#silver string

[timeofjuly]

still you take up all my mind

Summary: Quinn and the reader mess around with hair dye and some shears. Inspired by @bones4brainz's amazing art of the electrician and Quinn; I was so taken with how they drew the MC and their blue hair that this just poured out of me. Title taken from Laufey's Let You Break My Heart Again, which I listened to on repeat as I wrote this.

Tags: Fluff, yearning, teenage shenanigans.

Read it on AO3 or read it below :)

“Maybe we should read the instructions before you just start pouring dye all over your head,” Quinn says, watching you dump the contents of the cheapest box of blue hair dye at the beauty supply store on your bathroom counter. A pair of plastic gloves topples out of the cardboard, along with two packets of shampoo and conditioner, a paper leaflet, and a nozzled bottle that must contain the dye.

“It’ll be okay,” you say, but you snatch up the paper leaflet anyway, then angle it so she can read it. Well, read isn’t really the word, since there’s just pictures. Three, to be exact - one showing how to open the bottle, one of a cartoon character applying the dye to their hair, and one showing the same character washing the colour out. 

“How long do you reckon I have to leave it in?” you say, head cocked to the side as you consider the instructions. “It doesn’t say. Do you think all my hair will fry off if I leave it on for too long?”

“I don’t know? I thought you said you’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, with like, semi-permanent colour. This is the real deal.” You put the piece of paper down. “Ah well. It’ll be fine. I’ll either end up with blue hair or really, really short hair. Either way, I wanted a change.”

You’re being very blasé about the possibility of leaving this bathroom bald. You’ve been very blasé about this whole thing, actually; four hours ago, you’d sat up from where you’d been lying on your bedroom floor playing Mario Kart with her (and losing, she’s proud to say) and had declared that you were going to dye your hair blue, and would she please help you do the back?

She’d agreed, of course. You’re going to do it either way. At least she can help make sure the colour’s even.

Since the instructions are a bust, she moves onto the next best thing, because even if you’re fine with the idea of looking like a plucked chicken, she’s not. “Let’s just find a video, then.”

You concede with a nod, thankfully putting the bottle of dye down. After a quick search, the two of you sit side-by-side on the edge of your bathtub, leaning over your phone. Your shoulder and arm, mostly bare in your ratty t-shirt you use as pyjamas, is warm against her. The bathroom fan is on, but she feels almost too-hot, like the air is thicker than usual. 

“So we should section the hair out,” you say, following along with the video, “and do the middle of the strands first?”

Quinn watches the girl in the video applying the dye to her hair. She’s using a little brush - which you don’t have - and has a bunch of clips separating her hair - which you also don’t have - so she can see exactly where she’s putting the dye. She’s also using a natural brown colour, not blue, and she’s a proper adult, not a sixteen year old girl standing in her mom and dad’s bathroom on a school night. 

Unnatural hair colouring is definitely against dress code, and it’s Sunday night. Whatever happens in this bathroom - you’re going to have to go to school in the morning regardless.

Quinn hopes you have a beanie stashed away somewhere, just in case. 

“Then the ends, and then the roots,” she says, parroting the video. She gives you a sidelong glance. Your eyes are still trained on the phone. You’re biting your lip in concentration. You smell like the cookies the two of you baked (and ate, a whole tray’s worth) a few hours ago. “Are you a hundred percent sure you want to do this?”

You pause the video, then put down your phone. “Why, don’t you think I can pull off the blue?”

You wink, and even though she knows you’re joking, because of course you are, she feels stupid, pathetic heat in her cheeks. “No! No, that’s not - you’ll look great, obviously. It’s just - won’t your parents be mad?”

She hasn’t actually seen either of your parents this afternoon, which is unusual. The four of you normally have dinner together when she sleeps over (which is often), but tonight,  you’d just ordered a pizza to share with her. It’s close to nine now, and the house is still silent, save your combined chatter and the hum of the various appliances. 

“Nah,” you say, waving a careless hand. “As long as I don’t stain any of mom’s good towels, they won’t give a shit. We’ll be able to clean everything up before they even notice, anyway - dad’s working late at the hospital tonight and mom’s shoulder has been really bad all day, so she took her pain meds and went to bed hours ago. They’re super strong; she won’t wake up until the morning.”

“If you’re sure,” she says, still worried. Your bathroom is all clean, white tile, colour-coordinated towels and bathmat, a shower with a glass door, not a curtain. And the hair dye - it’s so fucking blue. There’s no way you’ll avoid making a mess. 

“I am,” you say, and then you smile at her in the way she likes best, the way that makes her feel like she’s the only person you’ve ever smiled at, ever, braces and scrunched-up eyes, and Quinn thinks fuck the white tiles, fuck the towels, and fuck the bathmat, too. You want blue hair, and if having it will keep you smiling like that, she’ll make this place look like a poor impression of a Pollock painting. 

Together, you pull your hair into sections, then stand in front of the mirror, you in front of her. There’s only two gloves in the packet, so you each take one, sliding it over your dominant hands. 

Unceremoniously, you take the bottle to your hair and squirt a generous amount of dye into one of the sections and god, it’s so blue. 

“It’s so blue,” you say, grinning. “It’s gonna look so cool. I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

Privately, Quinn thinks that you do care, very much, actually, but she’s not about to tell you that. 

The bathroom fills with the smell of ammonia as both of you work the dye into your hair. She’s never really touched you like this before, which is probably a weird thing to think about a friend; it’s not like people go around giving their besties head massages, after all. Still, it’s nice; you’re warm and your hair feels and smells good, despite the chemicals. You give a pleased shiver when she accidentally scrapes her nails over your scalp and she needs to duck her head behind yours to hide her blush from the mirror. 

