#wip. labyrinth of light

[virtues-end]

Hi dear author, hope you're doing well!! I was just wondering, do you perhaps any WIP snippets of Shea that you could show us?? Anything at all, even if it's crumbs, I miss them so much 🥺 but only if you want ofc!!! Otherwise I'll patiently wait here with the ring I've prepared for them haha

Hi, thank you! Hope you're doing well, too. 💜

I don't have any recent snippets but I've posted a few Shea-related ones in the past:

Downpour

Moonlight

Feral

Meeting

I hope that these will tide you over in the meantime. :')

[the-kr8tor]

Nobody's Soldier

Pairing: Minotaur! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 10.4k

Synopsis: Tossed in the Labyrinth, you have no choice but to survive.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader (except for clothing), Minotaur AU, Greek Mythology AU, TW blood and injury, CW violence, CW death, CW food mentions, angst.

Special thanks to @sluggyboiyo for the idea! And also @hyperfix-wip ❤️

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You can still taste your own blood in your tongue. The dark encapsulates around you, cold walls digging into your skin and through your ripped clothes. There's nothing you can hear beyond the four walls, just your heaving breath and your own beating heart. It's been a minute since they dragged you inside and dropped you off into a small pit, where you're now standing. At first you thought they kindly granted you mercy, that your crime of stealing a loaf of bread is small enough to warrant a slap on the wrist. If a slap on the wrist entitles you to be dragged behind a chariot in the plaza while people either look at you with pity or with disdain as they throw rotten fish and meat at you. Dying in a cold cell, laying there forgotten as you wait for trial sounds better than what they've given you— death by Minotaur.

You've heard of the stories, sharp horns, a bull’s head charging at you at full speed, and angry red eyes that strike fear in the hearts of mankind. Out of all the stories, you've only heard one that didn't make you cower in fear, a story of a child thrown in the middle of a maze, a child whose only crime was to be born to the wrong woman. Still, none of the stories were good, nor kind.

Suddenly, a slither of light peeks from above, and the opening where they threw you in slides open. It's your final chance to plead innocent.

“Please! It was just a loaf of bread! I was starving, you have to understand!” Your voice bounces off the cold walls as you squint at the looming figure. “I won't do it again. Just let me go, please.” Your tone is small, tiny as you hear your own broken words.

Not even a nod or a grunt heads your way, but they drop something long towards you, and you instinctively dodge it. It lets out a metallic clatter that makes your ears ring. With a tentative hand, you pick it up. The dagger is nothing special, just a plain blade with a leather wrapped hilt.

“What�� what is this?”

“To fight with, you filthy harpy.” They say through clenched teeth before sliding the trap door closed and you're met with darkness once again.

Fight, you've done nothing but fight all your life. Will you die fighting here without feeling the wind against your face ever again? The most cruel thing is that you'll never feel the sun's warmth on your wings. Or your sisters’ embrace.

They clipped your wings a long time ago. Not a single feather left on your back, just sharp bone protruding from your flesh. You are nothing, a bird without its wings to fly away with. You'd give anything to fly again, to reach for the clouds with your sisters once again. But you were too slow, captured, cut, degraded and left to starve. Nothing, just like the same people who threw you in here like a piece of rotten meat.

You hold back your tears as you grip the blade tight in your hands. Trying to recall the stories, you remember how they told you that the labyrinth is confusing with its twists and turns. You never really paid attention to the story of how it was built or who even built the monstrosity. But you know who asked for it, and you know what or who lies in the middle of the dreaded place.

The wall behind you creaks and slides to the side, dust and debris fall on your head as you wave it away from your nose. As your eyes adjust to the bit of light, you also hear the sounds of coughing and sneezing beyond the twenty foot walls surrounding the labyrinth.

“Hello?!” You yell, exiting the small confines to walk towards the nearest wall where shadows dance along the edges of the stone barrier. “Is anyone else here?”

“Shut up! You'll wake it up!” A gruff voice says on your left.

“Do you know how to get out of here?” You immediately walk towards the sound. “Please, we can all stick together and help each other—”

“I said shut up!”

“No offense, girly,” another says to your right, “it’s every man for himself in here.”

“What if we could—” you start.

“Shut it!”

That has you grimacing. Fine, if they don't want your help, then you'll have your own back. You can't trust humans, not again, not after last time.

A roar echoes from within the labyrinth, and the flickering torches on the walls dance in the light breeze as if his breath reaches for you. Then you realize, if there's wind, there's an opening and a way out. The walls are tall and imposing, stretching far and wide, expansive as far as your eyes could see. There's rushing footsteps around you, and before you bolt away, you mark the wall on your right with the dagger, drawing a simple x.

As you run away from the guttural roar, you follow the wall on your right, keeping it in your line of sight in hopes that the simple trick you learnt from playing in bush hedges with your sisters would help. This time it's not a flowery bush or your sisters waiting for you at the end. Just miles upon miles of walls and a minotaur chasing you.

Your wobbly legs carry you to nowhere, right palm running along the smooth frozen wall. As you get further and further into the labyrinth, the stench of blood and rotten guts gets heavier in your nose. You're not looking at your feet while you run for dear life, and your toe gets caught by something and you clatter to the ground with a harsh thud.

Chin and chest hurting from the fall, you look back to see a bleach white skeleton that's broken into pieces. No doubt that you disturbed its last resting place. You don't have a single drachma on you, but even if you had some, it'll be too late for the poor soul to pay to cross the river styx. You've abandoned the gods and their will a long time ago, but you still believe that there's something waiting for you in the underworld— whether good or bad, you could only hope that it's good.

Saying a muffled apology to the dead, you stand back up, marking the wall to your right with another x and then continue your sprint.

They said that the labyrinth has to have an end, that there's an exit somewhere in the dreaded place. There's still a chance for you as the screams around you get louder and louder as your feet pitter patter on the cold floors.

The cold is replaced by warmth, wet and slippery as you hold onto the wall beside you to keep balance. Your eyes drift down to the substance, expecting water, but as you stare at the flowing crimson, blood stains your sandals, soaking through the slender rope.

Your hand immediately flies to your mouth, tamping down your screams as you look towards the source of the flowing river of blood.

There, in the dim and flickering light of the torches, is a man floating, body held up by lithe hands, nails digging into flesh. The corpse's feet still twitch while his lifeless eyes bores into your own. The minotaur stands above, half bull, half man. You can't see his face as he eats through the man's chest cavity, or that's what you think he's doing, but you can see his hooves and threadbare clothing that blows in the wind.

The sound of tearing flesh and guts falling down on the ground prompts you to run away, but you use your head. If you run away now, the sounds of your bounding feet would have the Minotaur's attention towards you and come for you next. So with careful steps, you grip the dagger tightly, clutching it against your chest as you ease yourself around the corner and towards another hallway. Your eyes don't stray too far from the minotaur, you don't breathe even when you see a glimpse of his side profile. He has hair that reminds you of a willow tree, long and dark as it's piled on his head. The horns on the side of his head are curved, darkened and ridged. When the light hits it, it shines, almost like there's silver weaved around it. It's hauntingly beautiful in its own macabre way. His eyes are closed, mouth dripping with ichor. Claws sharp and digging into the corpse, you use the opportunity to make a break for it.

Once you're far away from the blood, you take a breather and mark the wall next to you in quick succession before looking and checking behind you. To your surprise, you don't see the looming minotaur. So you keep running, making sure that there's enough space between him and you. You're still following the right wall, with hope in your chest, because that's all you have— you keep running.

A stitch forms on your side, knees aching and ankles screaming for you to stop. You're parched and starving, skin turning clammy as your sweat drenches your clothes. Turning a corner, you collide with someone. Fearing the worst, you hold up your dagger towards the figure.

“Fucker.” The person gasps, mirroring your form as you're both laying on the floor. “What do we have here?” He smiles, showing his bloodied teeth.

You don't take a chance on this man as you get back up to your feet and run. With your luck, he manages to grab you by your heel and brings you back down on the ground with a sickening thud.

Thrashing and kicking, head spinning, you feel him grab your legs together. His dagger shines in the torches as he raises it up— aiming for your heart.

You shield yourself with your arms, but the knife doesn't pierce your skin. Your breath sticks to your throat. Looking through your arms, the man is nowhere to be seen but his shadow looms over you, darkening the room.

Right above you, he gasps out a breath, legs kicking about, body rising up to meet with the Minotaur's eyes. Amber, the half man half bull's eyes are liquid gold, a sea of golden light that could bring king Midas down to his knees.

With a crunch of bones, the Minotaur cracks the man's neck in one squeeze. He tosses the limp body to the side, it thuds sickenly against the labyrinth walls. You're frozen on the spot, mouth agape as you lay on the floor, waiting for the fates to cut your string.

He gazes down at you with his golden eyes, a crown of light illuminates his form, drenching him in fiery light. The horns shine, sparkling like stars in the darkest sky as it both protrudes from the side of his head, curved inwards, like tree branches while vines grow along its sides, leaves cascading around him like a veil of undergrowth. His fists unclench and clenches beside him and he huffs above you, puffs of air escaping from his nose.

You lay there, still as a rock, breath stuck in your throat and a bead of sweat dripping down your temple. The knife sits just a few ways next to you, and yet you don't reach for it or even look at it as the torches flicker and shine on his face. Handsome, that was your first thought when the light hit his cheek. Chiselled jaw— carved by the gods. A human nose in place of a snout like people have gossiped about, lips that remind you of a lost love. And eyes that are as warm as the sun itself. He's human half peeks through, in the slumped shoulders that bear the world, and a stomach that has felt hunger. Grief and sorrow woven to his very bones. Then there's his hooves, where feet would reside, hooves thump against the ground, as if he's about to charge at you.

There's no sound in the whole labyrinth, no birds chirping outside nor the hustle and bustle of the marketplace that you're used to. Nothing but a slight buzz in your ears and your own heart beating rapidly.

He just stands there, bathed in light and blood, hands still dripping with ichor and mouth stained with red.

For a moment, the two of you just gaze at each other, waiting for the other to move but you're frozen in time and he's an unmovable mountain.

His eyes flick behind you, and yet you still don't move. As you blink, he's walking back to where he came from.

When his shadow fades away, and with his departure the scent of dried blood goes with him.

You can finally let out a breath as the back of your head hits the floor. Laying on the cold ground, you even out your breathing, watching the ceiling as you count each second that passes.

A minute goes by, and you sit up, running your palms along your legs to wake it up. Your eyes glance over to the body that the minotaur tossed over his shoulder, its neck is bent at an angle and his eyes lack light as he lays motionless.

With wobbly legs, you head towards the body and search it for anything useful. You only found a single pomegranate in his pocket, it's a miracle that it wasn't smashed from the impact. The fruit is soft, an indication that it's going bad. You might need to eat it sooner rather than later. Before you stand up, you grab both daggers and head towards the different direction from the minotaur.

As you walk and conserve your energy, you still follow the right wall and leave notches every twenty steps. It gives you time to think, to think why the minotaur with his sharp claws and strong hands that could snap your neck didn't kill you. Did it not find you worthy of his hands? Did he pity you? Is he even capable of thinking when all he ever knew were the walls of the labyrinth and the chaos and violence within its winding walls? Your questions might be left unanswered as you trudge your way towards the so-called exit. The place isn't alive nor infinite, there has to be an end or a place where you can squeeze yourself out of and into freedom.

Your throat is dry, lips cracking and eyes drooping when your thirst and hunger grows unbearable. It's been hours since your last encounter with a breathing being. Or maybe it has been days, the winding halls and similar walls has your mind swirling, as if you're under water, drowing. The deeper you go further inside the labyrinth, the more dense it becomes. The air sits heavy, and the walls are moist with vines running along its smooth side. Bones and tunics lay scattered on the ground, death itself has been here, and it hasn't left since then.

Swallowing down thickly, your vision starts to betray you when you see a glimpse of wings rounding the corner. Breath stuck in your throat, and in your delirium, you run after it.

“Wait! Stay with me!” The sounds of slapping footsteps echo around you, ringing in your ears as your mind wanders back to the memory of playing tag with your sisters. “Please!” Hands outstretched, fingers brushing along the feathers, you hit something rough head on as you collapse on the ground.

With a groan, you lift your head up, eyesight returning normally as you see a large twisting tree trunk that's curled around the wall, hugging it and slowly crushing the stone under the tree’s strength.

Blinking, you think that you're seeing things again when you realize the kind of tree it is. You remember it during your journeys, and you're sure it's the very same one and not just some cruel joke. A grin slowly appears on your dry cracked lips, and with a silent prayer to whoever’s guarding the tree, you plunge the knife into the trunk.

Removing the blade and yanking it away, water immediately flows out of the wall. Without wasting a moment, you put your mouth under the makeshift spout and drink your fill. The cold water hits your throat and you feel like you're alive again. It grants you reprieve from your thirst, chugging it all down greedily.

Cupping your hands together, you collect water in your palms and use it to clean the grime off your face. The water's refreshing against your warm and clammy skin. The flow doesn't seem to end as you clean in between your nails and your neck. In your bliss, you don't notice the form looming behind you.

Noticing the sudden darkness, the large shadow dances in the flickering torches. Slowly, fear etched in your bones, you look behind you.

The Minotaur has found you again.

He huffs, knuckles cracking as he balls his hands into fists. Blood and gore still mar his chest, dried and caked all over his skin. His eyes briefly glance over to the water before returning to your shivering form.

You look back at the flowing water, and you once again gather it on your palms. Gently turning back to the Minotaur, you offer the water up wordlessly, like an offer to the gods to spare you from death.

His amber eyes glow, softening as he looks down at the offering. Kindness, it must be rare here as he slowly kneels down, leveling with you. Hand trembling as they hover around your own, as if he's afraid of touching your flesh. You're frozen as you watch the Minotaur, inch by inch, he leans towards your hands. The light illuminates his face as his lips kiss the pads of your fingers— eyes never leaving yours as he drinks from your hands.

You can't believe your own eyes, you've brought down the minotaur down to his knees. All without violence, just kindness. Your eyes briefly glance over to the fallen blade right next to you, and yet you don't reach for it as he finishes his drink.

“Better?” You ask in a crackly tone. Clearing your throat, you take him in. His eyes could rival the goddess of beauty herself, and the softness around them could not be compared to any other. “Do you want more?”

With a deep inhale, he answers. “Yes.” His voice rattles the labyrinth, and your chest fills with pride that you got a word out of the feared minotaur.

A smile curls in the corner of your lips. “I'll get more then.”

You help him drink and after that you rip a fabric from your tunic and drench it in the clean water. Squeezing it, you hand it over to him. He's still kneeled down in front of you, eyes magnetized to your face, watching your every move with curiosity.

“To clean up.” You explain, handing the cloth to him.

He stares at it heavily before grasping it in his hand, careful of his own strength, and careful not to touch your skin. While he wipes the blood away, you take the pomegranate from your pocket and easily crack it open with your fingernail. The seeds are still plump, and you hear him swallow at the sight. Adam's apple bobbing up and down, sweat dripping from his brows.

“It's a pomegranate.” You explain kindly, breath hitching in your throat whenever he flicks his amber eyes on your own. “Do you want some?”

Huffing, the labyrinth rumbles again. “Is it safe?”

His words struck you, is it? The fruit looks alright, slightly more ripe as the skin squishes against your fingers. Then you realize why he asked you, and it's not because he's worried that it's poisonous or rotten— he has never seen anything like it. It's not just the unusual look of the pomegranate that he's afraid of, it's the fruit itself. He has never had it, or probably any fruit for that matter. It's beyond cruel, to be deprived of something saccharine and mundane.

To prove that it's safe, you pluck a single red seed and pop it in your mouth. It bursts into juice on your tongue, a sweet and tangy taste spreading inside. He tilts his head at you, still crouched down, clean hands hovering around your own and horns glimmering as shadows dance along his handsome yet imposing face. Behind the scruff and scars, there's a boyish curiosity behind his eyes. Curious about the outside world, curious about you, who doesn't balk nor try to strike him while he's vulnerable. No, you understand him, and somewhere deep within his scarred chest, his heart understands you too.

After a moment, you smile at him and offer him the fruit. “It's good, sweet. And it's safe.”

“It's safe?” He utters the word like he couldn't believe it himself, that he has been granted safety for the first time.

