out on in his team. Just another Soap-quirk, one of thousands of little rituals that every man who risks his life on the daily would do if they thought it would put Lady Luck on their side and let them see another sunrise. But this…thing. This thing has no explanation. No little ritual to make him stop seeing it. It keeps its distance but in that way a haunted doll in films does - with the implicit knowledge that it will get closer, it will move.
SCP 141-07, aka "Ghost" HigherMagic Summary: SCP-141-07 Item #: 141-07 Object Class: Thaumiel Description: Discovered by SAS Captain [DATA REDACTED], entity 141-07 is a void mass of unknown origin and purpose. The entity is classed 'Thaumiel' due to its ability to destroy, eat, or absorb dangerous objects and entities unable to be otherwise contained with existing Foundation resources. The entity has accepted the name 'Ghost', and responds favorably to male pronouns, though most appearances of Ghost defy categorical gender designation. Most often a black cat (141-07a), Ghost has formed a companionable relationship with Captain [DATA REDACTED], and his assigned handlers, Sergeants [DATA REDACTED] and [DATA REDACTED].
When night comes, and he is alone, Ghost leaves his containment unit, and begins his hunt anew. He visits Nebula again, the butterfly unmoved from its glass beaker, still clicking away. "Oh. Hello," Nebula says, fanning its wings. "You have come to visit me. Or you already did. Or you have yet to. Same place, different time. Did you get my message?" "Haven't I already gotten it?" Ghost teases. Nebula pauses. "Yes. And no. And never, and always. I am still waiting." "I'm sorry you're waiting," Ghost murmurs. He is very familiar. "I think you did get my message, void creature," Nebula says. Still, Ghost doesn't know the voice it manifests. Male, certainly, and drawling in a way unlike Johnny or Gaz or Price do. Closer to Laswell's voice, in that it's American, but he cannot determine much else for lack of data. "I think you are starting to understand." "Understand what, exactly?" "That there is here. And there is there. And here is here and here is there. But the other me, like the other you, has not come here yet. They are still there." "I don't think there is another me," Ghost says. "There is me and there is you. There is the other me and the other you. But we are not each other, we are exactly each other. The mirror reflects. The other place, same place, different times. There is a time where there is not just you." Ghost's aura flickers. Despite Nebula's strange, confusing, and altogether nonsensical speech, he is not irritated. He finds Nebula utterly fascinating. "I was created and the other me was created, but in different times. You were created and the other you was created, in different times. But the same place. Do you understand my message?" "You were created here?"
the 'I've only had Arlo for a day and a half, but if anything happened to him I would kill everyone in this room and then myself' meme from Brooklyn 99, except Rosa's face has been replaced with my pfp, and The Guardian mii from Tomodachi Life is in place of Arlo the puppy.
Two Monstrous Kings HigherMagic Summary: Price smiles, and reaches out to pet though the thick ruff of fur between Ghost's powerful shoulders. "Tomorrow," he promises, "you can feast." Ghost's reptilian tongue flicks out, once. "And the day after?" "Soon, Simon, I swear," Price tells him. "Once I have the throne, you will have all the attentive audiences and fresh meat you can stand." Neither Soap nor Gaz know how Ghost came to be in Price's service. It is one of those things that defies an origin story - where Price was, there was Ghost. Where Price went, Ghost followed. Whatever magic binds them goes deeper than skin, than bone. And in all the time Price has known him, Ghost's hunger is endless. His devotion, tireless. Soap and Gaz slumber on, unaware, as Ghost lifts his reptilian head and licks, delicately, over Price's lips. "You'll have your throne," he whispers, rough and ardent, breathless when Price tilts his head and kisses one of his large, exposed fangs. "Rest, love," Price commands, and Ghost obediently lowers his heads, and closes his eyes.