The bottle of dye is soon emptied and your head is drenched with the colour. The dye isn’t just contained to your hair; it’s all over your forehead, your cheeks, your ears, your neck. It’s even gotten on your t-shirt. Quinn’s too; luckily, it’s an old hand-me-down she doesn’t care about, one that belonged to her sister that probably belonged to one of their cousins before that. It’s so stretched and faded that the design on it is illegible.

She sets a timer on her phone for twenty minutes, as suggested by the lady in the video, then helps you secure your head beneath a shower cap to stop the dye from going everywhere. The twenty minutes passes quickly - the two of you finish your game of Mario Kart to pass the time and after a dicey moment with a blue shell, Quinn emerges victorious - and then she’s waiting in your bedroom, listening to the shower run as you rinse off the dye. The whirl of a hairdryer follows, and then silence. 

“I’m ready!” you eventually call. “You can come in.”

She re-enters the bathroom to find you standing in front of the mirror. Your hair - it’s blue, of course, she knew it was going to be blue, but she finds herself breathless all the same. You’ve given yourself a trim too; there’s a pair of haircutting shears on the sink and the tiles below you are littered with blue dust. You’ve put on a new set of pyjamas, your old, dye-stained ones tossed in a careless ball in the corner. Your skin is clean, makeup-free, still faintly wet. Your cheeks are flushed from the shower, your eyes bright.

When you see her reflection in the mirror, stopped dead at the door frame, you whirl around, beaming. You run a hand over your head. “It’s so bright!” You turn your head left, then right, like a bird admiring itself in its tiny mirror. Your forehead is dotted with blue stains and so are your ears, she realises, their tips looking almost frostbitten. You look like a fucking fairy. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she breathes. Your face lights up. Teasingly, she adds, “Why? I thought you don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“You’re different,” you say. “You’re my best friend. You’re you. Of course I care what you think.”

Her stomach squirms. How does she even reply to that? Best friend. Has she ever had a best friend before? She doesn’t think so. Maybe that’s why she feels so strange around you sometimes; perhaps this is just how girls feel around their best friends. 

… Okay, that’s a bit of a stretch, and she knows it. It doesn’t matter, though; if this is all she ever gets to have of you - clean, bare skin, hair dye, baking cookies, your smiles, honest, unguarded, just for her - she’ll still be satisfied. 

“You look really pretty,” she says, suddenly not shy at all. “This was a good idea.”

If you pick up on any of the emotion in her voice, the way the words come out too steady, too seriously, you don’t show it. You just smile again, that same grin, the one you always give when someone compliments you. “Thanks for helping me. Hey, you know, I have leftover dye,” you say, like you haven’t been trying to convince her to do something with her hair ever since you decided on a whim that you wanted to dye yours. “We could give you a streak? Or maybe highlights? I think I have bleach and developer somewhere. Oh, oh, what about a haircut?”

Quinn has never had a proper, professional haircut. Her mom cuts the whole family’s at home with a pair of kitchen scissors. As a kid, she’d had the classic bowl cut, but now that she’s older, it’s just all one length and long enough that it gets caught whenever she sits on a particularly high-backed seat. 

It’s fine, she supposes. It’s her hair. It’s always been long and red. That’s just what it looks like. She’s never put much thought into how she feels about it, outside of some teasing from other kids in elementary school. She’s certainly never considered changing it. Her mom never asks if she wants to do anything different with it; she just tells Quinn to sit down at the kitchen table underneath the big light and to remember to sweep the hair up afterwards.

Two years ago, her mom cut her own hair short - not even a pixie cut or anything, just around chin length, because the summer had been unusually hot and she’d wanted to keep her neck cool. It looked really nice, actually. Different. 

When their dad had seen her that night, he hadn’t been happy. It wasn’t about the hair, he’d said. It was because she hadn’t asked his permission. She was his wife, after all. She should’ve asked. 

Her mom’s hair is back below her shoulders now, and still growing. Long and red, just like Quinn’s. She’s forever tying it back, pinned away from the heat of the stove and the oven. Soon, it’ll look just like it did before. Like her haircut, that small, accidental moment of rebellion, never happened.

“A haircut,” Quinn says. “I want a haircut.”

You look surprised. “Wait, really? You were so against it before. I haven’t peer pressured you, have I?” 

“No, no, you haven’t, I promise. I just - I just wanna go shorter. I think it’d be a nice change. Something different.”

“Okay,” you say slowly. Your mouth looks nice around the sound, all wide around the oh, like you’re blowing a kiss, before relaxing on the kay into an adorable almost-smile. “How short?”

Oh, right, the haircut. 

“Uh, like, around shoulder-length, maybe? Like this.” She takes the hair elastic off of her wrist and ties her hair in front of her chest at the desired length. The elastic sits just above her shoulder, just long enough that she’ll be able to tie it back once it’s cut. There’s so much hair left below it. Looking at it makes her chest go tight, like she’s going to laugh or puke, or maybe both. It’s the same way she feels when she looks at your lips for too long. “Here. Cut here. We can fix it up afterwards to make it straight and stuff, but this is how short I want it.”

For a moment, she’s afraid that you’re going to question her. Ask her if she’s really sure, if this is a good idea. Tell her that in the morning, she’ll have nothing but regrets. You’d be right. There’s going to be hell to pay at home, once her parents see what she’s done. You should second guess her. 

But you don’t. Of course you don’t; you’re fucking fearless. And as you bring the scissors up and close them just above the elastic with an audible snip, Quinn feels fearless too.

[bayeis]

I haven't watched this show a day in my life

[cxdemusings]

@silver-strings-of-fate

A few months had gone by since that day in the engine room. They passed Christmas, New Years...it was spring now. Rehab, therapy, coping mechanisms, realizing what he could've done differently...

All of that was done to help himself heal, to better himself.