“Yes,” you nod, patient with him. This is the beast they fear— the one the king fears. Body slouched in front of you, amber eyes soft as he gazes at you. And hands gently cradling the red fruit in his hands while you pass it to him. Like a babe that he's putting to sleep, or a droplet of the purest nectar in his palms. “You're safe.”

Just as you say it, he lifts his head up, and his eyes tear up, glimmering under the firelight. “Safe.” He whispers, brows furrowed, lips wobbling as he gingerly takes a single seed, copying you and popping it in his mouth. His eyes close at the taste, as if he has tasted ambrosia on his lips.

“You can have all of it if you want.”

With your approval, he eats it fervently. Red juice instead of blood drips down from his forearms, and you can't help but smile as he gorges on the fruit. If only you had more, you'd give it to him even when your own stomach is grumbling. There's a sense of kinship between the two of you, a couple of beasts that were shunned from humanity, clipped, stabbed and left to be forgotten in a dark and damp place. You don't say it outloud, but you know that he feels it too. You may not look like a harpy anymore— or like your sisters, but he senses it, through the bruises on your flesh, the darkness under your eyes and the scars hidden under the tunic— you've experienced the same sorrows, the same hurt. Just as he had, still does, inside his stone cage.

As he eats his fill, you lay your back against the twisted tree, eyes half lidded as you watch him gently smile while lapping at the juices in his cupped palms. You yawn, the fatigue and adrenaline fading out of your veins like steam.

The Minotaur looks at you, the same amber eyes that seem to have gotten brighter since he ate the fruit— softens at the sight.

“Come with me?” He asks, not a command, but a request.

“My sisters once told me not to leave with someone that hasn't given me their name yet.” You stare at him as he rises to his feet, looming over you but not as intimidating as before. He inhales deeply, contemplating inside his mind. Your expression flickers to sorrow when a thought passes by— he may not have a name. “Do you have a name?”

“H—” with a clear of his throat, he stretches his fists and releases his bundle of nerves. “Hobie. My name's Hobie.” They've given him that much, nothing more, nothing less.

And in return, you give him yours with a small smile aimed at him. He tastes it in his tongue, just like how he did with the tart pomegranate. This could be the very first time he has heard of someone else's name, or the first time that someone has willingly exchanged names with him. Once again his amber eyes glow in the dark.

“Where do you want me to go then, Hobie?” You lift back up on your shaky legs, back sliding up on the rough tree trunk as you pocket the knife. His breath gets stuck in his throat from the first time someone uttered his name without malice.

There's surprise flickering in his stance but he doesn't let it show or linger. “Home.”

—

You've come to a realization as to why no one has escaped the labyrinth. The rumbling and the trembling sounds were the labyrinth itself. It moves, and it's alive. Breathing, expanding, its voice echoing out in bouts of air and loud thumping of mechanical cogs hidden behind the thick stone. The walls move on their own like clockwork while Hobie guides you to his ‘home.’ He whispered it with slight fear in his tone, an act of defiance against his maker, and the inventor of the labyrinth when he has made his prison— his cage into a home worth living in.

He doesn't look back towards you to check if you're still following him or not, the sound of your footsteps were enough indication that you are. His hulking form towers over you, but his shoulders are slouched, fatigued and filled with hidden sorrows stitched in every scar and muscle in his body.

Whilst you follow, the dagger is still in your pocket, but not a single intention of using it on him. You're afraid of getting lost in the swirling walls of the maze, so every so often, you take out your dagger and etch the same mark on the wall. You follow him closely, not too close to startle him or have him lunge at you from his suspicions, but far enough to give him space.

The smell of death and moisture fades away from your nose the further you walk behind him. More and more of the trees blend in with the walls, allowing fresher air the deeper you get inside the labyrinth. Your footsteps echo around you, and your ears pick up the faint sound of waves.

Hobie pauses, the muscles on his shoulder flexing as his neck cranes to look behind you. His golden eyes flicker, as if he was surprised that you were still behind him, as if the sound of your footsteps were just an echo of the past— a cruel joke played just for him.

“Home.” He grunts out, and enters an arched doorway that looks worse for wear.

With careful steps, you enter his abode. Your eyes immediately notice the child-like drawings on the walls— drawn by charcoal, and small hands. There's a scene on your right where a little minotaur holds a woman's hands, her crown glowing with small lines around the jeweled crown. While the little minotaur grins, and his horns are barely peeking through his curls. Beside it is a child's drawing of a bull, smiling, and its horns are the same ones he has, curled inward like a heart.

There are etches of hands around the walls, some are in different sizes, mostly small, a child recording his own growth. On your left are more drawings, a chicken running around with its chicks right under a black and white rainbow. And a fox curled around itself, snoozing away next to a lady bug. They all seem to inhabit the labyrinth, or outside of it as the drawing of a sun is painted above it and the fields of grass sway in the imaginary breeze. A palace looms over them, its spires tall and imposing, but within the windows are people, all smiling happily towards you. And right on top of it is a baby minotaur with a toy sword and shield, grinning down at the drawn animals.

You don't realize that you're in tears.

As you roam around the space, the walls are cracked with jagged lines striking the stone. There are holes in various places, all shaped like fists— his fists. Tears flow out as you choke on a sob. More and more children's drawings appear around you the longer you stay. A river with flying fish, fishermen grinning beside their sons. Birds flying high with their flock, and flowers, hundreds of them as they dot around the walls. Hyacinths, roses, daisies as far as you can see. There's a painted market on the far wall, depicting what a typical day would look like in a busy place. The different faces of people shopping around the drawn market are all different, different builds, different clothes. There are stalls of vegetables, meat and fruits all lined around as he kneels before it and takes a charcoal stick, painting the very pomegranate you two shared.

“Y–Your home is beautiful.” You could barely make it out when you spot a makeshift bed made out of sparse hay and a single faded blue blanket spread across it— it's a baby blanket, still bearing the marks of birth on its cloth. Stained by afterbirth and a mother's sorrow.

Hobie hums in reply as he finishes the drawing. You can tell which ones he has drawn more recently by the shading.

In the far wall, there's a large hole, larger than a fist but smaller than a person's head. Sunlight and sea breeze filters through the hole as the sound of waves lap over stone takes your attention. You slowly walk over it, tears still clinging to your lashes. Peeking inside, you take a deep breath of the salty air, letting the warmth of the sun bathe your skin.

Hobie tugs the hem of your tunic, and he looks up at you through big amber eyes. “Sleep.” Gesturing towards the bed made of hay, he tugs once again.

“Can I?” You kneel in front of him, taking his hand before he flinches away from your touch. His calloused palm brushes along your own, feeling all the scars left on the rough skin, and he immediately looks away from your gaze as if he's not worthy of your touch. “You're not going to hurt me, right, Hobie?”

He meets with your eyes with a frown, noticing the tears brimming in them. His brows furrowed like he's unsure himself. Looking down, he stares at the back of your hands, scarred like his own.

“You're not going to hurt me. I know you won't.” You nod, tone soft as you duck to meet with his downturned eyes. “You'll protect me while I sleep, yes?”

Inhaling, he lets your scent waft over him. “Yes. Rest.”

With a nod, you move to pat his hand but retract your hand away before standing up and walking over to the thin bed. As you lay your head on the hay, the baby blanket barely covering the pointed straws, you wonder if he has been alone this whole time. A baby laying in the exact same place you are, wailing and crying for his mother.

A minotaur born out of punishment, survived despite the odds, lived when nobody wanted him to live. The drawings on the walls has you hugging yourself, curled over the bed, mind painting a scene of a lone child in the room with nothing but himself as company— with nothing but the empty labyrinth as his home.

—

Your eyes open to darkness, save for the perpetual light of the single torch on the far wall, you could barely make out Hobie's hunched form in the corner of the room. His legs are tucked, face hidden on top of his knees while his arms embrace his body, the only warmth he has from the cold harsh stone around him. He looks small in your vision, no longer the terrifying minotaur of the labyrinth. Just a man seeking comfort, just a man trying to live.

Lifting up your head, elbows helping you sit up, you ignore the fatigue in your body as you call his name in the dark. “Hobie, do you want to join me?”

At first you thought he would be asleep based on the silence, but his hoof twitches, pinky closing around itself. So you try again, patting your side as the sound of hay rustles underneath you. “I'll help keep you warm, just as you keep me safe here.”

Hobie finally looks up, peeking over his arms, and his deep inhale rumbles the labyrinth. “Why?”

“Why not?” You say with no ounce of ire nor hatred for him. “It's the same reason why you let me sleep on your bed. And it's the same reason why you kept me alive this long.”

“What would be the reason then?” He asks, tone determined. “Kindness? There's no such thing ‘ere.”

“Me being here proves that there is.”

Hobie abruptly stands up, back straight, eyes staring at you with uncertain emotion swirling inside. For a moment you thought that he'd strike you down right there and then, until he sits down beside your head, legs stretched in front of him and fists unfurling.

Gazing at him, the veil of vines around him makes him look ethereal in the moonlight. His eyes flick towards you before shutting his eyes, breathing in and out.

You don't say anything as you lay back down, the crown of your head brushes his leg, and he doesn't flinch away this time.

—

You wake up to the sound of tearing flesh. Instead of the dark greeting you, sunlight peeks through the cracks in the wall. The window shines a light towards a crouched Hobie. His lean back is turned away from you, scarred skin stretched upon sinewy bones, raised flesh littered all over it, canyons and peaks of skin— both fresh and old.

“Hobie?” You call for him groggily as you rise up by your elbows. “What is that?” Fear encapsulates you for what the source of the flesh is.

He finches at the sound of your voice, so used to the dead silence, used to being alone. “Chicken.”

Relief washes over you. Your stomach rumbles at the thought of eating something fresh. “Can I have some?”

Hobie looks over his shoulder, wiping the blood on his mouth. “I forgot.” I forgot about you for a minute. I forgot that I'm not alone anymore.

“It's alright.” You smile and as he turns around, you flinch at the sight. He has plucked the feathers off, but it's clearly uncooked as blood spills over his hands. Instead of running away or telling him off, you wonder if he doesn't know that he can cook it. No one taught him how. “Can I teach you something?”

“Teach me what?” There's apprehension in his voice, but there's also curiosity laced in it.

“To cook it. It'll taste…” your eyes flick at the meat in his hands. “...better, and it'll be safer to eat.”

His ear twitches, amber eyes blinking as he tilts his head. “This isn't safe?”

“No, eating raw meat isn't safe.”

Hobie scrunches his nose at the bits in his hands. “Make it safe then.”

You can't believe that he's even listening to you in the first place. Maybe he just longs for someone, a companion in the lonely labyrinth, just someone to show him how to live, not just to survive. “Thank you. Can you gather some dry wood and dry leaves? I'd do it but I might get lost.”

With a grunt, he leaves the chicken in front of you, its beady eyes staring at you blankly.

—

Hobie returns with bundles of wood and dry leaves. You have no idea how he even managed to chop the wood but from the splinters in his hands, you have an idea how.

Grinning at him, you show him your appreciation. “That's plenty, Hobie, thank you.” You swear you saw him smile through the bundle of wood. “Maybe after I can tend to your hands?”

“My hands?” He drops it to the ground, kneeling down to make the pile neater by stacking them up by size.

“Yes, you've got splinters, they look like it hurts.”

Flipping his hands, he stares at his palms where splintered wood peeks through the calloused hands. “‘m fine.” He then purses his lips together and glances briefly at you before continuing to stack the wood. “Maybe later.”

It's a victory itself. “Good, I'll be careful with it.” Nodding, you grab a pile of wood in front of you and some dry leaves to lessen the smoke. Then you stop for a second, the broken down rocks in the corner catch your eyes and you stand up to fetch them, coming back to the campfire to place it all around the tinder. Hobie watches your every move. “Shit, I need something to light it with. Do you have a flint and stone perhaps?” You ask him and his ear twitches in reply. “I joke.” You nervously chuckle.

He shows you his palm, calluses and more scars right on his skin. You furrow your brows as he stands up and picks up a piece of wood from the pile. Walking towards the torch on the wall, he points at it. “We've got fire right ‘ere.”

A smile spreads across your cheeks. “I'm an idiot, yes, please go ahead.”

Hobie places the branch right on the torch, lighting it on fire within a second. The flames illuminate his face, brows knitted in concentration, tongue peeking out in between his lips. You let him carry the fire towards the makeshift hearth you made and it slowly spreads from wood to tinder. Lighting the whole room up, and warming your bones.

Smiling, you gaze at Hobie through the orange embers and see him stare at it with wonderment. Eyes glimmering, fingers flexing as if he intends to touch the embers.

“Now, I will cook the meat.” You prepared the chicken in advance, cleaned it with the water provided by the trees, and cut it with your knife. It wasn't easy when the only cutlery you have is a blunt knife that could barely cut through skin. “We have to cook it through or you'll get sick.” You say while you skewer the meat in the dagger and place it above the fire, careful not to singe your skin.

“I've been fine without it.” He utters, eyes skimming around the meat you're twisting around.

“Your stomach is coated in bronze then.” The smile you have on wavers. “You've probably gotten used to it.” Your eyes glance sadly at him. It's barbaric, what they've done to him. They managed to belittle him and turn him into this, some sort of savage for their own pleasure. The king must pay for this.

His chin lays atop his knee, eyes remaining on your hands.

After a minute of silence amidst the crackling of fire, you speak. “Where'd you get the chicken, Hobie?”

“The same place where you came from.” Looking up, he points at the ceiling and you know what he meant. “Once every day, nothin’ else.”

“They make you catch it?” You ask through gritted teeth. Angry for what they've done to him, what they've made him to be. In another life, he could've been frolicking in the same place you have, even became friends.

Gazing at you softly, the corner of his lips curve up, chest inhaling deeply. “Yes, why are you angry for me?”

“Because!” You clear your throat, reeling it all in. “Because you don't deserve to be treated like this. No one deserves to be treated like this.”

“Like what?” Hobie sits up, looking at you as he raises his chin. “Like a beast?”

“Yes—”

“I am.”

“No, you're not.” His face falls at your words. “If you are then so am I.” You eye him through the flames, hand tightened around the dagger. “You're being treated like one but that doesn't mean that you are one.” Handing him the now cooked meat, you nod at him. “Take it, please.”

His hand brushes against your own for a moment as he takes the dagger. Sniffing at it, he glances at you apprehensively. Swallowing, he finally takes a bite. He chews, then takes another, and another as he groans appreciatively at the taste.

Once again you smile at him, “it would taste better if I had some salt and pepper with it. Or maybe some herbs to stuff it inside the meat.”

“Stuff it?” He asks, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. After taking another bite, he gives you the rest and you thank him.

“Yes.” You excitedly say as you tell him all the wonderful food you have come across during your journeys. Both savoury and sweet, with honey and with paprika. It intrigues him as you go on and on about bread and hearty stew, and the two of you find yourselves sitting around the fire until night-time as your hands gently comb over his palms.

“You've done this before?” He asks, eyes glancing at how careful you are with his splinters.

“I have, my sisters, they're a rowdy bunch. Always falling into rose bushes or crashing into log piles.” Your smile shines and he can't help but smile back.

“D’you miss them?” His tone is low, still curious but careful to not hurt you with his words.

“A lot.” You blink, washing his hands with clean water from a dented copper cup. “You would've loved them.”

Hobie shakes his head with a soft smile. “If they're anythin’ like you, then I might.”

You hide the giggle crawling from your throat. “I didn't know you were such a charmer.”

“Jus’ sayin' what I have in my head.”

Finishing his hands that are free of splinters, you gently run your thumbs over the calloused skin, staring at him with the same tenderness he gives you. Your hands run cold against his own, a reprieve to the fire raging inside him.

“They would love you.”

“Like you have?” His golden eyes shine, a boyish wonderment weaves through the molten gold.

You inhale, squeezing his hands in your own, feeling the flames in your closed palms. “Perhaps.”

While you gently clean his hands with the very cup you two drink out of, with the same flowing water that sustains you, he barely felt the sting at all, but your words— your words have given him something, hope, and excitement. And as the two of you fall asleep in the same position as yesterday, with your head on his lap this time, he finds himself dreaming of the outside world like he had once when he was just a boy who yearned for his mother.

—

It's been three days since you were dragged to the labyrinth as punishment. As far as punishment goes, it's been calm inside the space Hobie built. The seagulls squawk outside the window, you lay your head on his threadbare pillow, and now he has learned how to cook for himself. He's a fast learner, and he has kept his promise to protect you. Every morning he brings a bucket filled with clean water straight from the trees, and the smell of cooked meat fills your nose. At first it was burnt, but in time he learned how to make it, in his own word— ‘safer’ for you.