"Crazy how much ye know about…everythin'," Soap murmurs, mostly to himself. "I exist outside of time," Ghost says. "Therefore I can go when I please. I can see the entire birth and evolution of their planet. I can see the moment your sun swallows Earth in its death throes." He tilts his head and licks, lightly, at Soap's ear, his tongue barbed and shockingly cold. "What I cannot see is what we're having for lunch." Soap laughs, and reaches up to pet down Ghost's soft, fluffy back. "Poor lad. Ah think it's Salisbury steak and mash, green beans maybe? Only skimmed the cafeteria board when I came in." Ghost considers this, his tail flicking. He sniffs. "I suppose that will suffice." "That's good." "But you will scrape off that ghastly sauce." "Of course." "And only fetch the crunchiest green beans." "Naturally." Ghost's purr gets loud, fierce enough to vibrate through Soap's ribcage, as he turns and drapes himself like a shawl across Soap's nape and shoulders. "Excellent."
Hell Hath No Fury HigherMagic Summary: It takes a substantial amount of control for Price to swallow back his fire and not simply light the room and everyone in it up in flames. His fingers flex where his hands are folded behind his back, an itch along his wrists and between his shoulders as he fights to keep his human shape. The upper brass are oh-so-willing to cozy up to monsters in the military until it comes time to show them anything monstrous. Still, he knows his eyes have a golden sheen, and fire glows in his mouth when he says, "You're not taking my men away from me. Respectfully."
With a Greedy, Possessive Bite HigherMagic Summary: "That's the fifth big sigh you've done in the last few minutes," Gaz notes, idly kicking his feet as the waves lap up to his ankles. "What's going on?" Soap sighs again. He's not…sad, not really. He's not even bored; he's gotten used to having to entertain himself and sitting by the ocean, listening to her song, can keep him calm for hours at a time. He has no idea why he feels so restless. Except, maybe… "Simon's gonna hafta sleep again soon," he murmurs, idly drawing swirling patterns into the sand. "Guess Ah'm no' lookin' forward to it."
[Soap is in Simon's house, it's mid-morning and he just woke up from being a victim of an attempted mugging last night.] "Fuck," he hisses, shoving himself upright. He's going to be late for his shift. He takes a single step before his knee buckles, and he ends up collapsing into a… a nest. Well, that's too generous a word for it. It looks more like a bedroll, something hastily constructed with function over comfort in mind. But the scent oozing off it is honey, maple, raw meat. Rich and mouth-watering. He sucks in a breath, curling his fingers in the blanket, brings it to his chest. The door opens and John stiffens further, turning to see a slight man, clothed in a dark hoodie and face mask, skinny in that lethal way where his entire mass is pure muscle. He has a knife in his hand and doesn't look at John, at first, just casts his wild, sharp eyes around the room, poised as though ready to engage with a threat. Finding none, his shoulders lower, and he finally meets John's eyes. Finds them wide, fixed on his knife, which he tucks away with an almost sheepish motion. He chitters softly - John knows that sound, he recognizes that sound. He settles on the floor, his knee throbbing until he stretches it out, braced against the side of Simon's bed. "I know you," he breathes. "You were…there, last night." The man stares at him, and then nods. "You killed someone." The man tilts his head, and then holds up two fingers. He clears his throat, his voice raspy and rough when he murmurs, "I killed two. Would have gotten them all but Gaz beat me to the one who hit you, the fucker." It's said so casually: 'Oh, yeah, I leave skins in my mash because I like the texture', or 'Oh, yeah, the sun rises in the East and sets in the West'. So obvious, like John is foolish for being surprised. "Um." He swallows, and says, "Seems kinda like overkill fer a muggin'."