And now, he waited in the slight chill of the night air around the corner in the laundry area for a single sign that Leblanc would be closing for the night...to ensure they wouldn't have an audience.

An hour passed, then two. Upon nearing the third, he heard the chime of the bell and was quick to peek--and caught sight of Sojiro walking around the corner as he headed home.

He took a deep breath, then approached the door, turning the knob--It was still unlocked. Did that mean Ren was still inside?

A single chime of the bell rang above as he entered.

[ediblesilverware]

prompt 11 - board based off characters from two media that remind you of eachother

characters - Scaramouche (genshin impact) and Sunday (honkai star rail)

X 🧵 X / X 🫖 X / X ✝️ X

(boss gifs made by me)

[timeofjuly]

on my way home

Summary: Quinn gets a late-night text to pick the reader up from a friend's apartment. Set shortly after they moved out together.

Tags: Drug use, angst, blood mention. Nobody is having a good time here.

Read it on AO3 or read it below :)

Quinn drives to the apartment without the radio on. The roads are empty, the streetlights lit up in a long line of sickly-yellow spotlights just for her. It makes sense; it’s four thirty-six in the morning on a Wednesday. Everyone else is tucked away in bed.

Not her, though. Even before getting the four twenty-two text, she’d been awake, folded up on the couch watching late-night infomercials. Her phone had been held loosely in her hand and when it’d buzzed, she’d almost dropped it in her haste to see if it was an ‘on my way home’ message from you.

She pulls up outside of James’ apartment building, her beaten-up sedan looking right at home in front of it. The air is cool and the world outside is almost as silent as her car had been. This far into the city, there are no birds, no buzzing cicadas, no ponds to be populated with the growls and croaks of frogs, to echo through the night like the fading din of a church bell. She is so very far away from home. Not home, actually, not anymore, and that’s a good thing.

Quinn’s buzzed into the building and then takes the stairs two at a time, one hand on the rail to keep herself steady and the other keeping her cardigan wrapped securely around herself. Once outside of apartment 303, she knocks and waits.

The door open and light spills out onto her, bright like the first rays of dawn cracking over the skyline.

“Come in, Quinnie,” James says, ushering her in. His pupils are huge, black pools swallowing blue. His jaw ticks. “Sorry for texting you so late. You weren’t asleep, were you?”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I was up anyway.”

Her nose wrinkles as she tip-toes into his apartment. The place smells like old alcohol and older smoke, the kind that gets embedded in the carpets and stains the drywall yellow. He’s got incense burning on his coffee table, which just adds to the whole unpleasant affair, rather than covering anything up.

She doesn’t like James; hadn’t in high school, even when you’d done your best to make everyone get along. She likes him even less now. She’s not sure if you’re the bad influence on him or if it’s the other way around, or if you’re both just as bad as each other.

She doesn’t like the other people in his apartment, either. Ollie is splashed like watered-down paint over the couch, her eyelids closed. Her fingers twitch as Quinn passes by, but she doesn’t otherwise react.

“Hey, it’s carrot top,” says Buck, the other occupant of the room, his beady eyes trained on the television. “Thank the stars. Clean up in aisle seven, otherwise known as James’ bathroom.”

Mortification burns in her belly, and she wraps her cardigan around herself tighter.

“Shut up,” James says, flipping Buck the bird. He turns back to Quinn and does his best impression of an apologetic look. “But he’s kinda right. Your girl’s a bit of a mess.”

James takes her to the bathroom. The door is open, ceiling light pale yellow and fan humming. You’re kneeling on the grimy tile, between the wall and the toilet. You look barely awake.

“Quinn,” you say. Your voice is thick, like your nose is blocked. Which it is, Quinn guesses, going by the blood on the lower half of your face. Your nose – it doesn’t look broken, she thinks, but what does she know?

“Had a bit of a run-in with the edge of the table, didn’t we?” says James. He looks at her again, still apologetic. His handsome face looks wan beneath the stark bathroom light. “She, ah, went a little too hard and then added alcohol to the mix.”

“’M fine,” you slur, then promptly lean back over the toilet to wretch. Nothing comes out, which bodes poorly for you.

She kneels down next to you, the floor cold through the thin fabric of her pyjama pants. She brushes your sweaty hair away from your forehead and strokes your back with long, gentle brushes, until the gagging subsides. Your whole body shakes and she can feel the individual nodes of your spine through your skin.

“Should I take her to -.”

“No hospitals,” you say. You look at her with glazed, teary eyes. “No hospitals.”

“Okay,” she says.

You sigh and then close your eyes, leaning against her. Your skin burns. She gathers a wad of toilet paper and presses it under your nose, holding it there.

“You gonna be right to get her home?” James asks. He sniffs and rubs at his nose.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. What else can she say? There is no other option.

“Listen, babe…” James sighs. He steps out of the bathroom and beckons her to join him. She’s loath to leave you alone – she hates to think how long it’s been already, how long you’ve been by yourself, so sick, so lost to yourself – but she follows him all the same.

James shuts the door. “I don’t think – Look. This is awkward, but she can’t come around here anymore, okay? We’ve all talked about it. It’s nothing personal, but no one likes to see her like this. Kinda puts a damper on the whole evening, you know?”

She stares at him. Something fizzles in her chest, a cold, numbing ache. It makes her fingertips tingle. “You’ve known each other for years. She’s your friend.”

“Yeah, of course she is! We’ve always had fun together. It’s just. Well.” He clears his throat.

“She’s not fun anymore.” Her voice rings in her ears.

“Exactly,” James says, satisfied. “You get it. No hard feelings, right?”

You have known James forever. Known all of them for years. You would die for these people.

“Right.” Quinn swallows the chill down. It feels like swallowing nails, or a tooth. Sharp. Like it’ll bore through her insides and cut her open.