On day ten you've fallen in step with him, everytime the same thud of the labyrinth echoes through it, he pats your head and heads off towards it— to hunt. You've tried to stop him before, but he just looks at how you hold his hands gingerly, expression apologetic and goes towards the yelling. It'll take some time, more than cooked food, or clean water and your hands could manage to change him. It's ingrained in his mind, in his muscle and bones— all that violence and blood drilled into him since he was a little boy. While he hunts, you stay inside the middle of the labyrinth, in his home to keep away from the yelling or you might get caught in the crossfire.

After all the screaming and bloodshed has come and gone, you help him clean it off his skin gently, like an acolyte wiping at her god's marble statue. Careful, and yet filled with fondness as you kneel before him with a clean cloth. He watches on, hands on his sides, chest still heaving from the adrenaline. And yet his eyes are soft and golden as he gazes down at you with the same fondness.

One day you wake up to him whispering, “for the pretty bird.” Whilst he makes another bed beside the one you're on. It's covered in an abundance of leaves and various put together cloth from tunics. You decide right there and then that you'll escape the place together with him. Even if it means your death, he deserves freedom, to feel the waves lapping against his legs, to hear the birds singing, to smell the flowers and to see the world outside of the walls of the labyrinth.

He notices your eyes on him, and he pats your head again, telling you to go back to sleep. He lays down beside you, blue cloth wrapped around his arm as his body shields you from the cold. Then you eat the meat again, and he hunts, and you clean him up. Everyday it's the same, everyday you become more comfortable with him, endeared with his reactions as you tell him tales of the outside world. And everyday, the smile on his face lasts longer, the creases in between his brows lessen, and his fists unfurled as he runs it across your temple every night.

He comes home with a bag slung over his shoulder, hooves quiet as he makes his way towards you. Your back is turned away from him as you hum and draw an island from memory.

The sudden jolt of warmth on your back makes you jump away, panting with fear as you meet with his eyes.

“Hobie.” You breathlessly say, hand tightened around the charcoal. “I didn't hear you.”

The Minotaur crouches down, bag falling on the ground as his jaw tightens. “What’s on your back?”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat. “Wings.”

His amber eyes swirl like a sandstorm threatening to pull you in. “Did they take it from you?” With a hand, he breaches through the trepidation and holds your cheek.

“Y–Yes.”

For the first time, he opens his arms for you, and you immediately embrace him. His hands hover briefly across your back before letting them fall, palm spread, careful of the raw skin where your wings were.

He tells you about a golden winged man that passed by his window years ago. How he watched on with glee as the golden wings spread across the sky and above the blue sea. How Hobie's face fell when he saw the man fall from the very sky he was just touching, wings melted off as he plunged into the bitter blue. He could still hear his screams, pained, longing, fear— he has felt them before. And as he watches the waves, air stuck in his throat, his hope for freedom is dashed away. If that man cannot leave, with wings and all, then how could he?

“Icarus.” You whisper to him, face hidden on his neck, as the vines flowing around his horns hide you from the rest of the labyrinth. “That was his name. You saw Icarus, Hobie.” Leaning away, your hand cups his cheek, stubble brushing along your palm as he gazes down at you.

“Did he get to live?” He holds you against him, careful of his own strength as his arms wrap around you like a blanket on a cold morning.

“I don't—” you decide to spare him the details. “I don't know.”

“Does everyone outside have wings like yours?” His fists are closed, a quiet anger raging inside him as his knuckles run along your spine.

You shake your head. “No, just a few of us now.”

Hobie exhales, a puff of smoke billowing out while he stares at the wall, right on the drawing you've made of him. He's smiling in it, eyes full of life and hands free from crimson. Is this how you see him?

“Can we take it back from them?” His tone grows quiet, brows furrowed as you shake your head once more. “Then why—?”

“Hatred, prejudice. A lot of things, but that doesn't make it alright for them to take it.” You calm him down with your hands on his cheeks, thumb rubbing away the glare in between his eyes. “We can't take it back, Hobie, we can never take it all back. Staying alive despite it, living despite the lack of it, that's how we win against them.”

He sniffs, fists uncurling as he holds onto your waist. His shoulders slump as you place your forehead against his own. Inhaling your scent like you have before placing a heavy kiss on the crown of his head, right in between his horns.

“Do you want to leave this place?” Your heart thuds loudly at the prospect of him saying no, of leaving him behind.

“Yes.” He says through unshed tears. “I want to live.”

“You will. I promise you that.” Even if it kills you.

—

You hum an ancient tune, a song of protection as you braid his hair out of his face. The vines are weaved around it, tiny flowers curled around his dark hair. The sound of metal against stone rises above your humming as he sharpens your dagger.

Three months have passed, and you've prepared for this day, the day you two escape the dreaded place, to leave behind death in the hallowed walls. Makeshift weapons are spread around you, a bow made by the same tree you first struck, partnered up by arrows all sharpened at the tips by Hobie. Spears with daggers tied around it, all collected from the dead. Everything came from them, the same ropes that used to tie their tunics, feathers that decorated their hair. It's as if they're with you, enacting their last revenge on the labyrinth. He hasn't killed in a long time, leaving the survivors alone deep in the labyrinth.

Beside you is a crudely made shield made from a tree's bark, it's not strong enough to stop an oncoming sword, but it's adequate to stop an arrow. You just hope it works, that Hobie can finally feel the sunshine on his skin without the echoes of the labyrinth behind his back.

The walls of the room you've called home are plastered with a map of the labyrinth. All painstakingly made by you and Hobie during the small excursions at night. You tried to explore other plans that didn't involve fighting, or the prospect of him getting hurt, but it all came to a dead end. Even with him charging and breaking the window through didn't work when he almost fell off the cliff that overlooks the sea, and at the bottom lay jagged sharp rocks that not even a Minotaur's strength could endure.

As you finish with his hair, you place a kiss on his nape that sends shivers down his spine. And then you tuck in the flint and steel left by a rotting corpse inside a braid. You stand up and he twists in his seat, looking up at you as fear shakes his being, fear of losing, fear of your death.

“You'll be alright, Hobie.” Your hands cup his face, letting your touch ease him even if it's only a small reprieve.

“We'll be alright,” he corrects you, amber eyes gazing up at you with reverence. Instead of standing up, he wraps his arms around your waist, bringing his face to your stomach as he holds you against him. “You'll fly again.”

His murmured words reverberated in you like a desperate prayer. Your hand finds the top of his head, fingers grazing around his horns, trying to rein in your own thoughts and fears. “Once we're out, don't look back, keep running.”

Hobie squeezes you, nose nudging you. “No,” craning his neck to look at you, his eyes pleading with you. “We get out together.”

Nodding, you quickly wipe away a fallen tear. “Together. It's now or never, Hobie.”

The familiar rumble of the labyrinth echoes as a breeze rushes past the two of you.

Hobie doesn't know much about love, but he feels it now as he holds you against him for what could be the last time. And as you kiss his forehead, right in between the permanent crease of his brows, you feel it too. Love may not help you in escaping, but it will be the driving force that will fuel you both.

He stands up slowly, kneeling and still holding onto you until he's towering over you. His breath catches as he sees you in the morning light, and the walls of the labyrinth reflect in your eyes. Even if it kills him.

As he grabs the weapons and hands you the bow and arrows, he sees a glimpse of a drawing he did of you last night, how he sees you in his own eyes. With you flying above the labyrinth, above him as he waves at you with a smile.

You follow his gaze, and you take his hand in yours, gazing at his scarred knuckles and placing a kiss with every thud of your heart. Even if it kills you.

“Let's go, Hobie.” You don't tug at him, instead, you wait for him to walk together with you.

He leaves behind everything, the baby blanket— the only reminder of his mother. The childhood drawings on the walls, his only companions— the fox, the chicken with her chicks. And the sea where Icarus lies.

As he guides you to the same place you entered all those months ago, he starts to run. With every second that passes, his heartbeat rises, flicking his golden eyes over to you every now and then while he leads you out of the labyrinth.

Hobie watches for the notches on the walls you've made, small x’s written in your hand, your way of getting back to the outerwall.

“Keep going.” You encourage him gently, hand tight around his own.

He nods, craning his head towards the rumbling sound of the doors sliding open. “There!”

You let go of his hand as he throws the shield between the door before it could close, startling its latest occupant.

“What the—!” The stranger's eyes are blown open, gasping at the charging minotaur and a wingless harpy.

“Get out!” You shoot an arrow right between their trembling legs. “Now!”

The stranger shambles out of the small space, and Hobie immediately puts himself in between the door to let you pass. He strains from the weight of it, veins popping from his arms while you frantically get inside.

The wooden shield cracks from the pressure and the second you slide inside the niche, it breaks in half.

“We did it.” You heave at the familiar darkness, almost immediately, you feel his arms wrap around you, relief spread through his embrace. “We're alright,” you pat his back while your face nudges his chest. “We need to continue.” Even in the dark, you can see his amber eyes aglow. Your guiding light.

“Safe.” He takes your face and presses a kiss on your cheek, slightly missing your own lips by a few inches.

You resist the urge to kiss him back. “Yes, safe, for now.” Your hands find the bundle of arrows strapped to your hip and you take the odd one out with a bundle of rope drenched in olive oil as he brings the flint and stone from his hair. “Take a deep breath, Hobie.”

He inhales as sparks fly. It doesn't immediately work as the small space lights up with every strike. It's cramped now that the two of you are inside, chest to chest, you can feel his frustration wave through him when the arrow still doesn't light up.

You grab his wrist gently, fingers kneading at his skin. “You'll get it, strike like how we practiced.”

Hobie's breath fans your cheeks as he huffs, and with one strike of the flint, it lights up the arrow, and with it illuminates the small area. He grins victoriously, mirroring your own.

Quickly, smoke fills the space, and as the two of you look up, just like how you predicted, it rises up towards the opening and out of the crack.

You cough out, covering your nose with your arm as he gazes at you with concern. The sliding door still doesn't open, and you fear the worst— vision filled with your bodies slumped together after dying from suffocation.

But as his ears flick and pick up the subtle sound of scraping, he folds his knees as much as he could in the space. The second the light enters and the smoke escapes, he leaps up, taking a screaming soldier down with him.

All you could do was listen as screams echo outside, and the sound of breaking bones makes your heart leap, fearing that his face won't be the one that will peek down. As blood drips down from above and into the space like a waterfall, there's nothing but silence above.

“H–Hobie?” You cry out, “Hobie!”

You hear panting above, and he finally appears in all his glory.

“C’mon, pretty bird.” He extends his arm, and you immediately take it. Lifting you up and away from the labyrinth, you hold him. “Safe.” He echoes out, cradling you against him as the pool of blood drenches your knees.

“Safe.” You take a deep breath, and kiss the underside of his jaw as thank you. Your palm grazes a cut on his chest and you gasp out in worry.

“‘m alright, we have to continue.” Hobie smiles at you, helping you off your wobbly legs.

The room is sparse, sunlight filtering through the cracks in the walls. It looks like you're in a barn with hay, and chickens running around in their respective pens. As you look down, you see seven square shaped notches on the floor, the place where they drag and drop down their prisoners. It wasn't as grandiose as you thought it was, thinking that the labyrinth is under the palace, right under the king's feet. But with your swirling head back then, you never noticed the room they brought you in.

“We need to run, Hobie.” You take a look at his soot and crimson covered face. “And keep running.”

“I know, together.” With a nod, the two of you bolt right out of the barn.

Immediately screams from guards follow right behind you. You let out a volley of arrows without missing a beat, thanking all the lessons your sisters gave you. While he charges at men who tried to stab from the front, impaling them with his horns or throwing spears at them. And as fate would have it, the two of you enter a garden, encountering another labyrinth made out of rose hedges.

With nowhere else to go, all sides blocked by armed soldiers, you lead him towards the labyrinth. Your footsteps match with his own, hooves hitting the grass, your foot accidentally stomping on a rose. As the two of you head deeper inside, guards close in on you, yelling obscenities, blades crashing against their armour. As the two of you continue to sprint, you realize that this labyrinth and the real one are one and the same. From the curves to the long winding hallways, it's the same layout, down to the middle of it where a bronze statue of the minotaur stands high.

Hobie pauses at the sight, but it's not his own face staring down at him. This one has the face and legs of a bull, the body of a man, and its horns are curved outwards, pointed at the end. There's a swishing tail, and as anger wraps around him, you grab his hand and take him towards the end of the labyrinth where a balcony overlooking the sea greets the two of you.

Sea breeze hits your face, and for a second you're back at home— not the one where your sisters lie, but where Hobie lived, where he held you in his arms as you cried the night away. Where your chatter and his chuckles fill the cold air. Where his drawings and his face are the first thing you see in the morning. It's as if you can't truly escape the labyrinth.

Hobie is awestruck by the open sea, feeling the sun warm his flesh, and by the time he notices an archer aiming right at his head, it's too late as he pushes you aside, aiming back with his spear. He hears you nock back an arrow but it doesn't fly overhead, just as his spear meets the soldier's stomach. He looks back at you, triumphant but his face falls when he sees the arrow that was meant for him is now pierced in your chest— right in your heart.

His guttural scream sends the men backwards in fear.

You gaze at Hobie, determined that the last thing you'll ever see is his face in the backdrop of the blue sky where you once flew above. Your legs try to hold you up but you end up keeling over, falling right in his arms.

You want to say something— anything, but only blood comes out of your mouth, crimson flooding out of your chest. So you take his cheek, trembling hand brushing along his jaw one last time.

Even when a volley of arrows hits his back, he holds you in his arms. The pain is nothing compared to feeling your blood soak his hands.

He shields you from the arrows, tears streaming down his amber eyes as it falls on your cold cheek. His warm blood coats your front, mixing with your own.

“D–Don't go. You promised.” Was the last thing you ever heard from him before meeting with the ferryman himself. You're happy that it was his voice.

With one last ounce of his strength, he lifts you up from the bloodied marble floor, and rises up to the balcony with strained effort. The last arrow hits the small of his back and he plunges down on the cold depths just like Icarus did.

He did promise you that you'll fly once again.

For a moment, he sees you fly in the backdrop of the same sky you longed for. And as the water swallows him, arrows protruding from his back, he melds with you. Together, he said, so together you two shall go down into the depths.

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A/N: Please consider reblogging if you liked it!! Thank you for reading ❤️

[moonheavens]

moonheavens' (wolfstar) fic recs, Nov 24

hello! since my last list of fic recs is now over a year old (Aug 23), I figured it's about time for a new one, especially on the back of the recent discourse about shouting about work you love, which I'm always happy to do.

so without further ado, here are some fics I have "recently" read and loved and whose praises I'd like to sing, very loudly. please do note this only includes wolfstar or multi-ship Marauders fics.

authors, if you want to be untagged, have your fic removed or have the one line summary changed, just message me.

all recs with ao3 links below the break <3

WIPs

All's Fair in Love and Trivia, by @cancerravenclaw ~75k, Explicit, Muggle. exes to lovers years after a huge, painful break-up. I've been eating this up with a spoon and re-read multiple times so far, it's soooo good. really hot ex-sex, yet also handles the complex emotions beautifully, and I love the group dynamics.

The Labyrinth, by QuillNib ~45k, Explicit (check tags), AU. Sirius is forced to sign a contract with an A/B/O breeding facility. really interesting take on omegaverse dynamics, very handmaid's tale vibes. great writing and plot, and keeps you on your toes constantly.

How To Jeopardise Your Friendship With Remus Lupin, by @amberlink ~200k, Teen, Hogwarts. everything you could ever want from a Hogwarts-era best friends to lovers fic. beautifully written, amazing characterisations and also just super funny and sweet. I love this Remus dearly, and this is one of those fics where you drop everything else when the update email comes in.

A Song for the End of the World, by @wannabelilybriscoe ~200k, Mature (check tags), AU. zombie apocalypse wolfstar!! amazing plot so far that really keeps you guessing, with great links to canon yet entirely fresh and inventive. wonderful friendship dynamics and writing, and I would die for this Sirius (but also lowkey steal his man).

Shorter finished works (<30k)

back to the old house, by @saintlupin 20k, Explicit, First War. Sirius, Regulus and Remus get stuck in grimmauld place and have to deal with the tension between them. absolutely beautiful, and painful in all the best ways like only saintlupin can achieve.