Ghost's rage is palpable; he makes no effort to hide it as he strides into the meeting room on the ground floor of his mansion, finds Gaz and Price and Roach gathered already. Roach twitches at the sight of him, snarling under his breath, meticulously cleaning his hands and knife of blood. "How did this happen," Ghost says flatly. "Graves' men," Price spits, and tosses something onto the table. That stupid little calling card - a coin with a golden eagle etched on both sides. Flashy bastard. "They'd better be dead," he says. "They are," Gaz rasps, soft and assured. His dark eyes are narrowed and furious. "Had to do it quick, though." Ghost blows out a breath, slowly. "You'll have your hunt, Garrick," he promises. Price's hand flattens on the nape of his mate's neck, pushes him to sit because Gaz will pace himself through the floor if he's allowed to. Roach hisses, chitters sharply, his fingers spasming around his blade. He's a fierce thing and one of Ghost's best, most trusted men - can worm his way into anywhere and leave the place bathed in blood. Little fucking savage, he is, and takes anything that goes against Ghost way too personally. Neither Ghost nor Price make any attempt to soothe him. Roach doesn't react well to Alphas touching him, even them. "You're getting predictable, Simon," Price mutters, unimpressed. "Opened yourself up for Graves to strike where it hurts. Hope he's bloody worth it." "He's mine," Ghost snarls right back. "He's a liability," Price says. "Didn't even know how to defend himself." "He won't need to." Roach's hoarse voice is flat and final, as he tucks his blade away and stands from his spot by the window. Wearing his mask and a hood pulled up, all that's visible is his wild eyes, the exposed wrinkle of his muzzle. "Anyone lays a hand on Alpha's mate and I'll -." "We need to do damage control," Ghost interrupts, ignoring the powerful, possessive rush of heat that greets him at hearing Johnny be referred to as his mate.
This Life Looks Good On You HigherMagic Summary: "I want to mate with you, Johnny," he confesses. "Properly." He can feel, beneath his hand, the curl of Soap's smile. "Ye already are," he soothes, nuzzling close. "No, I mean… Permanently. Properly." Soap tilts his head. "Ordered a proper treatment plan, been seein' a civvy consultant. I want to really settle into it. Change, so I can be yours. If you let me."
Finally HigherMagic Summary: They'd planned this scene only recently. In a moment of weakness, Ghost had voiced those tiny, mournful thoughts in this head - the plaintive wish that Soap had been the only person to ever touch him, that Ghost had been virginal and innocent when it came to how two bodies could fit together. A single, somewhat sly comment; "Do ye want tae wait until the weddin' night, darlin'? First time together as man and wife?" Ghost's blush had given him away.
"Wish Ah could marry ye all over again," Soap murmurs, his voice also loose and slurring with alcohol. His breath is warm on Ghost's shoulder even through all the layers, his hands digging determinedly beneath his suit jacket and white vest so that he can clutch at Ghost's waist with only his shirt separating their skin. Ghost can feel the hard press of his wedding ring and as it always does, it makes him shiver, grow warm. "Every damn day." Ghost huffs. "'D get expensive." "Yer worth it," Soap sighs, and turns him around so their eyes can meet. He's flushed and beautiful, his eyes shining brightly in a way that has nothing to do with the lights overhead or the alcohol in his system. He always looks at Ghost like he's simply reflecting radiance, like Ghost is the sun that he will always orbit around, and happily. Ghost cups his face and leans down to kiss him, soft and lingering, chaste even when Soap parts his lips to try to coax Ghost's mouth open with his tongue. Ghost forces himself to pull back, his blush dark, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Soap's eyes sharpen immediately. He says, "Not tonight?" No judgment, no disappointment, just the gentle kneading of his fingers on Ghost's waist, the attentive and adoring look on his face. They'd planned this scene only recently. In a moment of weakness, Ghost had voiced those tiny, mournful thoughts in this head - the plaintive wish that Soap had been the only person to ever touch him, that Ghost had been virginal and innocent when it came to how two bodies could fit together. A single, somewhat sly comment; "Do ye want tae wait until the weddin' night, darlin'? First time together as man and wife?" Ghost's blush had given him away. The wife comment hadn't bothered him, he loves it as much as he loves being referred to as Soap's husband. As long as he's Johnny's, it doesn't matter.