“Great. I’ll help you get her into the car.”

Getting you downstairs is a process. It’s a two-person job, so James comes down to the car with her, making sure that you don’t tumble down the stairs. Once you’re at the car he passes you over to Quinn and you collapse into her, hugging her tightly, your face buried into the crook of her shoulder. Your blood is sticky on her neck.

“Sorry,” you say, the point of your nose cold against her skin. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” she soothes, running a hand over your hair. She needs to unpick her fingers from the tangles.

You mumble something into her neck. For a moment, she thinks you’re going to vomit again and wonders if she should redirect you to the gutter, but then you sigh, thin and high. “Are you mad at me?” you ask, voice like a kicked dog.

“No. No, of course not. C’mon, get in the car, I’ll get you home and into bed, and we’ll have a look at your nose.”

You tumble into the car and it takes you a few tries to get your seatbelt to click.

“One more thing, Quinnie,” says James. He stares at you, curled up in the passenger seat. “Has she told you about Jesse?”

“I think so?” She hates that it sounds like a question. Hates that she knows so little about your comings-and-goings that she can’t keep track of all of your friends now. “Um, you all met him at Rendezvous a few months back, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right.” James rubs at the back of his neck, then looks around, almost covertly. For an absurd moment, Quinn feels like she’s part of some cheesy spy movie, alone in an empty street save the streetlights. “Look, you didn’t hear it from me, but the dude’s bad news. He’s into some shady shit and he really likes your girl.”

“She wouldn’t cheat on me,” Quinn snaps, the words whip-quick and firm with her resolve.

James screws up his face. “That’s not what I mean. ‘M just saying that – I don’t know if he just deals or something else, but he’s not a nice guy. I saw him –.” He cuts himself off and then sighs again. “It doesn’t matter. Just try and keep him away from her, yeah? Just some friendly advice.”

“Okay, thanks,” she says, feeling queasy. She’s met Jesse, only once, and he hadn’t made much of an impression. Just another one of your friends who circle like sharks around you, all wandering hands and hungry eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

James leaves and then it’s just you and her, the way it should be.

Quinn gets in and starts the car. The sound of the engine rouses you from whatever stupor you’d been in – you blink blearily at her, wiping a flake of dried blood away from your nose.

“Hey,” you say, voice still thick.

“Hey,” she replies. Her tone is flat, even to her own ears. She starts the car, ignoring the way her hands shake as she changes gears.

“I’m sorry,” you say again after a few minutes of driving. You’ve opened your window and have been staring into the inky night with almost preternatural stillness.

“I know.”

There’s a moment of quiet. Quinn wonders if she should put some music on, if having something to focus on will make you feel less sick.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask. The wind from the open window makes your voice sound like it’s coming through a poorly tuned radio.

“I’m thinking that you could’ve died tonight,” she says, and it’s not what she’d been thinking at all, but now that she’s spoken the words aloud the thought consumes her. You could’ve died tonight. So easily. Blow to the head, an overdose, drowning in your own vomit.

And you didn’t, but you could very well die tomorrow. And if not tomorrow, the day after that. So on, so forth. How many more texts is she going to wait up for? How many more times will you come home to her?

“I’m okay. I’m alive, see?” You grab her hand with your clammy one, ripping it from the steering wheel, and bring it up to your throat. Your pulse jumps against her feeble grip.

You’re right; you feel so very alive and there is so little keeping your blood where it should be, just a thin layer of skin.

She tears her hand away and places it back on the steering wheel. The road ahead is dark and she needs to focus.  

From the corner of her eye, she watches you wipe at your crimson face with the palm of your hand and for the first time in her life, she doesn’t look at you and find you beautiful. She can’t metamorphose the gore and the sadness and the shadows under your eyes into something enthralling. There’s nothing poetic about this. There is only blood.

[it-happened-one-fic]

Come My Way - Silver

Author Notes: So, this was certainly a thing. I started writing this after the Diasomnia chapter while listening to AmaLee's cover of "Come this Way" from the Inuyasha anime and it kind of spiraled from there. I decided I'd play with the entire red string of fate thing despite it being rather heavy-handed in terms of romance since Prefect and Silver have some interesting ties within the storyline which I have considered writing an analysis of for my analysis blog. (plus I do find the red string of fate to be quite romantic at times and it was a nice tie in for all the other Inuyasha stuff) I came back and edited this fic to the original version of the song "Come" that is seventh ending theme of Inuyasha. All in all, the fic ended up long, but I still found it intriguing enough to post since I didn't have a fic in particular planned for this week. As per usual, reader is gender neutral. I hope you enjoy!

Type: Gender neutral reader /sfw /fluff /some drama /romance /spoilers for Diasomnia chapter

Word count: 2584

Fated love was something that seemed to only occur in fairytales. An amusing thought for someone from the country of the fae to have. But to Silver, the idea of meeting someone he was fated to be with despite the many obstacles life could hold was beautiful, but also rather improbable.

Especially when he considered his narcolepsy.

It was almost like a fond dream, perfect and wonderful, until he awoke and the dream was shattered.

And yet, when he first saw you, Silver felt a glimmer of something akin to recognition. 

But he knew, for a fact, that he had never met you. There was no way he could have since you were from an entirely other world that was supposedly devoid of magic.

So Silver had initially shrugged that strange sensation of familiarity off. Deciding that you probably just had one of those faces that looked incredibly similar to someone else’s. 

But he’d still wanted to get to know you. Out of curiosity, if nothing else.

The mere idea of even meeting you soon seemed to be perfectly impossible, though. Because it was like the world itself was endeavoring to keep the two of you apart. 

And maybe it was. You weren’t from this world, and, if Silver thought logically about it, perhaps it was best if he didn’t talk to you. 