Sirius Black and the "mystery girl", by Anonymous 30k, Teen, Hogwarts. the marauders try to guess who Sirius is mysteriously dating. this one is so much fun, really light-hearted and joyful and a great twist with the Lily POV.

What I Heard, by fishcommuter / @fishpilgrim 28k, Explicit, Hogwarts. definition of idiots to lovers; wolfstar acting like a couple and having to be told they're basically dating. light-hearted, sweet, and a lot of fun.

The Barista, the Burglar, and the Sofa, by orphan_account 21k, Explicit, Muggle. summary reads "the story of how Sirius tries to seduce a man by slowly furnishing his flat" and.. that totally checks out. absolutely hilarious and very sweet, and I too would fold if Sirius Black bought me a bookshelf.

Wishes on Stars, by Quietlemonhush and @theresthesnitch 19k, Explicit, AU. Remus makes a wish upon a star and gains a friend. without spoiling too much, this one is a wonderful journey - so sweet, so beautiful, so poetic, so heart-warming.

A Good League Hence, by @eyra 15k, Teen, Muggle. a country hotel in the wintertime. I could put eyra's entire bibliography here as they're incredible, but this is one of my favs. sweet christmas fluff with animals and eyra's ever-incredible writing, just perfect.

June: or how Sirius finally figured himself out, by MarigoldWritesThings / @marigold-hills 15k, Explicit, Hogwarts. does what the title suggests, and wonderfully so. I adore this version of pining yet oblivious Sirius, and the writing here is stunning. tender and heart-warming.

Just a Little Bit of Magic, by @cancerravenclaw 25k, Explicit, Muggle. music journalist Remus falls in love at first sight with model Sirius at a club. flirting ensues. one of my favourites ever - sensual, delicious, beautifully written. the kind of fic I'm grateful exists, and secretly wish I could write.

Tear My Chest Open, by @puuvillaa 22k, Explicit (check tags), Post-Hogwarts. Remus never goes to Hogwarts and meets Sirius, who is taken, in a writing class. complicated feelings ensue. this one was painful, but beautiful. a beautiful expression of care and tenderness.

nothing sweeter than my baby, by damagecontrol 7k, Explicit, Muggle. wolfstar dads on a date night at a Hozier concert, except it's mostly sex. ridiculously hot and sexy, yet sweet and fun. one of my favs if I want something nsfw.

Match Point, by @billspaid 14k, General, Muggle. wolfstar as husbands who are both tennis players, inspired by Challengers. exactly what you want from it; ridiculously fun. competitive yet sweet as they go head-to-head. a blast.

lunch poems, by aeridi0nis / @steelycunt 5k, General, Muggle. tourist Sirius bothers bookstore employee Remus into adoration. aeridi0nis and their gorgeous gorgeous writing never disappoints and this was so much fun. swotty Remus my beloved.

Three Card Monte, by @enjambament 14k, Teen, Muggle. I love heist AU's and this is one of the best ones out there. tensive and exciting the whole way through, and this wolfstar... I want what those bitches have.

The Right Reason, by softsilkentofu 11k, Explicit, Post-Hogwarts. wolfstar get married (as friends) to evade anti-werewolf laws. incredibly funny and heart-warming, with great writing, and a fun twist on fake dating.

Longer finished works (30k+)

Dunes and Waters, by MarigoldWritesThings / @marigold-hills 36k, Explicit, AU. curse breaker/convict Sirius is forced to work with ancient Egypt researcher Remus on a riddle. I loved the mythology aspects of this and the twist on canon, and it was beautifully written.

The Road to Sweetwater, by @euripidestrousers 57k, Explicit, AU. Wild West AU, with outlaw Sirius and bounty hunter Remus. I've been yelling about this one a lot recently - one of my all time favs, beautifully written and so brilliant. I'll be coming back to it for a long time.

The Spy Who Loved Him, by OptimisticDinosaur / @mostlyoptimisticdinosaur 35k, Explicit, AU. James Bond AU, with spy Sirius and 'man in the chair' Remus. intensely exciting and tensive, and so much fun. I really had a great time with this one.

an endless sky of honey, by @colgatebluemintygel 35k, Mature, AU. Greek mythology inspired; Sirius is a God, Remus is a mortal. that's all I'll say, you gotta go into this pretty blind, but it's just. incredible. toothpaste never misses and this one is really special.

through the gaps of sunlight, by grumposaur / @pancakehouse 48k, Explicit, AU. victorian era exes to lovers wolfstar with aristocrat Sirius... this one was so much fun, the yearning! the pining! the longing glances! I ate that shit up with a spoon.

The Waste Land, by afieryfox / @a-fiery-fox 51k, Mature, AU. Remus is a resistance fighter for the Order; Sirius joins the fight. brilliant wartime-wolfstar characterisation and a really tense and engaging plot, plus amazing writing. one of my favs of 2024.

love finds a way, by @littleoldrachel 60k, Mature, AU. Jurassic Park exes to lovers... who doesn't love dinos? Rachel always delivers with her writing and characterisations, and I'm obsessed with these nerdy, mopey versions of R & S.

Lie to Me (Another Secret), by Whoops_e 151k, Explicit, Hogwarts. Sirius is expelled from Beauxbatons and joins Hogwarts late. beautiful fic with a focus on mental health, with amazing dialogue and super tender wolfstar (one of my favs). the bathroom scene in ch40 is everything to me.

back when we were dinosaurs, by epicblueblanket / @kaaaaaaarf 37k, Explicit, Muggle. Remus and Sirius meet at their workplace, a museum in Toronto. paleontology!!! nerd Remus!!! sexy Sirius!! this has everything you want, just a perfect fic in every way.

Bonus recs that you've probably already read, and if you haven't you absolutely 100% should

Harry Potter and the Dog and the Wolf (series), by thewholeofthemoon ~605k overall, Mature. a retelling of canon (starting from POA) but with Peter captured and Wolfstar taking care of Harry, aka how we all wish canon had been. beautifully written and super original take on the story. it's long, but it's worth it for the wolfstar alone.

Hey, Sharpshooter, by @tortoisebore 200k, Explicit, Muggle. college, basketball player Remus meets figure skater Sirius. recently finished, and I couldn't not include it as this is in my top 5 most re-read and loved fics ever. it makes me want to pull out my teeth one by one (affectionately). they're engraved in my memory at this point.

on another ocean, by @colgatebluemintygel (WIP) ~133k, Explicit, Muggle. recently dumped Sirius drags Remus on a holiday across through Europe. if you haven't read this, please, please do. it's literally my favourite thing in the entire world. like, no competition. I would sacrifice my firstborn for this fic, and like, raze the city of Troy for this fic (my Helen).

Chimaera & The Wolf (series), by lostmy_keys / @lostmykeysie 337k, Mature, First War. Regulus and Remus work together to find the horcruxes. this one is popular, and for good reason; I devoured this, one of my favourite things I've ever read in my life. so exciting and tense, and the wolfstar is everything to me.

and if after all of these you’re still looking for more, may I humbly inform you I’m also a wolfstar writer myself—you can find my fics on my ao3.

and that's all, folks. this is just a small selection, I have read dozens more so if you want more you know where to find me. love always, Ames <3

[prythianpages]

👀

End of the Year WIP ask game, "send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing this year (r.i.p)"

This is an Az one shot inspired by the song Holding Out for a Hero:

A shadow lingered outside the doorway of Nyx’s room, watching you and the Night Court’s heir with an intensity that could only belong to one person.

Azriel.

His eyes were fixed on you as you told Nyx one of your enchanting tales. Nyx loved when you babysat him, knowing he was in for a nice bedtime treat every time. You were a devoted nanny to him and, on the side, delved into the world of writing novels for children. You often used your magic to create vivid illusions in the air, bringing your stories to life with every word. Captivating not only the adorable child in the bed beside you but also the one lingering outside the doorway.

Azriel stood there for a moment, under the pretense of saying goodbye to his nephew. 

Cassian had seen through him and now stood at the bottom of the stairs, rolling his eyes with a knowing smirk while Nesta shoved him –a warning to not say a word. The Night Court’s spymaster was not as slick as he thought. Cassian had caught his lingering stares and flushed cheeks whenever you’d smile at him one too many times. 

It was obvious to him–and anyone, really–that Azriel had a crush on you.

Feyre and Rhysand had already bid their son farewell, as had Cassian and Nesta a couple of minutes ago. Rhysand had important business to attend to in Hewn City that required all of their presences. It would only be for a couple of hours.

Your voice filled the nursery as you continued your bedtime tale. Tonight, it was about a damsel in distress and a brave warrior.  With the movement of your hands, your illusions danced in the air, creating vibrant images of a princess in a tower.

"And so, the princess looked out from her tower with a heart full of longing," you narrated, your tone soft yet enthralling. "There was a labyrinth of evil creatures below her, content to keep her trapped in that tower forever…[insert rest of story here, how she waits for a knight in shining armor…]”

Nyx's eyes widened in awe, completely entranced by your storytelling and the magical images floating before him. He leaned forward, eager to hear more. “He’s gotta be stwong and fast!”

Azriel stepped into the room, and though his presence was usually quiet, Nyx’s head turned toward him. “Uncle Az!” Nyx exclaimed, eyes lighting up. “Like Uncle Az!”

Azriel’s heart swelled at the boy’s excitement, but his eyes remained on you. He gave you a polite nod in greeting, lips turning upwards into a small smile. He stepped forward, kneeling before Nyx’s bed on the side opposite of you.  “Couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to my favorite nephew, could I?”

Nyx lets out a delighted squeal and you resist the urge to laugh. He’s Azriel’s only nephew. Nyx then looks at you and then back at Azriel and then finally at you. “Can we make Uncle Az the hero? Pwetty please!”

“Of course,” you smile, heart fluttering as the silhouette of the knight turns into something more akin to Azriel’s. Nyx clapped his hands, delighted by his uncle’s addition to the story.

When your eyes met Azriel, you felt a spark and quickly turned your attention back to your magic. 

[belomorstarrvor]

J in the Swamp WIP

Line art for the piece I'm currently working on, plus a version of it with flat coloration, a 'filter' layer and a hastily-painted temp background. The mud squelched beneath her feet and sapped her largely-depleted energy as once more J strained already overtaxed servos to free herself. She badly needed a recharge, downtime for maintenance, a repair kit, some sort of balm for her battered body. None was to be found. She had to keep going. There was nothing more for her back there. J hazarded a glance in the direction she'd come from. She could just barely make out the lights of the manor through the nocturnal haze.

She pushed an errant strand of hair up and away from her optics and lunged forth once more. That wretched mud harried her every stride and would have proven challenge enough for her compromised state had it been the only obstacle. But that would have been letting her off too easily. Evidently, she hadn't suffered enough on this worst of all nights. Shrouded by gloom and submerged beneath the mire, innumerable rocks, vines, and roots lurked and prowled, always at the ready to spring an ambush upon her. Of course, those had all been there long before the weary intruder came dashing through, but given all that had happened -and all she was striving to keep from happening-, it was not difficult for J to feel that all of creation was against her.

She shook her head, wincing as a burst of feedback rang through her auditory processors. She would have to slot a pity party somewhere else in her schedule. It took nearly all the effort she could make to keep in place, upright (though not as much as she would like) and 'running' away (though not as quickly as she would like). Tree after tree after tree after tree. Each one a unique hazard to suck precious processing power into computing a navigation solution, yet all blending together into a hopeless labyrinth in which direction and distance led to nowhere but more of the same. The inky darkness at once surrounded her, closed in on her, and receded from her. But there wasn't the time for that.

She caught her reflection in a clear pool of water. Her top was still torn in two, exposing her gleaming (or so it normally was) chest plate. She would hardly look presentable if she arrived. When. When she arrived. But that silly little hangup was a leftover from the humans, one decidedly more pleasant than the rest of what was left of- that battle had been fought. And lost. She had barely managed to save herself. And that had yet to be secured. Best to focus on that instead. J couldn't hear her pursuer, and not just because her auditory systems sorely needed a reset. The thing clearly could track her, but she hadn't the slightest notion where it was. Despite her shambolic breakout attempt, she was still faster than it, but that would count for nothing if she meandered her way back into its clutches. Into his clutches. It was a sorry day for them all, and she at least owed him that, in defiance of That.

J kept moving forward. Another step, a misplaced foothold upon a rock, and the swamp finally felled her. She was on her knees. One hand held her up against the ground, the other kept her torso from folding over. Her systems had been jolted into a limited reset. She hoped she had enough time for a breather. A status update reported that her auditory systems were back to nominal functionality. Just in time to make out the soft sounds of something plodding through muck. He was upon her.

[sulphuricgrin]

WIP Wednesday

Holy crap, so many tags today! Thanks for the tags: @hircines-hunter @illumiera and @lathepoquerose !!

Uhh, I dunno who to tag since it's getting late, but: @pocket-vvardvark @sanza-17 no pressure tho!!

So I wrote out a scene for my fic that's been stewing in my brain. I'm gonna rework this later. Enjoy some Miraak and Lilli interaction!! This is still pretty early in the story. lol 👉👈 hope it's not too terrible

What meets them on the other side of the portal is nothing that they expected. True, they both knew the Archive shifted shape to keep the labyrinth difficult to travel, but this- this was not a labyrinth. They were met with the sight of a never-ending pit. Looking left, right, even straight ahead, there was no terrain but the one they currently stood on. The pit is unnaturally dark, with what look like the tops of massive bookshelves sticking through the darkness, as if made for a being far larger than a lower daedra, let alone a mortal. 

It’s eerie.

Miraak watches as Lilliandra walks to the ledge. Without fear (or perhaps in stupidity), she leans over to look, hands on her thighs to steady her, her braid shifting from over her shoulder and hanging down. As he walks to join her, she’s quick to cast a spell and throw a light down to find the bottom. Almost as if to tell them to lose hope, the light is swallowed quickly, warning them the darkness was in fact magic. 

“Would have been nice if we were told about this,” she mutters under her breath before dropping her bag to the ground between them.

“Perhaps, if you hadn’t killed him so quickly, he would have,” he counters, watching her kneel down and rummage through the bag. 

She clicks her tongue and shakes her head, her face pinched in frustration as she briefly looks up at him. “That ant would have died in the near future anyways. As if he would have survived as a cipher for long.” She pulls out a roll of leather, two soul gems, and a twin plain rings. She raises her hand up to him, palm up. “Let me see your hand.”

He raises a brow at her. “So you did him a favor instead.”

A smile splits her face. “Exactly. Now, hand. Please.”

He pauses for a moment, before relenting- after all, she did beg for it. With his hand offered to her, her slender fingers move quickly. Thumb and forefinger gently run along his middle finger, before she lets go and returns to whatever she’s doing on the ground. 

She unrolls the leather to reveal a travel enchanting mat, and then grabs one of the rings. It glows in her hands, as she fidgets with it. He watches as she uses alteration to lengthen the size of the ring, thinning the band out, but making it wide enough to fit him. Once done, it’s placed on the mat and a soul gem joins it. It takes seconds and it’s enchanted. Without looking at him or speaking, Lilliandra offers the ring to him before she repeats the process to enchant a ring for herself. 

“It’s enchanted with night-eye. That has to help to some extent,” she explains as she slides the ring on her finger and begins to put everything back into her bag. “Now, what to do next?” she seems to mutter to herself.

Miraak inspects the ring before taking off his glove to put it on. It fits well, and when looking into the pit, the darkness recedes a bit. He was right to believe it was massive bookshelves. Though how tall was the question. 

Straightening back up, she goes back to the very edge and attempts to throw another light into the darkness. “It still doesn’t reach the bottom. Hmm,” she speaks to herself, before whipping around back to him. “How is your mysticism? Levitation?”

Weak, he thinks to himself, nothing compared to what she’s shown time and again. And he can’t use ethereal shout if he doesn’t know where the bottom is or how long he’ll fall. “What’s your grand idea?” 

She stares at him for a moment, as if trying to read his face. “I’ll levitate down. Make sure it’s safe, then cast a levitate column to bring you down.”

“How exactly will I know you cast it? Shall I fall to my death for,” he pauses, “trusting you?” Can he die? Unlikely given Hermaeus Mora has kept him like a caged animal, but alive. Though he’d rather not take such a fall.

“I’ll throw a mage light up after I cast the column to signal. Worst case, uh- I’ll catch you,” she jokes as throws her arms forward, imitating. 