Simon moves like molten gold, beautiful and easy. Johnny's throat tightens around a purr, his hands trembling finely. Simon meets his eyes. By unspoken agreement, they set their wrappers down on the coffee table, turn to face each other. "How will it work?" Johnny breathes, taking Simon's hand. "Injections, at first," Simon tells him, just as softly. "Need to take one a day, then up to twice after three doses. Need constant knotting, scent-marking. Need to be…dominated. Brain needs to surrender any Alpha instinct." His lips twitch in a small smile. "Shouldn't be hard. Already kind of feel it, sometimes, when I'm with you. Just want to shut my head off and let you take care of me." Johnny's breath catches in his throat, his fingers tightening around his mate's. "We'll know it's working when I start getting slick," Simon continues, swallowing. He lifts his other hand to touch the small knot of tissue at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, shivering as he pets over it. Johnny has bitten down plenty of times, but Alpha bites simply don't take with another Alpha; another reason Alpha/Alpha mating just isn't recognized. "One day it'll just…take. The doctor said it'll be intense, like a heat or a rut but worse. Short, but overwhelming. You'll have to keep at it, she said, if I get pregnant during then it'll settle faster, but sometimes the injections make the first heat a sterile one. Hit and miss, she said." Johnny tries to pay attention, truly, but the thought of Simon in heat is distracting, unfairly seductive. His nostrils flare, breathing in the sweet scent of his mate; paper and ink, honey and lemon. Soothing and settled. "Do ye want tae get pregnant first try?" he rasps, voice low. Simon smiles at him and shrugs. "I'd like to give you a pup, Johnny," he confesses. "But it doesn't have to be right away. I can be patient." "Not sure Ah can," Johnny admits wryly, pushing closer until their thighs touch.
He pets Ghost's tongue idly, staring up at the sky. "There's no real danger, Simon," he says, though he knows he doesn't have to. Ghost would follow him anywhere. "No," Ghost agrees. "Not yet." "Are you worried?" "A little," he admits. Price looks down at him, withdraws his thumb so Ghost can talk properly. Ghost swallows, wets his lips, his lovely amber-topaz eyes half-hidden beneath his lashes. "But more for after. Gonna be a hard sell to convince the brass that there was something that took down four dragons, let alone us." Price huffs. There's the rub, at the end of the day. Black dragons are fast, and greens are sly and masters of mimicry and camouflage, but they're much easier to kill than a copper or gold. Defended by one of each? It'll be a very, very hard sell. "One of us should 'survive'," Ghost whispers. "You, Sir, you should survive." Price's lips twitch in a small smile. "Can't even pretend for me, love?" he murmurs, smoothing his wet thumb over Ghost's cheek. "Break your heart too badly, that it?" Ghost swallows again. He won't admit it, but Price doesn't need him to. He knows. He's always known. "Come to the nest, Sir?" Ghost pleads.
A black cat laying on a thick blue crochet blanket, lit by rainbow sunlight.
Slick as the Sea HigherMagic Summary: "Ye sure yer ready for this?" His voice is rough, rumbling; the quality of it evolved to raise hairs on the back of any mammal's neck. MacTavish makes a habit out of being intimidating, every move, look, noise primed to remind everyone in the room that he's capable of slaughtering them all. Riley rolls his eyes, snorts behind his mask. "Like you'd stop if I changed my mind."
Normal is Overrated HigherMagic Summary: Any 'normal' person would be aghast at the idea of a beta having not one, but four mates. It's unheard of - a beta might find themselves as part of a triad, filling in the rough edges of an Alpha-Omega pair, a steady foundation onto which their more riotous instincts might find comfort and safety, but two sets? Impossible, most would say.
a bottle of 'knob creek' bourbon
the bugs bunny 'I wish all x a very y' meme with 'I wish all students taking speaking tests a very stop fucking whispering oh my god'.