Maybe he didn’t need to let whatever this pull was that seemed to draw him inevitably towards you have its way. After all, if he were already so intrigued by you without talking to you, then he didn’t see how it could get any better once he did get to know you.

And then, if you did as you no doubt wished and went home, he would be left alone.

Alone and empty, he feared, if the sensation that he was close to meeting someone beyond important to him that swelled within him every time he saw you was anything to go by.

Initially, he’d kept his thoughts to himself. Better that way, since he didn’t want to bother anyone else with the strange, foreign feelings. But when he started seeing you in his dreams, always distant but ever present and seemingly unreachable. That was when it had gone on long enough.

Lilia had smiled at him amusedly when he’d explained the strange sensation that he knew you despite having never met you and the urges he felt to speak to you. To get to know you.

It was as if the ancient fae had already known, and he even nodded like he was completely unsurprised as he’d spoken. His tone oddly pleased, “I had wondered if this would happen. They do remind me of you, after all.”

Silver had felt his eyes widen at his father’s words before he shook his head in confusion, “How are they like me?”

Lilia had laughed aloud at his son’s words, rubbing Silver’s head like he was still a small child as his eyes gleamed with amused fondness, “Why, you’re both diligent, reserved, good children. Humans who don’t judge others by their race and who are capable of forgiving even the greatest of evils. You both serve as a sort of light within the darkness to the hearts of those you touch.”

Silver had felt himself smile, shaking his head at his father’s words but knowing better than to deny what he’d said. Lilia had always doted on his son, and even if Silver didn’t agree with the image he painted, Lilia wouldn’t accept his refusal.

Lilia had sat down next to Silver on the bed, his eyes narrowing with amusement, “Let me tell you a story from another land far, far away.”

Silver had focused on his father’s words, frowning slightly in determination to remain focused without falling asleep.

“In the same land that holds the great Loong dragons, there is a story of a red string.” Lilia had spoken in a soft voice, the one that always lulled Silver to sleep but also held the greatest of secrets.

“No one knows what spinning wheel weaves this string; perhaps it is the wheel of life itself. But legend has it that this thin strand of red ties you to your fated one.”

Silver had nodded, not surprised by the contents of the legend. It was much like other stories that revolved around fate, but he tilted his head nonetheless, “A single string seems an odd choice for a tie that binds.”

Lilia had nodded, giggling slightly before he continued, “It is, isn’t it? But that fragility hides incredible strength. Just like how love can seem fragile, but can weather even the greatest of storms, this single thread of red string is strong. No matter the distance, time, or circumstance, it will remain strong.”

He’d blinked, his pink eyes gleaming in the darkness like some sort of omen. A subtle reminder that there was more to Silver’s father than met the eye as he finished, his voice dropping and having caused Silver to still ever-so-slightly, “Perhaps it could even stretch across worlds, should fate will it.”

With only those words, it became beyond clear what Lilia had met when he’d started his tale and how it connected to Silver’s trouble with you. Silver had shook his head slightly, smiling softly, as he’d realized what Lilia was doing. It hadn’t the first time his father had teased him about romance.

“Father, I don’t think a thread of legend is what is causing me to be fascinated by Y/n,” At Silver’s words, Lilia had nodded. Smiling to himself, like he knew a secret that no one else knew anything about.

Lilia’s hands had found Silver’s, and the ancient fae had looked down at his son’s hands, calloused from the use of the sword, as his own rough thumb had slipped over his son’s pinkie finger, the smile on his face spreading, “Perhaps not… Perhaps not.”

The days wore on, and Silver had thought very little of the discussion he’d had with his father, even as you remained an ever-present thought in his mind.

And then he’d finally interacted with you. 

It had seemed more like an accident than anything. A small blip in the plans of the world as time itself had seemed to slow around the two of you, and you blinked at him in quiet surprise before you smiled.

It had been a very brief interaction, with you almost bumping into him in a doorway as he’d started to enter a classroom. You’d backtracked quickly, laughing slightly as you apologized and moved out of his way even as he’d assured that there was no problem and that he should have been paying better attention to where he was going.

And after that, Silver had found himself bumping into you more and more. Spending time with you between classes. Waking up to find you sitting next to him, like you were protecting him. Before long, he was even walking you back to your dorm.

“Silver, it seems you’ve befriended the Child of Man. You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with them,” Malleus’s smile had been beyond smug as he greeted Silver one day when Silver had only just gotten back from walking you to Ramshackle dorm.

Silver had blinked at the prince’s words, half-startled, before he nodded, “Yes, Y/n and I have been helping each other with classes.”

It was strange, in many ways, to use an evasive remark when Silver had known he hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but something about the way Lilia had smiled at him from around Malleus. His large eyes, narrowing with amusement as he looked at his son, that had Silver faltering.

“They are quite charming, aren’t they? It seems they have won over most of the school by now,” Malleus’s fingers had brushed across his lips as if he were trying to hide the amused grin that stretched across his face.

But his words were true. Silver seemed to have been the last one to reach where you were, and now that he’d been standing next to you, he’d noticed something.

You worried about and for those around you. A little bit too much, in fact. 

Silver suspected that was why you’d wound up in so many situations, to the point where you were something of a celebrity within the school. One that was either hated or loved depending on who you spoke to.

But you went out of your way to help those around you and did your best to keep up with your peers, even though there was no way you could truly succeed in the magic-related classes.

It was like you were running from something and using everything to distract yourself from whatever that thing was.

And perhaps that was why Silver hadn’t been surprised when he’d found you asleep on your couch, where you’d passed out before he’d shown up to study with you.

The fact you had been asleep wasn’t odd; you’d been falling asleep during the day more and had mentioned not sleeping well at night before. What had been concerning, though, were the marks of dried tears on your face that had caused Silver to frown as he’d knelt down beside you.