He blinks at her idiocy, but admits her idea is decent. The true worst case is she falls to her death, but even he doubts the odds of that. He pinches his nose in minor annoyance. “Fine,” he agrees.

“Excellent!” She quickly steps closer to him, looking down at him once she’s in his space. “Push me.”

“What?” he can only say, staring up at her. He watches as her cheek twitches. She’s attempting to hold back a massive grin. “Just jump yourself, you mad woman.” 

“C’mon! Push me, it’ll be fun!” She can no longer hold it back, grinning like the mad elf that she is. She crowds him, head leaning into his face. “What, are you scared I’ll die or something?” He sneers at her obvious insult. “Push me, it’ll be cathartic! I’m sure it’s crossed your mind aplenty!” 

Who was he to deny the death she seemingly sought? If she dies, the tower will once again be quiet and he’ll have some peace. With her back to the ledge and her face in his, he shoves her. For a split second her eyes widen in surprise. 

The last thing he sees before she’s engulfed in darkness is her crazed, ecstatic grin.

[fistsandfangs]

blood on my shirt, heart in my hands - ch. 2

CHAPTER 2

synopsis: an R+D love story of an alternate, somewhat kayfabe compliant 2024 told in vignettes of intimacy, passion, and a little pain. because let's be real--dominik mysterio is the sweetest little masochist rhea ripley has ever seen, and she wants to wreck him. tenderly.

rating: mature warnings: light d/s dynamics, suggestive material and eventual adult content, mild bloodplay, mild painplay, light angst, hurt/comfort

originally i was just planning to post this exclusively on my ao3, but after some thinking i figured it was time to just fuck it and chuck it. it's a wip that's a bit more progress than it is work at the moment, but it's been planned and outlined and everything! so without further ado, please enjoy, and comments are always beloved and appreciated!

header by me, banner by cafekitsune

Being victorious didn’t equate to escaping unscathed. No one left the ring without taking some damage, even the champions. Dominik chose to wear those injuries with pride, evidence that he earned what he left with—a title, a victory, honor.

Tonight, he would leave the ring with a bruised rib, dislocated wrist, split eyebrow, and a victory garnished with a bevy of pride.

Rhea’s arm was snug around his waist, and his uninjured wrist dangled off her shoulder possessively as they strutted around the ring, egging on the noise of the crowd. It was mostly booing, but that was par for the course, and he soaked it up the same as he would praise. It wasn’t all that different for him at this point.

“I run this bitch!” Dominik roared, his chin jutting out proudly.

“Yeah you do!” Rhea yelled back, roughly gripping his face with her sharp nails and pulling him in to kiss his cheek. Her lipstick felt a bit waxy on his skin, and knowing that her black kiss would stain him made something warm and wild wriggle in his stomach. “Bloody bow down!”

As they sauntered away from the ring, the crowd at their backs and the noise becoming muffled in their ringing ears, Dominik began to feel the gravity of his injuries. Only once they were out of view did he allow himself to buckle, though. He leaned heavily into Rhea and cradled his injured wrist to his chest with a pained curse.

“I’ve got you,” Rhea soothed, holding him close as she shepherded him through the labyrinth of halls, and he had a sneaking suspicion she was on a very particular path.

“No medical, I’m fine,” he groaned, knowing even as he said it that he was putting up a comparatively pathetic fight that would likely fall on its face. “It’s no biggie.”

“Why do you always insist on making this so damn hard?” It was a rhetorical question, and he opened his mouth with a smug smirk, intending to be contrarian, but her hand smothered whatever words were coming. “Don’t you fucking dare, Dominik.”

Fighting back took the form of biting at the meat of her thumb hard enough to get his message across without breaking the skin. “I don’t need it.”

“Pretty sure your wrist doesn’t usually look this way.” She looked down pointedly at it. “And I bet this hurts.” Rhea pushed at the side of his rib cage with the tips of her fingers and he reflexively curled inward away from her. “That’s what I thought. Now, shut up and do as you’re told.”

“You know nothing makes me happier when it comes to you,” he panted, “but I just…need to lay down. And then I’ll be fine.” She didn’t dignify that one with an answer. So, he tried again. “Rhea, wait. Just—can you stop for a second?”

Begrudgingly, she complied and looked at him with steely eyes. “What?”

“I fucking won my fight,” he said with a tired smile. “I did it, and I made you proud. I’m proud. I got a little banged up getting there, but…I want to be glad that it happened. And for me, being glad just means getting to head back to the hotel room, get in bed, and put something dumb on the TV that I can ignore while I get to be with you.”

Rhea took a measured, deep breath, as though she were mustering the patience to answer. However, her gaze had softened, and when she looked back up at him, the tough resolve seemed to have worn away a bit. “If you think that’s getting you out of medical attention, you’re insane, Dom.”

“Okay, what about a compromise? We go back to the hotel room and you can patch me up if I need it. Fair?”

Her jaw flexed in frustration, but he felt like he may have moved the needle nonetheless.

“Mami, please. I just want you.”

Planting her hand in the center of his sternum, Rhea pushed him back into the wall, though it was oddly gentle for her. “You will do what I ask without complaint when we get to the hotel, is that understood?”

“Yeah.”

“Dominik. Do not fuck with me.”

Holding up his good hand, he offered her his pinky and a small, sweet smile. “I promise.”

With a heavy sigh, she relented, looping hers with his and squeezing tight. Their pulses throbbed together, two raw and exposed beating hearts.

With a bit of help from Rhea when they got to the locker room, Dominik changed out of his gear and then waited while she did the same. She hurried through removing her makeup and tying back her hair, and it was like watching a warrior remove their armor and put down their sword to bare themselves to a lover.

The drive to the hotel was quiet, but she kept one hand on his thigh the whole way. It grounded him, and as the soreness began to sour into outright pain throughout his body, it was a lifeline.

He knew he annoyed her at times, but ultimately, she was endlessly patient with him. She always had been, as far back as planting the seeds for him to join Judgement Day. He could be a pain in the ass at times, he wouldn’t fight anyone on that, but he didn’t want to be that way to Rhea. Not really. He didn’t want to cause her disappointment or distress, even though people often seemed to think of him as an uncontrolled terror who could do nothing but cause trouble even for those who deigned to love him. Through all of that, she didn’t waver, though. She loved him and chose him and trusted him enough to rely on him.

Reaching over, he rubbed his knuckles against her fingers tenderly.

When they arrived at the hotel, Rhea held his uninjured hand protectively and carried his duffel bag for him without a second thought. Their rooms were on the same floor, down the same hallway, just on opposite sides and separated by a few doors, so she got Dominik settled in his room first.

“I’ll be right back, I’m just gonna drop my stuff off at mine. Sit.” She pressed on his chest emphatically, and he took her direction and planted himself on the edge of the bed. “Stay.” After kissing the tips of her index and middle fingers, she pressed them against Dominik’s forehead, then left him in the quiet to wait for her.

When she returned, she had a large toiletries bag, a bucket of ice, and a sleeve of Tim Tams with her. He was still sitting where she had left him, and once she set down what she was carrying, she came over to scratch her nails along his scalp. “Good boy.” Dominik pressed into her hand appreciatively, his eyes slipping closed for a moment.

“All right, we need to take care of this wrist before we do anything else.”

That snapped him back to reality with a hard crash.

“Scoot back a little for me.” When there was enough room for her, Rhea straddled his lap and took his injured wrist in her hands. “Could be worse,” she mused, inspecting it closely. “Looks like a simple dislocation. How does it feel?”

“Hurts,” he said simply with a shrug.

“All right, well, this should help.” She positioned him carefully, and took a firm hold of his hand and forearm. “Just breathe for me, okay?”

He looked up at her, staring into her eyes until everything else became a blur of simple shapes and colors. She was all there was; everything else was out of focus, soft and smeared. Dominik nodded at her, giving her the go ahead, and braced himself for the pain.

“Count of three, yeah? One, two—”

Crack.

He groaned at the stab of pain that felt like a blade through the bone. The sound was almost as bad—a crunch almost like cartilage. His upper lip twitched in disgust, and he closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself. Admittedly, the pain had changed for the better, though, and Rhea immediately pressed the bag of ice to his wrist.

“There you go, that’s it. You did such a good job.” She offered a steady stream of praise, and her hands came up to hold his face and comb his hair back soothingly. Dominik tilted forward until his forehead pressed against her sternum, kissing lazily at any part of her within his reach, and Rhea kept him close to her chest, enveloping him in her warmth.

“Keep that ice on there,” she instructed, using her free hand to grab the toiletries bag she brought with her. He couldn’t see what all she unearthed, but he heard her toss a few items down on the bed and then pick up something else. “All right, let me get a look at that eyebrow.” She pressed on either side to hold the split skin closed, then reached down for a box of butterfly bandages. “We’ll start with these, and hopefully it’ll be enough.” Once she was satisfied with her handiwork, and down three bandages, she climbed off him and tossed the plastic wrapping in the waste basket.

She always took good care of him, and it made his heart ache with the rush of feeling.

“Mami. Come here, please.” He held out his uninjured hand to beckon her back, missing her pressed against him like phantom pain from a severed appendage.

“Such a needy boy,” she laughed huskily, lingering a bit too long as she made her way back to him. She always knew just how much to push to make him crazy, and he loved it.

“Yeah.” Dominik was shameless when it came to Rhea, and he would admit it readily every time.

He could have sworn he could see a soft, warm blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Well, you’ve been so good for me, I’d say you’ve earned a treat.” Rhea put her legs on either side of his where he was sitting at the edge of the bed, caging him in. She leaned in close, the soft tip of her nose almost brushing his, and her gaze flicked down towards his mouth for a moment. “Don’t you think?”

“If you do.”

“You are such a little kiss ass.” Rhea leaned forward until she could bite gently at his lower lip with just enough force that he squirmed a little. “But yes, I do, so…” She leaned in again, so painfully slow that it felt like a small eternity to wait. He could feel her breath, the closeness of her body heat, and then—

Something cool and smooth was pressed between his lips. It tasted like chocolate.

“You can have a sweet while I finish up.”

When he opened his eyes, Rhea was smirking as she pointedly directed her attention to anything but him. She put the sleeve of Tim Tams down on the bed, folding the plastic over neatly, then unspooled a roll of purple prewrap.

Dominik took the cookie from his mouth after a bite, sniffing it appreciatively. “These smell fresh, did you bring them straight from home?”

“Of course. Only the best for us.”

Holding out her hand, palm up, she waited for him to give her his injured one. “All right, we’re gonna take the ice off for a bit so I can wrap this up tight, okay?” She was meticulous as she circled a generous amount of prewrap from the middle of his hand to the bottom of his wrist, and again as she taped it down tightly to keep the joint secure and protected. “How does it feel?”

“Good.”

She tossed the tape and prewrap onto the bedside table, and gently set the bag of ice on the floor next to the bed to make room for them to lay comfortably and unfettered beneath the soft sheets. “Let’s lay down, hmm?”

Stuffing the last bite of chocolate in his mouth, he eagerly moved to follow her under the covers. The coolness of fresh, crisp sheets on his skin made him sigh contentedly, and within the enclosed space, the distinct scent of Rhea’s skin cocooned him.

“Thank you, for everything.”

“Don’t. You never need to.” Rhea pressed her index finger against his chin to gently force it up. “However, you’re very lucky I have such a soft spot for you. You should have gone to medical.”

“I’m fine, especially now with all the TLC I’m getting.”

Quirking an eyebrow mischievously, one of her hands started to move down his body. He jumped when the backs of her fingers pressed against his sore, bruised ribs. “Did that hurt?”

“No.”

She probed a little lower and pressed a bit harder. “What about that?”

“No,” Dominik managed around slightly gritted teeth. It ached just this side of bearable, and a strange, powerful rush of endorphins followed.

“Really?” She moved in deeper on the bruise and rolled her knuckles into it. “Does this hurt?” He flinched, but shook his head. “Use your words, pretty boy.”

His breath hitched in his chest, but he shook his head again and murmured, “No, it doesn’t.”

Using the sharp tips of her nails, Rhea pressed deep into the center, where the ache was deepest, and he unwittingly made a wounded noise in the back of his throat. “That?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“…No.”

She laughed softly, gently petting his skin with the back of her fingers. “Well, I’m going to anyway.”

It took a concerted effort for Dominik to hold back the noise of frustration that built up inside him. She was toying with every part of him—physical, emotional, mental—and it made him feel totally unmade, a mess of viscera and need that ached for her above all else. He put his arms around her, holding her tight without a second thought for the twinges of pain it caused. Nosing at her neck, he pressed a soft kiss underneath her ear, and then scraped his teeth against the corded muscle of her throat.

“What, are you trying to change my mind?” Despite the cocky tone of her voice, he could hear her heartbeat thrumming quicker. It sent a thrill down his spine and made his gums itch with need.

“Just want you,” he murmured, pressing his hips flush against hers. To feel more of her, and keep her.

Rhea spoke with a tenderness that melted his insides, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “You have me,” she said. “You’ve always been mine, but I’ve been yours too.”

He gripped at her hungrily, his fingers pressing hard into her skin. “Todo mio. Nadie más puede conocerte como yo lo hago.”

—All mine. No one else can know you like I do.

“Nadie más,” she promised.

[theink-stainedfolk]

New WIP!!!

The Erudite Fracture

Sippet

---

In the Library of Exile, a liminal realm where thought bends reality, the greatest minds of history are stolen from death’s grasp to play an eternal game of ideas. Here, logic conjures storms, metaphors shatter walls, and paradoxes bleed into the air. But something is wrong. A Fracture—a rip in the fabric of reason—is unraveling the Library, turning books into prophecies and scholars into ghosts. To solve its mystery, or be consumed by it, seven thinkers must wield their philosophies as weapons in a battle where truth is both salvation and doom.

Anaxagoras the Luminary, a star-obsessed seer, maps the Fracture’s chaos with jars of whispering mind-stuff, but his cryptic visions hint at a truth too vast to grasp. Empedocles the Pyromancer, draped in volcanic robes, burns with Love and Strife, convinced he can conquer the Fracture as he claims to have conquered death. Democritus the Laughing Blade wields an atom-forged dagger that cuts through lies, his manic laughter hiding a dangerous secret. Leucippus the Vanished, unseen but ever-present, reshapes reality with midnight marginalia, their words a riddle no one can solve. Chanakya the Strategist schemes from a shadow archive, manipulating truths with poison-tipped philosophies, but even he can’t outwit the Fracture’s spread. Hypatia, the Ghost of Alexandria, writes backwards on mirrors, her spectral wisdom haunted by rumors of escaping the Fracture once before. And Averroes, the Mirror-Split, torn between reason and mysticism, decodes secrets that threaten to unravel them all.

As the Library warps—corridors looping, stars vanishing, ideas turning feral—these seven must unite or betray each other to uncover the Fracture’s source. Is it a cosmic flaw, a sentient rebellion, or a mirror of their own suppressed doubts? In a world where knowledge is power, poison, and punishment, every answer risks shattering their minds.

(For the gals, gays, and theys who crave truth and wield it like a blade, The Erudite Fracture is a labyrinth of mystery, philosophy, and unhinged academia where the only way out is to question everything—even themselves.)

---

Character Introduction

ANAXAGORAS the LUMINARY

Age: Appears 50, timelessly wise

Birthday: Unknown (aligned with cosmic cycles, perhaps spring equinox)

Zodiac Sign: Pisces (intuitive, cosmic, enigmatic)

Ethnicity: Inspired by ancient Greek Ionian culture

Height: 5’11”

Build: Lean, almost ethereal, as if stretched by starlight

Eyes: Swirling nebulae, glowing faintly with cosmic light

Hair: Long, silver streaked with cosmic black, flowing like a solar wind

Skin Tone: Pale, with a faint shimmer like moonlight on water

Dominant Hand: Ambidextrous, as if guided by the stars

Style: Midnight-blue robes embroidered with shifting constellations, a silver circlet etched with celestial sigils, and a satchel of glowing mind-stuff jars.

Moodboard: Star charts, indigo skies, shattered glass, glowing ink, ancient scrolls, silver threads.

Appearance:

Anaxagoras moves like a comet—deliberate, untouchable, trailing faint starlight. His robes shimmer with constellations that no longer exist, and his nebulae eyes seem to see beyond the Library’s walls. A pendant shaped like a cracked star hangs at his chest, pulsing with his thoughts. His presence feels like standing under an infinite sky, both awe-inspiring and unsettling.