Because that was what he had been worried about even then. That you weren’t letting yourself rely on others and were instead pushing yourself to support everyone else and avoiding your own problems.

For someone who’d been magically transported to a world that wasn’t your own, you seldom mentioned your home and took a surprising amount in stride.

He’d remembered how you’d looked when Leona had overblotted. Grimly determined and afraid. But Silver had suspected that fear had been less in regard to your own potential injury and more for Leona himself.

He hadn’t said anything, though. Silver knew when someone didn’t want to talk about something. But he also knew that if you ever needed him, he would be here. Right by your side and waiting.

You hadn’t come to him with your troubles, though. Instead, you’d bore them in silence all the way up until shortly before Silver’s entire world changed.

That day, you’d been different.

“Y/n, what is it?” You jolted from your fidgeting motions, as if Silver’s soft voice had startled you, and you’d looked at him with wide, almost fearful eyes that had caused him to frown.

You’d relaxed, though, something that he’d wondered about even then. Was it a natural reaction or forced?

“I… I just feel like something’s going to happen,” Silver had tilted his head at your words, so unlike how usually laid-back you were.

“How so?” You’d met his gaze as he spoke and kept his voice soft and carefully controlled as he’d leaned forward and towards you.

“Do you believe that dreams can sometimes predict things?” Silver had felt his eyebrows raise at your words, and at first he’d honestly thought you were teasing him. But a single glance at your expression, worry-filled as it was, had told him everything.

“Fa- Lilia has spoken of prophetic dreams and people who can see things before; why?” You’d nodded at his words, looking away as if you were deep in thought.

And after a brief moment, you’d looked back toward him. A forced smile sweeping across your face that was nowhere near as natural as the one you usually wore. 

Your hand had found his, surprising him slightly as a tingle had seemed to shoot through him at your mere touch as you’d spoken, your smile softening as you’d seemed to reassure yourself, “I just hope everything stays like this.”

Your words had lingered in his mind, playing on repeat like an omen, until the day had come when Lilia told him he was leaving.

That was when everything had shattered, and suddenly, somewhere in the back of his mind, Silver had wondered: Was this what you’d been worried about?

He hadn’t gotten a chance to ask or even see you until after everything had happened.

Lilia’s farewell party had come; Silver had confessed everything about his feelings and frustrations to Malleus, and then Malleus had overblotted.

Silver knew he was lucky, though. Lucky that, in some small way, you’d warned him. And lucky that the very moment he’d fallen asleep, he’d known something was amiss.

It had been subtle, but in the midst of the slightly off, too-perfect world that was his dream, he’d felt it. A gentle tugging at his pinkie finger, like a thread was wrapped around it, was being pulled.

The sensation sent a jolt through him, and Silver turned, his eyes widening as he caught sight of a bird trailing a strange rainbow light. And then he knew what was wrong with everything that surrounded him.

Where were you? 

If this were a perfect world, you’d be here. And the fact you were missing was why he’d felt so empty. Because you were nowhere to be seen. Almost like you’d never existed.

Light seemed to flash around him, like stars guiding him forth as he ran forward, chasing that rainbow bird and following that invisible thread that seemed to pull him onwards.

It was a sensation he recognized and was familiar with. He knew who lay at the end of this path, even if he didn’t fully understand what was going on.

Somehow, someway. You were calling him, even if you didn’t know it.

Silver had vowed very few things in his life. To defend Malleus, to care for his father, and to protect those dear to him. And finally there was the silent, unspoken oath that now pushed him forward from behind, as the promise of your presence pulled him onwards. The oath he’d made with himself to stay by your side.

It was a selfish oath that he’d made without entirely realizing it until now.

Instinctively, he closed his eyes as he burst forth through the edges of his dream and into the corridor of dreams that would lead him to you. And he saw something he’d never seen before. 

Something he now suspected his father had seen a long time ago, all those days ago when he’d first told him about that legend about fate and threads.

It was a thin red strand, so fragile-looking, but pulled taut as it connected him to something further down the invisible path before him. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, where that thread would lead him.

So he ran. Shouting your name even as he burst forth into a new dream. One filled with inky shadows as it crumbled to pieces around you.

“Y/N!!” At his shout, you looked up. Your eyes wide from where you stood in the center of the collapsing dream, clutching Grim to you.

“S-Silver!” You faltered, having to stop yourself from stepping towards him as you slowly ran out of space to stand in as Grim yowled something that came out garbled in his distress as Silver reached out to you.

“Hold on to me! Both of you,” There was no hesitation in your motions as you grabbed onto his hand, and he wrapped an arm around you as he pulled both you and Grim up against him. 

The words of his spell held new meaning as he spoke them with you at his side, “To the person I met someday, to the person I will meet one day….” He glanced down at you, now knowing that you were that fated person.

“Meet in a dream.”

[darkest-fantasy]

I just saw a comment on Reddit saying that Lucien “Attacked” Elain in ACOMAF.

These harmful narratives need to end. At this point, information is being spoken like broken telephone.

This isn’t even a false narrative anymore, this is fully propaganda.

The text shows us how careful and gentle Lucien was. He was the one to put his coat over Elain. He broke out of his restraints to help her.

His entire character has become twisted and warped. No matter who you ship who with, that does not give you the right to do this to a character like him.

I’m saying this to every ship and part of the fandom, please think before spreading harmful propaganda

[sinistercervyr]

my wife is gorgeous isn't he

[howifeltabouthim]

'I'm terribly connected with you, I always will be. I love you and I'll always love you.'

Iris Murdoch, from A Fairly Honourable Defeat

[froggy-having-a-crisis]

Just occurred to me that I never really post my bracelets here, so...

What you're looking at are some current projects. Lords in black fidget cuffs and a space tour friendship bracelet. I plan on making that kind of bracelet for every StarKid tour and concert. I also hope to make fidget cuffs for all the lords in black, but for some I'm not sure what I want to/can do with the colors I have. I'll probably make a post sometime soon asking for your ideas that doesn't involve me simply buying more pony beads

[rosie-tyler]

[druidshollow]

sorry all the walkerator doodles have been so miserable lmao!!! i love tragic gutwrenching fiction. have some sightseeing, creature shenanigans, and a little forehead kiss

[bayeis]

I haven't watched this show a day in my life

[timeofjuly]

i keep thinking of the scenario if electrician were to run into ppl of her past like izzy from new years… i like imagine her going “ bunny it’s been so long you look better then ever “ and electrician is like 😀 do i know you..? due to their gaps in memory (i’m also interested how much their memory will affect them as the story progresses, i myself suffer from the issue and being young it’s kinda scary sometimes 😞)

This ask made me write something! This is set pre-RTC in the earlier days of MC’s sobriety. They’ve just moved to New Ebott here. 

Read it on AO3 or read it below!

Licence

You’re leaving the DMV, of all the fucking places, when it happens. 

Most people hate the DMV but you had practically skipped into the place for your eleven am appointment, overcome with joy at the thought of getting your driver’s licence back. The public transportation in New Ebott is great and your ass looks amazing after all the cycling you’ve been doing when the weather is nice, but there’s something about the independence of a car that you’ve missed. With your licence back, your employment prospects won’t be limited to the boundaries of public transport and your stamina when pedalling. 

With your licence back, you’ll be able to go to school. 

That’s the thing you’re most excited about. School. College. University. Whatever. You just want to learn something, to use the brain that you’ve let go to shit. You don’t even care what - at this point, with your dismal record and embarrassing results from high school, you’ll take what you can get. 

You’ve wasted enough of your life and you don’t want to squander a second more. 

After tucking your brand new licence safely in your back pocket, you leave the DMV, still smiling, and make your way to the bus stop. You’ll miss catching it; all the drivers are lovely and it’s nice to be driven around the city, like your own personal tour. 

You’ve got time to kill until the bus arrives, so you open your phone and start scrolling through hundreds of second hand car listings. 

You’re not picky; you have a tight budget and will probably hit your fair share of curbs in it anyway, but it’s nice to look at the fancier ones and dream. A convertible sounds nice; there’s a bright red one for sale, way outside of your budget. You imagine the wind in your hair, the sheer cool factor of rolling down the street with the top down. Oh, or maybe a motorbike; you had loved your stupid, ugly little scooter, and a motorbike would be even better. And you’d get to wear all the sexy leather gear. Double win. 

“Oh my stars, do my eyes deceive me?”

The cold hand of panic twists through your ribcage and wraps around your heart, fingers taking hold and squeezing. 

You know that voice. 

You turn around.

On the sidewalk are two people staring at you with equally ecstatic expressions and you only recognise one of them. 

Izzy looks… well, she looks good, you suppose, clothes fashionable and scales polished to a sheen, though you can see a few of them are missing. The spines on her head are droopy, a little paler in colour than what you remember, and there’s a beadiness to her eyes that you never noticed before. 

You haven’t seen her in months but from how unfamiliar she looks, it feels more like years. 

“Damn, you’re looking good!” says the man you don’t recognise. 

And you know that you knew this person once, can hear the echo of his voice through the fog of your memory, even recognise his hands for the way they’d felt on your skin, but there’s something missing, something your stupid, ruined, useless brain is unable to grasp.

“Hey,” you say, affecting your brightest party-girl smile. “Long time no see.”

“Fucking hell, no shit!” the man laughs. He’s handsome, tall and very blond. “How’ve you been? You look so different.”

With each month you add to your sobriety, you’re told that with increasing frequency. You don’t really see it yourself - you feel like the exact same person most of the time. Worse, even. You’re horrible to be around when you’re in pain. 

“Good, really good,” you say. “How have –”

“Dude, I thought you were dead!” Izzy crows, looking delighted. “You just disappeared, like that.” She snaps her fingers, a jarring scrape of scale-on-claw. 

“Yeah, we all thought that Jesse threw the bunny out with the bath water,” the man says. His tone is light, like it’s a fucking joke or something. 

This person is a stranger to you. You couldn’t even guess his name if you tried. And yet he knows about that —

You tense. Pull a smile to your face. Do your best to shake off the phantom feeling of ice crystallising on the tip of your nose. “Nah, I’m not that easy to get rid of.”

And he laughs and so does Izzy and you laugh too, even though it feels like glass in your throat, because what else can you do?

“Well, I’m glad,” says Izzy and then she sweeps you up into a hug. She smells like old perfume clinging to unwashed clothes and you can feel a faint tremble in her hands as they grip your back. 

You hug back, even though you suddenly feel strange and unwieldy, like your arms aren’t your own. 

I want to go home, you think. Another thing you’d be able to do if you just had a fucking car and hadn’t lost your fucking licence in the first place. 

Izzy pulls back but then the man swoops in to take her place. You’re pressed to the line of his body, and though you’ve probably seen it naked, touched it all over, the feel of it is foreign to you. 

You let go first. 

“What’re you doing in New Ebott, anyway?” Izzy asks. 

“Just passing through,” you lie, because fuck if you’re letting her know that you live here now. “What about you guys?”

“Same thing,” Izzy says. “We’re crashing with Palyso at the moment, remember him?”

Nope. 

“Oh, yeah, totally.”

“Yeah, good guy, really funny. Hey, he’s actually having a party tonight, you should come! Just like old times.” The stranger waggles his eyebrows at you. 

You don’t need to remember the specifics to work out what he means. 

“Yeah, come with us,” Izzy begs. “Everyone’ll be so happy to see you. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.”