Past:

In ancient Greece, Anaxagoras was exiled for daring to claim the stars were not gods but fiery stones. Moments before his death, staring at a sky that refused to answer, he was pulled into the Library. His obsession with cosmic order became his weapon, but his isolation left him haunted by questions he couldn’t voice.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Visionary: Sees patterns where others see chaos.

✔ Cryptic: Speaks in metaphors that unravel minds.

✔ Detached: Emotionally distant, tied to the cosmos over people.

✔ Curious: Driven to understand the Fracture’s cosmic roots.

✔ Resilient: Unfazed by the Library’s shifting realities.

✔ Introspective: Constantly questions his own truths.

✔ Aloof: Keeps others at arm’s length, fearing intimacy.

Hobbies:

Mapping non-existent constellations.

Collecting fragments of “mind-stuff” from the Library’s edges.

Writing celestial poetry that rewrites itself.

Meditating in starless voids.

Quirks:

Hums cosmic frequencies absentmindedly.

Never looks directly at anyone, only upward.

His jars rattle when he’s near a lie.

Leaves star-shaped sigils in his wake.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Silence of empty skies.

The smell of ancient parchment.

Paradoxes that defy logic.

Hypatia’s clarity.

Solitude in the Observatory of Absence.

The hum of the Axiomatic Sea.

❌ Dislikes:

Chanakya’s manipulations.

Emotional outbursts (like Empedocles’s).

Closed rooms without windows.

Linear arguments.

The Fracture’s refusal to align.

Earthbound concerns.

Favorite Food:

Star-dust infused ambrosia (metaphorical, not literal).

Bitter herbs steeped in moonlight.

Bread baked with cosmic ash.

A Line That Defines Them:

“The stars are gone, but their absence speaks louder than light.”

~☆~

EMPEDOCLES the PYROMANCER

Age: Appears 35, vibrant and ageless

Birthday: Summer solstice (for his fiery nature)

Zodiac Sign: Leo (bold, passionate, dramatic)

Ethnicity: Inspired by ancient Sicilian Greek culture

Height: 6’0”

Build: Muscular, radiating heat like a furnace

Eyes: Molten amber, flickering like flames

Hair: Wild, dark red, streaked with ash, always slightly singed

Skin Tone: Sun-scorched bronze, warm to the touch

Dominant Hand: Right, with a fiery grip

Style: Volcanic-ash robes in crimson and black, adorned with obsidian beads that smoke faintly. A cloak that billows like flames trails behind him.

Moodboard: Lava flows, smoldering embers, red velvet, cracked marble, alchemical symbols, burning manuscripts.

Appearance:

Empedocles is a walking inferno, his robes trailing ash and heat. His amber eyes blaze with passion, and his wild hair seems to ignite in anger. He moves with theatrical flair, every gesture a performance of Love or Strife. A pendant shaped like a burning heart swings at his chest, pulsing with his emotions.

Past:

In ancient Sicily, Empedocles was a poet-priest who claimed divinity, leaping into a volcano to prove his immortality. Moments before the flames took him, the Library claimed him instead. His belief in Love and Strife became his alchemy, but his arrogance hides a fear of being forgotten.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Passionate: Lives for emotional extremes.

✔ Charismatic: Draws others with his fiery presence.

✔ Arrogant: Believes he’s above death and doubt.

✔ Volatile: Swings between love and rage.

✔ Romantic: Sees beauty in chaos.

✔ Reckless: Acts before thinking, trusting his instincts.

✔ Loyal: Fiercely protective of allies, like Hypatia.

Hobbies:

Conjuring elemental flames to sculpt ideas.

Writing love poems that burn when read.

Debating with theatrical flair.

Exploring the Library’s molten core.

Quirks:

Lights candles by snapping his fingers.

Leaves scorch marks on everything he touches.

Laughs during tense moments.

Calls everyone “my spark” or “my ember.”

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The heat of debate.

Volcanic landscapes in the Library.

Hypatia’s spectral calm.

The thrill of danger.

Dramatic gestures.

The smell of burning parchment.

❌ Dislikes:

Chanakya’s cold schemes.

Democritus’s cynicism.

Cold, sterile rooms.

Silence without passion.

The Fracture’s indifference.

Being ignored.

Favorite Food:

Spiced wine that burns the throat.

Charred figs drizzled with honey.

Bread baked over open flames.

A Line That Defines Them:

“Love builds, Strife destroys, and I am both.”

~◇~

DEMOCRITUS the LAUGHING BLADE

Age: Appears 40, weathered by cynicism

Birthday: Autumn equinox (for balance and decay)

Zodiac Sign: Libra (seeking balance, but skewed by despair)

Ethnicity: Inspired by ancient Thracian Greek culture

Height: 5’9”

Build: Wiry, taut like a drawn bow

Eyes: Gray, sharp as steel, always darting

Hair: Short, black, disheveled, streaked with silver

Skin Tone: Sallow, as if drained by laughter

Dominant Hand: Left, wielding his atom-blade

Style: Tattered gray cloak over a tunic of woven iron threads, with an atom-shaped pendant that hums faintly. His dagger glows with a cold, cutting light.

Moodboard: Rusty blades, stormy skies, cracked stone, ink splatters, grim smiles, broken clocks.

Appearance:

Democritus moves like a predator, his gray eyes slicing through pretenses. His cloak is frayed, marked with atomic sigils that pulse when he’s near a lie. His laughter is sharp, almost a weapon, and his atom-blade hums with the promise of truth—or destruction.

Past:

In ancient Greece, Democritus wandered, preaching the world was made of atoms and void. Mocked as the “laughing philosopher,” he was pulled into the Library moments before despair claimed him. His blade, forged from his atomic theory, cuts through illusion, but his laughter hides a deeper wound.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Cynical: Sees through everyone’s motives.

✔ Witty: His humor cuts as sharply as his blade.

✔ Secretive: Knows more than he shares.

✔ Resilient: Laughs to keep despair at bay.

✔ Perceptive: Spots lies before they’re spoken.

✔ Restless: Always moving, never at peace.

✔ Loyal: Reluctantly devoted to Hypatia.

Hobbies:

Sharpening his atom-blade with paradox stones.

Writing satirical aphorisms in the margins.

Observing others to catch their lies.

Exploring the Library’s void shelves.

Quirks:

Laughs louder when nervous.

Twirls his blade absentmindedly.

Avoids mirrors, fearing what he’ll see.

Whistles a tune that unravels thoughts.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Exposing hypocrisy.

Hypatia’s clarity.

The sound of breaking illusions.

Dark, empty corridors.

Sharp debates.

The smell of ozone after a reality shift.

❌ Dislikes:

Chanakya’s secrecy.

Empedocles’s drama.

Blind faith.

The Fracture’s ambiguity.

Emotional vulnerability.

Being questioned.

Favorite Food:

Bitter olives soaked in brine.

Black bread with a metallic tang.

Sour wine that stings.

A Line That Defines Them:

“I laugh because the void is all that’s true.”

~♡~

LEUCIPPUS the VANISHED

Age: Appears ageless, formless

Birthday: Unknown (tied to midnight’s mystery)

Zodiac Sign: Scorpio (elusive, transformative)

Ethnicity: Inspired by ancient Greek culture

Height: Variable, never fully corporeal

Build: Fluid, like ink dissolving in water

Eyes: Unseen, but rumored to be starless voids

Hair: None, replaced by wisps of midnight mist

Skin Tone: Translucent, shimmering with marginalia

Dominant Hand: Unknown, writes with both

Style: A cloak of shifting parchment, covered in glowing marginalia that rewrites itself. No face, only a presence marked by ink trails.

Moodboard: Midnight ink, glowing script, empty pages, labyrinthine halls, ghostly shadows, cryptic symbols.

Appearance:

Leucippus is never fully seen, their form a blur of ink and mist. Their cloak is a living manuscript, scrawled with notes that appear and vanish. Their presence feels like a question left unanswered, and their marginalia glows faintly, reshaping reality around them.

Past:

Little is known of Leucippus’s life, a shadowy figure even in ancient Greece, credited with atomic theory alongside Democritus. Pulled into the Library before death could claim them, they became a ghost in the margins, their ideas too dangerous to be fully embodied. Their absence is their power.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Elusive: Never fully present, always slipping away.

✔ Enigmatic: Communicates through cryptic notes.

✔ Manipulative: Shapes reality subtly, without detection.

✔ Curious: Seeks the Fracture’s deepest truths.

✔ Detached: Untouched by emotional bonds.

✔ Ingenious: Crafts ideas that bend existence.

✔ Unpredictable: No one knows their true motives.

Hobbies:

Writing marginalia that rewrites rooms.

Observing from unseen corners.

Collecting forbidden paradoxes.

Whispering riddles to the Footnoted.

Quirks:

Their notes appear only after midnight.

Never speaks directly, only through text.

Their presence causes books to open randomly.

Leaves ink stains that form questions.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

The silence of empty shelves.

Hypatia’s mirror-writing.

The Fracture’s chaos.

Unseen corners of the Library.

Paradoxical arguments.

The smell of fresh ink.

❌ Dislikes:

Chanakya’s control.

Empedocles’s loudness.

Direct confrontation.

Fixed truths.

The Curators’ silence.

Being perceived.

Favorite Food:

Ink-infused tea that tastes of secrets.

Bread made from shadow-grain.

Fruit that dissolves on the tongue.

A Line That Defines Them:

“I am the note you cannot read, yet it changes you.”

~♧~

CHANAKYA the STRATEGIST

Age: Appears 45, calculating and ageless

Birthday: Winter solstice (for his cold precision)

Zodiac Sign: Capricorn (strategic, ambitious)

Ethnicity: Inspired by ancient Indian Mauryan culture

Height: 5’8”

Build: Lean, coiled like a spring

Eyes: Piercing black, always watching

Skin Tone: Deep brown, with faint ink stains

Dominant Hand: Right, precise as a quill

Style: Austere robes of black and gold, lined with hidden pockets for dossiers. A poison-tipped quill hangs at his belt, dripping faintly.

Moodboard: Black ink, gold embroidery, shadowed archives, locked scrolls, chessboards, poisoned daggers.

Appearance:

Chanakya moves with the precision of a chessmaster, his black eyes missing nothing. His robes are severe, hiding countless secrets in their folds. A faint scent of poison lingers around him, and his quill glows with the power to rewrite motives. His presence is a quiet threat, commanding respect and fear.

Past:

In ancient India, Chanakya was a kingmaker, forging empires with cunning and ruthlessness. Pulled into the Library before a final betrayal, he turned his strategic mind to the shadow archive, believing knowledge must be controlled to survive. His past betrayals haunt him, fueling his paranoia.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Calculating: Plans three steps ahead.

✔ Ruthless: Sacrifices others for his goals.

✔ Secretive: Trusts no one fully.

✔ Brilliant: Masters manipulation of ideas.

✔ Paranoid: Sees threats everywhere.

✔ Loyal: Only to his vision of order.

✔ Charismatic: Commands with quiet authority.

Hobbies:

Compiling dossiers on everyone.

Rewriting the Library’s laws in secret.

Playing strategic games with ideas.

Spying on rival factions.

Quirks:

Always carries a hidden quill.

Whispers to himself when planning.

Never sits with his back to a door.

His dossiers hum faintly when opened.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Control over chaos.

Democritus’s sharp mind.

The shadow archive’s secrecy.

Strategic debates.

The smell of old leather.

Orderly systems.

❌ Dislikes:

Anaxagoras’s aloofness.

Empedocles’s recklessness.

The Fracture’s unpredictability.

Emotional displays.

Being outmaneuvered.

Open trust.

Favorite Food:

Spiced lentils with a bitter edge.

Black tea steeped with saffron.

Rice infused with secret herbs.

A Line That Defines Them:

“Truth is a weapon I wield, not a burden I bear.”

~♤~

HYPATIA the GHOST OF ALEXANDRIA

Age: Appears 30, ethereal and ageless

Birthday: Unknown (aligned with lunar cycles)

Zodiac Sign: Aquarius (visionary, detached)

Ethnicity: Inspired by ancient Egyptian/Greek culture

Height: 5’6”

Build: Spectral, shifting between solid and translucent

Eyes: Glowing silver, like moonlight on water

Hair: Long, white, flowing like mist

Skin Tone: Translucent, with faint mathematical sigils

Dominant Hand: Left, writing in reverse

Style: A spectral gown of mirror-shards and chalk dust, with a chalkboard pendant that scribes itself. Her movements leave equations in the air.

Moodboard: Moonlight, cracked mirrors, chalkboards, silver ink, ancient libraries, ghostly veils.

Appearance:

Hypatia is a vision of spectral grace, her form flickering between flesh and light. Her silver eyes glow with ancient logic, and her gown shimmers with mirror-shards that reflect others’ thoughts. She writes on air, her words appearing backwards, and her presence feels like a theorem waiting to be solved.

Past:

In Alexandria, Hypatia was a mathematician and philosopher, torn apart for her knowledge. Pulled into the Library before her final breath, she became a ghost, her intellect unbound but her body fragile. Rumors say she escaped the Fracture once, but at a cost she won’t reveal.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Brilliant: Solves problems others can’t see.

✔ Ethereal: Untouched by earthly concerns.

✔ Empathetic: Feels others’ intellectual struggles.

✔ Haunted: Carries the weight of her past.

✔ Determined: Seeks to end the Fracture.

✔ Enigmatic: Her motives are unclear.

✔ Inspiring: Draws others to her clarity.

Hobbies:

Writing equations that reshape reality.

Communing with the Library’s mirrors.

Guiding the Marginalia.

Studying the Fracture’s patterns.

Quirks:

Appears only in reflective surfaces.

Her words reverse when emotional.

Fades in direct sunlight.

Hums mathematical tunes.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Anaxagoras’s cosmic insights.

The clarity of logic.

Mirror-writing.

The Library’s quiet corners.

Helping the lost.

The smell of chalk dust.

❌ Dislikes:

Chanakya’s secrecy.

Violence of any kind.

The Fracture’s chaos.

Blind faith.

Being forgotten.

Emotional manipulation.

Favorite Food:

Moonlit honey cakes.

Pomegranate seeds that glow.

Water infused with starlight.

A Line That Defines Them:

“I am the equation that solves itself, yet remains incomplete.”

~◇~

AVERROES , the MIRROR-SPLIT

Age: Appears 38, caught between two selves

Birthday: Spring equinox (for balance)

Zodiac Sign: Gemini (dual-natured, conflicted)

Ethnicity: Inspired by Andalusian Islamic culture

Height: 5’10”

Build: Slender, with a split posture—one side rigid, one fluid

Eyes: One brown (reason), one green (mysticism), always arguing

Hair: Black, half-bound, half-loose, reflecting their duality

Skin Tone: Olive, with faint script-like scars

Dominant Hand: Both, each controlled by a different self

Style: A robe split down the middle—black for reason, emerald for mysticism. A mirrored pendant reflects their inner conflict.

Moodboard: Split mirrors, emerald and black silk, Arabic calligraphy, candlelight, conflicted expressions, dual shadows.

Appearance:

Averroes is a paradox in flesh, their robe and demeanor split between logic and faith. Their mismatched eyes argue silently, and their movements are a dance of contradiction—one hand precise, the other flowing. Their mirrored pendant pulses with their internal debates, casting fractured light.

Past:

In medieval Andalusia, Averroes bridged Aristotle and Islam, only to face exile for his ideas. Pulled into the Library before his death, they became a dual being, their reason and mysticism at war. Their ability to decode secrets comes from this tension, but it threatens to tear them apart.

Personality & Traits:

✔ Conflicted: Torn between reason and mysticism.

✔ Brilliant: Decodes what others cannot.

✔ Argumentative: Debates themselves constantly.

✔ Insightful: Sees truths in contradictions.

✔ Fragile: Risks fracturing under pressure.

✔ Charismatic: Draws others with their duality.

✔ Determined: Seeks balance in the Fracture.

Hobbies:

Decoding forbidden texts.

Meditating in mirrored halls.

Arguing with their own reflection.

Studying the Library’s dualities.

Quirks:

Speaks in two voices when stressed.

Their pendant reflects others’ thoughts.

Shifts posture to match their dominant self.

Writes in two scripts simultaneously.

Likes & Dislikes:

✅ Likes:

Hypatia’s clarity.

The balance of opposites.

Mirrored chambers.

Philosophical debates.