The itch you’re not allowed to scratch burns. It’d be so easy, so fucking easy, to say yes. What’s one night? You don’t even need to use; who says you can’t have fun sober?

The word yes sits in your mouth like a hot coal and then the memory of water, cracking with thin shards of ice, washes over it. 

The desire is gutted out. Not even smoke remains. 

“I’ll sit this one out,” you say. 

“Aw, c’mon, bunny! You’ve gotta—“

The sound of an engine rumbles behind you and your soul sings with relief. 

Thank you, timely public transportation of New Ebott. 

“This is me,” you say, hoping you sound apologetic. “It was nice seeing you guys!”

You don’t wait for a reply, practically flinging yourself onto the bus. The driver gives you a concerned look - you’re a regular and most of them know you by name  - but you just give her a reassuring grin, because you’re fine. You’re fine. You’re completely, one hundred per cent fine. 

You take a seat near the front and stare down at your hands. You think of the way Izzy's shook. The way yours had once. The way they don’t anymore. You hadn’t noticed that until now. 

God fucking damnit. 

Stupid, unwarranted tears prickle hot at your eyes and worse, there’s something sharp poking you in the butt. 

Fearing that you’ve sat in something that’ll rip a hole in your pants - wouldn’t that be your fucking luck - you lift your hips and grope blindly at your ass. 

Oh, right. 

You forgot that you wedged it in your pocket after leaving the DMV. 

You look down at your brand new licence, turning the shiny plastic card around in your hands. Your own face stares back up at you. 

You dig around in your purse and from the very bottom, unearth the remains of your old licence, kept purely for sentimental reasons. It’s cut clean down the middle, made unusable the moment you’d lost it, but the image of your face is still intact. 

You compare the two, side-by-side. In the new one, your face is fuller and your skin smoother. Your lips have colour to them and your eyes are bright and awake, the whites white rather than bloodshot yellow. 

In the new one, you’re smiling. 

Huh. You see it, now. 

You do look different after all.

[mossyoss]

Do you not recall?

On a whim of inspiration I created a small care package of a doodle and a small story about two sad blorbos owned by @poppy-purpura. Here’s some context for better understanding of what is going on. The story is under the cut

CONTEXT: Сreation of Hundreds' puppet was part of a peace agreement between the spiritualist tribe of the Ancients and the more advanced Dense Metals Alliance. The creation of the design and, in part, the personality, of Hundred of Drops was delegated to Silver, the senior of the local group. He created the puppet design based on his personal preferences, with as much care as he was capable of. But when Hundreds' construction was over, the Alliance was not thrilled that their iterator wanted to befriend an iterator of an outsiders and memories of his involvement in the creation of Hundreds were blocked. But Hundreds remembered everything. And Silver's indifference made him angry, this grudge was carried with him for many, many cycles. In the end, Hundred eventually got Silver stripped of his status as the group's senior and became the senior himself. And in retaliation Hundreds shut down all communications for Silver. Many cycles later, after learning of the serious damage to Silver's superstructure, he decided to visit him in person to look into his sullen face one last time.

---

- Oh, there you are! You know, I've been looking for your puppet in this cesspool of a superstructure for eternity to talk to you, since as your senior, I just couldn't help but-- Silver?

The hunched figure in the corner of the puppet chamber was practically motionless. No sign of a reaction. But he was definitely alive, one could tell by the faint movements of the hands. Ambrosia of Silver seemed to be tracing the contours of the chamber's tiles.

Hundreds stepped closer. He knew that the legs of the structure had been damaged, his overseers showed that the fracture beneath Silver's structure was literally ripping the ground out from beneath him. Something might have been damaged, surely, but...

Concern amidst irritation came to be. Was he not responding out of stubbornness? Hundreds called out to Silver once more, touching him on the shoulder

- Ambrosia of Silver, I'm talking to you

This time he slowly turned around. A haggard face, a tired look. Itertator saw that some of the vestments had been lost, and what remained was frayed to bits.

- Аh? Sorry about that.. I must not have heard. Did you want something?

It had been a long time since Hundreds had talked to Silver like this, face-to-face. He himself cut off Silver's communications a long time ago. Deservedly so! But... Hundreds frowned, bewilderment reflected on his face. He didn't remember Silver speaking so slowly and quietly. Maybe he had regretted his behaviour? Too bad, he had expected to look at his perpetually disgruntled face. He's so charming when he's angry. And he's usually so easily flustered. Oh, well.

Perhaps Hundreds had been silent for too long, because Silver started talking again:

- I don't know your name, but I have to say... - Silver's cloudy gaze warmed, -Your creators did a good job on your puppet. I... I really like those red accents. And that robe looks good on you.

Silver reached out to touch Hundreds' hand, but he jerked it away. - What? - Silver's words disconcerted Hundreds, he forgot what he was going to say, only mumbles came out of him, - But-- But you..

- Yeah, I probably shouldn't have said that, - Silver interpreted Hundreds' reaction in his own way, and he let out a quiet chuckle, - You should probably go, stranger. There's... there's nothing left here. And it’s dangerous too.

- Is this, - Hundreds' voice sounded helpless, - Is this some kind of joke? Not funny, Silver! Hey? - he noticed that the former senior's gaze was wandering again, he didn't seem to be listening anymore, -Hey, Silver!

Hundreds took Silver's face in his palms, tilted his head slightly towards himself. Realisation began to come gradually. A thought he'd been chasing away all the way here. For many, many cycles of the journey.

- I really don't know who you are. I'm sorry,- Silver grew sad, not resisting Hundreds' gesture, - But I'd really like to know what your name is. If you're willing to share

- My, - iterator's voice faltered, - my name is Hundreds of Droplets

- Hundreds, huh... that's a beautiful name. I like it.