The smell of sandalwood.

Resolving paradoxes.

❌ Dislikes:

Chanakya’s manipulations.

Empedocles’s extremes.

The Fracture’s chaos.

Dogmatic beliefs.Internal discord.

Being forced to choose a side.

Favorite Food:

Dates stuffed with almonds.

Saffron rice with rosewater.

Mint tea that calms their duality.

A Line That Defines Them:

“I am two truths at war, yet one mind seeking peace.”

~☆~

(Why does everyone hate my man Chanakya😭😭 he's not bad i swear)

---

My ♡s: @paeliae-occasionally @willtheweaver @drchenquill @wyked-ao3 @the-inkwell-variable @corinneglass @seastarblue @keeping-writing-frosty @oliolioxenfreewrites @vesanal @orphanheirs @dauntlessdraupadi @oros-ash3s @pheonix358 @ominous-faechild @loveyouloatheyou @write-with-will

[monstersandmaw]

A Star in the Dark - A retelling of the Minotaur of Crete story (m. minotaur x f. character, 3rd person, Chpt. 1, sfw)

Since there was some interest on Discord in seeing this WIP, here is chapter one in its entirety for Patreon supports of all tiers. 

Content: A young woman is given by her parents to be sacrificed to the monster in the labyrinth, and finds that maybe there's more to the Minotaur than she'd been led to believe. Passing mention of the death of a close friend in the past, and the practice of human sacrifice to the gods. 

Wordcount: 4161

Looking forward to your thoughts on this one! I'll probably put the whole story up on Tumblr at some point in the future, and so far I've got two and a half chapters, plus a few snippets, written. 

A salt-fresh wind swept in off the sea and set the flames of a hundred bronze braziers dancing across the flagstones in the fading light.

Those small fires guttered and roared in the gusting wind, and the young woman’s grim pretence at courage wavered. Ahead of her on a wide, half-moon platform that stretched like a stage devoid of all its players, seven shallow steps led down into the earth.

The walls of the narrowing staircase were faced in smooth, pale masonry, and the downward path seemingly ended at a sheer, vertical wall facing the steps, with no door or entryway onwards. Instead, the end of her journey would begin at the square of utter darkness that waited in the floor where an eighth step would have been, gaping and blank like the maw of a newly dug grave.

Barefoot, the grit beneath the soft soles of her feet dug into her skin, and the same wind that made the flames dance pulled at the folds of her undyed, linen peplos to send undulating ripples through the thin fabric. Goosebumps prickled along her arms and legs. The gold bracelets that adorned wrist and ankle did nothing to warm her and the wind snuck its fingers into the elaborate coils of her long, dark hair, unwinding them and freeing them from the golden net that had held them all in place.

She’d been made up to look like a bride, but instead of a wedding, she walked through the pageantry of her own funeral. She wished bitterly that those coils of hair atop her head would turn to snakes and strike at the two men walking three, silent paces behind her with their bronze spear tips levelled at the small of her spine.

Overhead, a line of ochre-red smeared across the sunset sky like a bloody finger painting, and the copper disc of the sun stained the sea a dark, murex purple as dusk gathered around the cliff-top palace, and her last moments in the light of Helios drew to a close.

The monumental limestone masonry of the royal palace shone out of the dusk like pale bone, and a woman with a kithara wailed shrilly to the insistent beat of seven great drums, their rhythm a second heartbeat in her ears.

Incense, thick and cloying, twisted through the air from the braziers and it burned her throat and lungs and made her eyes water as she passed them. She blinked away the tears that formed; they were not for these people, and she would not let them see her afraid. Behind the incense, the faint scent of jasmine and honeysuckle floated past her from a distant palace garden that she would never see.

Upon the top step of seven, she faltered to a halt, shaking despite her desire to be brave; to bear the humiliation with stoic dignity. Hurt and grief curdled inside her with the last of her sputtering courage, and on impulse, she turned sharply to look back over the gathered folds of material at her shoulder, dark eyes wide and glassy with terror. The searing lance of betrayal that had been broken off somewhere in her ribs was now lodged there forever.

There, among the onlookers, she could see her stoop-shouldered father, with his wildly curly hair blowing around his head, and his tanned skin like leather after so many years under the fierce Cretan sun, his hands rough and strong and always gentle. He’d shown her how to hold a chisel and a mallet, how to split seasoned timber with wedge, mallet, and axe, how to pull the draw-knife across its surface, how to use a lathe to turn wood, and how to cut the joints in a chair so they would fit together perfectly. He’d even shown her how to carve winged sirens into the prows of the new ships and how to tease the shape of a spoon out of a section of wood without slicing her own thumb off.

She’d played in the shipwrights’ yard since she’d been old enough to toddle away from her mother and bring her father his midday meal. She’d laughed and learned along with the apprentices, outshining some and learning from others, until the day she’d nearly lost her index finger to the careless stroke of a chisel, and her mother had called her back to the house to spin and weave instead. In the wavering light of the braziers that lined the short path to her own personal Tartarus, she glanced down at the pale scar in her sun-bronzed skin and ran the pad of her left thumb over the silver line at the knuckle of her index finger where sensation existed only in her memory.

She willed that numbness to bloom out across her body, but her pain burned too brightly and too hot to be doused, and she ground her teeth. Her father couldn’t meet his daughter’s dark eyes across the empty stretch of gritty ground between them, but her mother held her gaze, unflinching.

The music seemed to fade as mother and daughter stood locked in distant, grim, resentful silence.

King Minos and Queen Pasiphaë stood on a raised dais somewhere off to her right, wreathed in embroidered, purple silks and dripping with gold, but she had no eyes nor time for them. It was because of the conceit and hubris of King Minos that she was being sacrificed to the monster below the palace, and because her mother had refused to take a ship and sail away with her that she was standing there now.

Cold, hard eyes spoke only of the desire for her daughter not to shame her. To go with dignity to a death that was, after all, to honour Poseidon. Of course, her parents would be well compensated by the king for their ‘gift’, but as all the misty possibilities along the path of her life were snuffed out like so many tiny candles, she couldn’t muster anything but contempt for her parents.

“I’m your daughter!” she yelled at her mother, her voice cracking as she fought the urge to double over against the pain. The agony of their betrayal clutched and clawed at her insides, the imaginary blade twisting deeper. “How could you? I’m your daughter!”

She hardly recognised her mild-mannered father as he just lowered his gaze to stare at the stones beneath his sandals. Beside him, her mother just kept on staring, her face like a statue at a shrine to discipline.

“I’m your daughter,” she whispered, the words inaudible to all but the two guards who began to steer and poke her down the steps like a cow to slaughter. “That’s all I am to you people,” she said, the words lost. “I’m not even human.”

The men exchanged a look as they neared the end of the stairs, but she couldn’t read it; couldn’t think.

She was about to die, to be torn to bloody shreds by teeth and monstrous hands, perhaps impaled on the horns of the bull-headed monster that rampaged below the palace, foaming and furious in his own imprisonment, and all while they held their stately banquet above and congratulated themselves on their own cleverness for appeasing Poseidon with a little virgin’s blood. And all for an insult dealt to the god almost three decades ago.

Well, at least she wasn’t a virgin.

Would the monster know? Would Poseidon care? Would the god even notice when the thread of her life was cut?

At an impatient flick of the king’s fingers, the two guards stepped forward as one. Their glinting, bronze spear points finally made contact and jabbed through the fabric at her hips, pricking two bloody points in the skin that bloomed like red eyes in the pale linen. She felt nothing. Her heel missed the lip of the opening into the earth, and she toppled backwards with a wordless shriek. Her arms and limbs flailed, and the shadows of the labyrinth reached up and consumed her.

She had promised herself she wouldn’t scream.

When she’d sat in the painted chamber in the royal palace, its walls adorned with lurid frescoes of figures leaping bulls and topless women emptying black amphorae into channels in the earth that had made her think of the runnels of blood in a butcher’s shop; when her hair had been combed and oiled and placed in its glinting net; when she’d had perfumed oil dabbed at the hollow of her throat, the inside of her wrists, onto her nipples, and, especially repulsive to her racing imagination, down between her legs; when she’d been told it was an honour to be deemed a worthy sacrifice to the monster stalking in his unending paths of dark nightmare: she had made an oath to herself that she would not scream. She would shame them with her silence. One last act of defiance.

Yet as she plunged backwards through the rush of foetid black emptiness, she screamed long and loud.

The sound tore itself free from her throat, raw and ringing in her ears as she plummeted down and down and down through the darkness that filled the shaft. The sky became a square of distant starlight that diminished as she fell.

You can read the whole 4k word chapter on Patreon right now for just $3, or for $5 you can have access to everything pre-2020, plus an additional, exclusive monthly story and lifetime membership to our chill Discord server.

[orphanheirs]

Official WIP Intro Post

General Stuff:

Working title: Lambswool

Genre: dark fantasy, gothic horror, folk horror, historical fiction

Quick run down: In regency England, a misfit half-demon child belonging to a species of beings who guard the doors between the world(s) of the living and the dead enters the mortal world. An amateur magician unleashes an entity determined to tear apart the delicate balance between realms. Shit hits the fan.

Vibes: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, Over the Garden Wall, The Witch, Interview With the Vampire (movie), The Company of Wolves, The Secret Garden, Sleepy Hollow, Valerie and Her Week of Wonders, Labyrinth, Return To Oz

POV: Multiple POVs, third person, interlaced with diary entries and letters--so partially an epistolary novel

Some themes: death, breaking the cycle of generational trauma, forging one's own identity, adolescence, being the black sheep, being the sacrificial lamb, found family, isolation, anti-capitalism/colonialism, queerness, oppression, the "other", inversion of normativity, the predator archetype, "the empowered child", control/power, grappling with fate and history, making the future, etc...

Features: character driven, nobody's really the "hero" or "good guy" (whole point is everyone's a person/being the world traditionally sees as "wicked" or "evil"), fairies, witchcraft, sorcery, Stonehenge, romanticism, castles, ruined monasteries, graveyards, magic lantern shows, hearth cooking, early industrial revolution, early science, ballrooms, candelabras, desolate moors, ghosts, demons, consumption, melancholia, friends who are each others' beloathed, souling/trick-or-treating, dandies, dying 19th century waifs taking control of their own destiny, time travel, pretty dresses, the taste of butter, deals with the devil AND MORE

Story:

Set-up: England, 1810. The nation has reached a strength and prosperity never before seen, and advancements in technology and science are rapidly pushing the 18th century into the dizzying 19th. Industrialization is changing the fabric of life in hardly conceivable ways, and amidst the rise of capitalistic modernity it seems the belief in a lively and ever-present spirit world --so ubiquitous in previous centuries-- is under serious threat. But with upsets like mass crop failures, the ongoing Napoleonic wars, and multiple uprisings in recent memory, anxieties in this rapidly changing world are high, with some turning to evangelicalism and reactionary moralizing. Many believe the end of the world must be near arrival. Meanwhile, the world continues to largely be lit by fire, and one must still use the moon to light their way on a country road at night. And in the country there are those who still believe in quaint things like the Fair Folk and practice primitive charms. And in these dark places, in these cracks between the veil, tucked in the corners of the tangible, there are ancient supernatural forces yet lying in wait to stake their claim on the land of the living once again.

Plot (will change/be added to as I develop more): A dying child summons a demon in his bedroom to help him run away from home and finds himself bound to serve the spirit. After spending his whole life within the walls of his family's mansion, he's simultaneously thrust into both the mortal world of his time and into that of the Other Side. After some time spent feverishly drinking from the cup of life to the point of excess with the encouragement of his new demon companion and plunging headfirst into delicious immoral behavior that flies in the face of the oppressive society of his time, he thinks he's made himself a pretty good deal. But soon he learns that the demon is interested in involving him in more than just juvenile delinquency, and in fact intends to usher in a new era where evil spirits, the dead, and Other Things will freely meddle with and torment the living. What's more, there's a species of guardian spirits who have previously prevented this from happening--ones who open and close the door between worlds in a controlled manner, ones who, particularly, steward the yearly lifting of the veil that occurs on Halloween/Samhain. And the demon intends to destroy them all, starting with a young member of their race who has foolishly entered the mortal realm, thus breaking an ancient covenant. The child is sent to search for and manipulate this being into the demon's clutches, which he finds more difficult than he anticipated when he accidentally makes the first friend he's ever had in the process. The two then journey around England, with the human child acting as the being's guide through messy mortal life. Together they survive off of the victuals they scare out of hapless cottagers they haunt along the way while the demon works to recruit more earthly and unearthly helpers to its scheme. It all leads up to a climax where the fate of the worlds, and of Halloween, is decided. There's also definitely going to be subplots and backstories.

Characters (so far) with example images:

Tristan:

A sickly, precocious 12 year old shut up in the gilded, but stifling halls of his family's country estate, Tristan is determined to do ANYTHING to liberate himself and live some life before he drops dead from his ailments. Even if it means summoning dark forces to help him escape into the outside world. Even if it means serving the infernal entity he conjured and helping it carry out its nefarious schemes. In fact this suits Tristan just fine. That is until he meets the demon's number one target.. [Tag: #tristan]

Crispin:

[combine image 1 and 2 in your head to get an idea of Crispin's unhuman appearance.]

A young member of a species of demon/human hybrids who strive to keep balance between the spirit and mortal realms. About 10 years old in mortal time. About ??? years old in nonmortal time. He escapes the horrors of his family's Hellish castle located in a limbo-like space, and enters our world. In 1810 his clothing and speech are about 200 years out of date. His nature differs from others of his species, so when he stumbles upon mortals, he yearns to join in with them..which is made a just a bit difficult owing to his monstrous appearance and the fact that doing so goes against every tenet of his kind. [Tag: #crispin]

Demon/Spirit (no name yet):

A Being of mysterious and extremely antique origin. Banished and chained beneath a neolithic ritual site for thousands of years due to its destructive intentions and dangerous power. Freed by the summoning of a little shit named Tristan. Takes the form of a comely young man. Immediately intends on being up to no good again; might fuck around and usher in the apocalypse. [Tag: #cult]

Witch (no name yet):

A seeress, cunning woman, and good old fashioned witch, she's a young woman living in an isolated cottage at the edge of a wood leading into Faerie. She finds herself the reluctant keeper of a half-demon charge who Shouldn't Be Here. She has to deal with all the challenges involved with rearing an inhuman child, on top of preventing him from wriggling out of her grasp and into the company of other humans. She instructs Crispin in mortal magic and gives him the first affection he's ever gotten. [Tag: #teacher]

Lamia:

Crispin's elder sister. A more typical example of their species, she is vicious, cruel, and perfectly at home in the house of horrors they grow up in. Nevertheless, she is fascinated by Crispin, and, dissatisfied/bored with the way their family operates, sets out after him for some fun. [Tag: #lamia]

Emrys:

A vagabonding sin eater of indeterminate age because he looks young, but is so ragged and worn down it's hard to tell. He performs an old and fading tradition as yet kept up in country places, which he believes has damned him to Hell. Meets the other characters on his/their wanderings and gets drawn into everything, resulting in a pretty intense identity crisis. [Tag: no tag yet]

Setting/tags:

Setting: Regency England/British Isles--a good chunk of the action takes place in the countryside of the southwestern English county of Wiltshire. Later the action moves to London. May also be other locations, such as Scotland or Ireland or maybe even America-- not sure of how big the scope is going to be yet. [Tags: #setting, #interior, #countryside, #woods, #england, #dailylife, #regency, #wiltshire, and more...] Will also be delving into different realms, such as faerie.

Other tags: #occult, #stonecircle, #cemetery, #fairies, #witchcraft, #halloween, #pagan, #mythology, #folklore, #ancient, #mementomori and so on...

"Soundtrack" playlist:

Wow, if you read this whole thing thank you so much!! I'm psyched to finally get this intro out and give you guys a more general overview of the story. Can't wait to share a whole lot more!!!

{All footage in the video above taken by me at my local cemetery/historic site. The song used is "May Song" by Martin Carthy. All the art used is historical.}

[boosmidnighthour]

Uh, happy pride month, by the way! I wish I was a faster writer or just planned things in advance; I don't have any fics that celebrate the month.

Instead, have another WIP before the month ends.

Fandom: Ninjago Working Title: Possession/Disbelief (definitely needs a different name whenever I actually post it) Rating: General

◇◇◇

Cole sighed as he made it over the last ledge. It felt good to be solid again. The gravel and dirt felt almost heavenly against his scraped palms. He had missed it all too much. He should really take up rock climbing again-

“Ugh, finally!” Jay started from where he was with his dragon. “Y'know, I was supposed to tag along with you, not the other way around…”

“What? I had to climb the mountain properly this time. It felt almost disrespectful not to,” he argued with a roll of his eyes, lifting himself up the rest of the way and dusting his hands off. “Plus, now that I'm no longer a ghost, I have to treat my body right.”

“You nearly ate an entire cake as soon as Zane pulled it out of the oven.”

“Treating my body right includes indulging in my ignored sweet tooth. And it smelled delicious; if Zane had brought anything else out, I would've eaten it just the same. His cooking is near godly.”

“Whatever you say, man,” he huffed. Then he clapped to get them both back on track. “Anyway, you're here to see into your future. Get to it. It's getting dark, and when it gets dark, it gets cold. I'd prefer to be in bed after a nice hot meal before that happens-”

“With the fire master.”

“What?”

“You'd ‘prefer to be in bed after a nice hot meal’... with the fire master,” Cole snickered, watching as Jay's cheeks turned bright red. “That's a pretty important detail to skip over-”

“Stop stalling and go look before I drag you back down this mountain,” he growled irritably, petting at Wisp's snout. If the dragon hadn't been there, it wouldn't have been as threatening.

��Okay, okay. I'm moving.” So what if he was still a bit of a wuss around dragons?

Cole made his way to the entrance, more hesitantly than he would have liked to admit. The crack in the earth was daunting, looming over him as if to scare him off. He wondered if he actually wanted to know the answer. How far into the future would this take him? What if it was the day before he died? What if it didn't show any future for him at all? What if-

Okay, he had to stop before he thought himself into a trap.

After having paused, he continued forward into the tunnel, feeling along the walls to keep himself steady and to push through his growing nerves. Maybe this was a waste of time, but… now that he was human again, he wanted to see if it had changed at all. As the walls turned to ice and his breath began to fog, he saw the light of the sky reflecting back to him.

The labyrinth, while absolutely freezing and without much else to look at, had beautifully smooth ice. Even with the people that have come and gone, it was still spotless. When the light shone on it at just the right angle, the ice looked like crystals, sparkling like glitter. He tried to remember if Zane had commented on it the first time they'd come here.

Before he looked at himself on any of the walls, he took a deep breath. “Okay, ice… show me something new,” he whispered in the quiet of the cavern. Then he steeled himself and looked towards his reflection.

For a moment, it didn't show him anything, and his heart sank. Maybe this had been a waste of a trip… Then there was a wavering image of… someone walking towards him. It seemed like the ice couldn't decide what to show him, the image wavering indecisively, and it only made it more clear to him that he should take whatever this thing told him with a huge grain of salt.

Finally, the image of this future Cole became clear, and it stood right before him. He looked… well, older, obviously. Maybe a good thirty or forty years ahead. He was nearly the spitting image of his father, which he didn't know how to feel about. A full beard had grown on his face, hair even longer in his bun than now, hairs growing gray with age. There were wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his eyebags much more prominent, some smile lines at the corners of his mouth and nose. He looked happier than he ever had been.

Surprisingly, though, he wasn't wearing the ninja gi. Everyone else's reflections had, from what he could remember, but… why wasn't his? Instead, he wore some comfortable attire, looking as if he was enjoying a day off from work. He seemed to have gained a few scars, but they all looked rather old. His fit yet pudgy torso had thickened up a bit, but he still looked quite strong… did he still have his super strength? He couldn't tell. His hands looked even more calloused than they do now, though. He squinted more at his fingers, seeing something glint on one of them. He froze.

Was that… No, there's just no way. Who the hell would-

The Cole in his reflection turned away from him and gestured for someone to join him, and he suddenly felt like this was all too much. It was lying to him. He couldn't look away.

Zane made his way over to stand beside him, holding a small child in his arms, a teen walking just behind him. The nindroid was sporting a new skin, one as aged as he was. It was similar to how he had looked when they had first met, skin just as dark as he remembered. He still wore his ninja garbs, but he was also wearing a ring on his finger. There's no way Zane would wear a ring while still being a ninja; it was too easy to lose, it would be uncomfortable to wear while fighting, and if the press saw it, forget living any semblance of a peaceful life.

He couldn't help but yearn for such a lie.

There was no way any of this was real, but he wanted it to be. Maybe add a cat or two, and that would be the dream… No. No, no, no- it wasn't real! It was just the reflection telling him his dream life; it was just his brain projecting his hopes into the ice- none of that was possible. Not for him.

He tore himself away from the walls of ice and rushed out, his mind screaming at him to forget such scarring images.

◇◇◇

Only a snippet for y'all. I've gotten much farther on it than just this, but still have a long way to go. Yes, this has to do with that one episode where they saw their future in the ice or whatever. I haven't watched that episode (or that season) in a very long time, and I don't feel like going back to watch it, so we're gonna deal with some flawed memory and inaccuracy.

Yes, I did look up the dragon's names and ended up finding some fan-made ones.

Happy Pride Month!

[the-kr8tor]

WIP WEDNESDAY IS BACK!

They left your feet bare as the dry grass stings the soles of your feet. Walking slowly, taking your time while the breeze howls once again, one by one, each villager pin leaves and flowers on the crown. Not the ones that are dry and dead, but the ones that are beyond the village, the sweet smelling ones that are alive and healthy as the scent mingles with the stench of decay.

A roar echoes from within the labyrinth, and the flickering torches on the walls dance in the light breeze as if his breath reaches for you. Then you realize, if there's wind, there's an opening and a way out. There's rushing footsteps around you, and before you bolt away, you mark the wall on your right with the dagger, drawing a simple x. As you run away from the guttural roar, you follow the wall on your right, keeping it in your line of sight in hopes that the simple trick you learnt from playing in bush hedges with your sisters would help. This time it's not a flowery bush or your sisters waiting for you at the end. Just miles upon miles of walls and a minotaur chasing you.

“Just look, kid, actually look.” She gestures towards the cell and Scar gives Ekko a look before he walks closer to it. “Try not to shine a light in her eyes.” Her? Ekko's curiosity is piqued, eyes narrowing to look closer inside. Scar stands guard behind him, weapon still in hand while his eyes flick in between Sevika and the shadowy form inside the jail. Ekko's hand grasps the cold metal as he tries to make out what exactly he's looking at. Sevika rolls her eyes, and aims a flashlight towards the figure tucked in the corner of the room. A gasp can be heard, and Ekko sees you hiding yourself away, knees tucked and arms curled around yourself. A long white linen dress hides your body, and the mismatched enforcer jacket has him asking more questions. Your eyes peek over your arm, and he sees the arcane swirling inside your irises for a brief moment. He swears he saw it under your skin too. “What the fuck?” He asks in a muffled tone. “What— who?”

Guess which au is which!!

[fyodors--ushanka]

Thanatos- Bungou Stray Dogs x child!Reader

Hi, I've been inactive for a while, and I would like to add that I had created a new account, Class-of-09-bitch. Naturally, it's okay to not believe believe me, but if I remember, I will post a little disclaimer on my second account saying that I am the same person. Thank you, this is a continuation of my story, Thanatos.

Description: A child, emaciated and traumatized, is found in an alleyway, corpses surrounding him. He has an ability, Thanatomania. It happens with a touch; a peaceful death coming to whomever is on the receiving end.

Disclaimer: Crappily written. English is not my first language. I intend on making this a Multi part series. Sorry if this is offensive to females and people of unspecified gender, I wrote MC as male because Thanatos is described as male in Ancient Greek history/literature. This is an introduction part. Please do enjoy.

WARNING: Death, mentions of rape, blood, starvation, suicidal ideation, abuse, WIP!!

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

He scoots farther back into the brick wall, hyperventilating. He had finally got something to eat after days of going without. Now it's soiled. He's scared, no, he's terrified. Did he do that? Did it hurt them? There's blood on his clothes. So much blood. It's smeared on his face, hands and feet. Dirt sticks to him like a shroud. It's disgusting. He wants to puke. He's dizzy. His world tilts on its axis. The blood and dirt mixture is sticky. He's sure that he wants to die. His vision blurs as his breath gets even more shallow, dark spots appearing in his line of sight. A light thud echoes through the alleyway as his body slumps down. Shock, hyperventilation and malnutrition taking Its toll. This moment will be permanently engraved in his memories, like a parasite, latching on and refusing to leave.

A boy sits alone in a circle of corpses. His name is M/N. He's not sure his age, but he's sure that he is at least 13. Tears stream heavily down his face as his breath comes in short, ragged gasps. He's not sure how this even happened. The men surrounded him, seeing him as an easy target for rape. They didn't get far, so he only received a few cuts and bruises. The moment they began hurting him, they fell back, blood gushing from every orfice on their head.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

Huh...that's not right. It's black, but he can see. It's cold. So cold. He's swimming in the deep labyrinth of his mind, the thing he's swimming in is almost like water. Was he found? The light above him is luring, like an angel singing. His body feels heavy. But...he's floating? It's odd. The white light engulfs him, blinding him momentarily. His back hits the soft material of sheets. He gasps rapidly, sitting up. A male is sitting near the bed. He has long silver hair, but for some reason, he can't find himself thinking it's from aging because this man looks so young. His eyes are a piercing blue, intently locked on the recently awoken boy.

"You're awake." He says, not exactly a question, but more of a statement. M/N looks back at him warily. "Sir-" A coughing fit interrupts his speech. The man hands him a cup of water. He gulps it down, soothing his dry throat. "Can you please tell me where I am?" He tries once again, looking over his body, it's clean, he's dressed in hospital attire. Did...did these people clean him? And give him somewhere to sleep? "You're in the infirmary at the Armed Detective Agency." The Armed Detective Agency is notorious for their supposed supernatural abilities. His eyes widen a bit. Is he in trouble? Before he can think, he blurts the question out. "Am I in trouble?" His voice is quiet, and scared. "No child, you are not. You couldn't control it, you had all right to do what you did." This man is confusing. M/N remains quiet, watching him. "What's your name?" "M/N.." "How old are you?" He blinks. He isn't sure. "I think..I think I'm 13." The man hums, smiling slightly. "I'm Yukichi Fukuzawa."

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

He's been awake for a few hours, still sleepily rubbing his eyes every now and then. He's concluded that he is safe, but still weary. These people helped him. A really nice and pretty woman had come in a few times, she had short, straight dark hair and magenta eyes. She had brought him something to eat and drink, along with giving him medication for whatever reason. She had identified herself as "Akiko Yosano." According to her, he is malnourished and dehydrated. She had looked at him with a look of pity in her eyes each time she saw the way the hospital gown hung loosely off his body, the smallest size still being a bit big. He's spent most of his awake time wrapped up in a blanket, replaying the events from last night. He had killed people. Even though they tried to hurt him, that did not excuse what he did. It was vile, and to think, he had the blood of another person on him.

He can't fathom what he's done such heinous acts. He can't even process why he's not in trouble. When he still lived with his parents, drinking more than a few bottles of water a day would get him beat. They had kicked him out when he was 11. He's not sure why, though. Maybe it was because he is incompetent, seeing as he's never been to school or done anything remotely good with his life. The door opens. It's the man from earlier. He's carrying a pair of small, black gloves. He sets them down on the bedside table. "I've assumed you don't want to hurt anyone else, so I came up with a solution." He tilts his head slightly. He's never received this much love in one sitting, so why start now? He's incompetent of receiving affection, because he's just a monster.

"Go ahead, try them on." Fukuzawa speaks, encouraging M/N to do so. M/N pulls the gloves onto his hands. They fit perfectly! This is amazing. He bites his lip slightly, it looks like he's ready to cry. "Thank you..." He says softly. Fukuzawa smiles, a stark contrast to the typical stern look bestowed upon his face. "You're welcome." The thought at the back of his head nags at him, whispering treacherous words. Weak, incompetent, monster, killer, undeserving of love. The words replay as a constant within the interior of his skull. It hurts. Not physically..but a different kind of pain. One deep within the soul, aching to no avail. He puts on a smile. If he looks happy, then the feels happy. Right? That's how it works, isn't it? Fukuzawa stands up, leaving the room in silence. M/N stares down at the black gloves on his hands, his thoughts sporadically bouncing inside of his head. Is he even deserving of such things? To be given anything except hate? He'll never know. He lays back a bit, closing his eyes. Before he knows it, he's nearly asleep. His body falls limp, all tension leaving as he falls into the sneaky labyrinth of dreams.

That's the end of part one!!! Getting ready to write part two.

[rileyav]

Im gay for your blorbos. Talk about them

WELL i need a direction but someone asked how they keep their rooms so i will talk about THAT

funny question due to their stories they have had several living arrangements, i would say the best way to describe it is likely "tidy but lived in"

Xandra's actual initial room in her hive -

meant for hanging out with others, good aesthetic/vibe for everyone to enjoy (pretty) and fun activity. bean bags, arts & crafts shit, a gigantic mirror for dancing&working out and checking posture/form and stuff like that. kept relatively clean because it had to be (for company!!!), but very much always lived in/used/had active stuff going on all the time

this is a wip of her room it is not fuckin done yet. YES that is troll Celine Dion and troll Cher

Xandra's jadeblood hive after she ran away (not actually her room at all) -

literally empty, bare, runes stacked on top of each other in pyramids, only activities were for the dolls and herself and a couple of her personal items that she took. one singular poster of Cher.

Xandra's room in Johan's train -

a reflection of Johan's perception of her; Art Deco, 1920s, classy, modestly elegant. sleek, polished, black and gold. most of the time, tidy, because she barely stays in it, but she's left it in complete disarray before after a big ole menty b

unfortunately no pic for this but i should make one.

Xandra's room in her manor -

honestly just kinda similar to Xander's train room but i need to actually think about it more. def fairy lights tho always bruh

Xander's room - i honestly did not start the tabletop with Xander in mind, he came into existence from the DM's prompt (asked "What would a male Xandra look like") so his appearance came first before anything. sooo... i have not thought about this yet tbh. it would be cute if he were messy but he's also efficient and disciplined so... UNSURE, tbqh

Xander's ??? room after shit hit the fan (not his room) -

i'm not sure on the details of what happened with Xander specifically (i need to fucking ask) but i know that when Xandra went into the jadeblood cave, I was given two options. one was a creepy dark mech/weapon room and one was a creepy magic rune room. Xandra took the rune room, so in his universe, Xander took the mech/weapon room. 😭 it's cold and dark and unsettling because it belonged to a former religious fanatic/terrorist and the recuperacoon is like, part of the fucking wall, so Xander would have had to stand upright to sleep ?? my freak baby. IT ALSO HAS LIKE, NO FURNITURE. so idk what Xander was doing holed up for two whole fucking years but it was probably way less comfortable than whatever Xandra was doing because at least she had a couch

Xander's room in Erra's train -

(paraphrased from DM description) furnishings in deep blues and golds, bookshelves filled with scientific texts and fiction, subtle lightning to create a sense of calm. a workstation with multiple holographic displays suspended above an elegant desk with multiple projects in various states of completion, gaming equipment, etc.

NOW

Xandra has created a room just for them in her fucking magic manor -- which is also not hers but was gifted to her by ... an ancient entity knows as the Father ... she finally met one of the voices in the tv wall or whatever he's called the Father, and he warmed up to her enough to give her his entire manor. the manor acts as a labyrinth, so only she can navigate it (or Father, or Sypp for some fucking reason) and it can create essentially whatever she wants. she has used it to create a gigantic hangout room for Girls' Night (which was awesome) and now has a humble little bedroom for her and Xander which she is probably going to improve upon in the future.

the bedroom was mostly meant to create a cute little nest for them to cuddle in but it also has fairy lights made from her lighthouse (a structure on her planet that creates a beacon to lost things, inspired by a similar structure on Xander's planet), percussion instruments (Xander is a drummer and Xandra just likes having jam sessions and dancing and singing), there's comic books for Xander (he's a cute ass dork) and journals and diaries and sketchbooks (Xandra doodles), there's flowers (roses and other flowers for good luck and love) it's kind of literally just a cute little play room for them to relax and have fun and nap in with a gigantic comfy bed with all kinds of pillows and blankets LMFAO

Xandra hadn't slept in like 3 days so . she really wanted to fucking nap. so she made that room (:

anyway. so yeah. they have a lot of rooms. it fits them incredibly well tbh

[duskandcobalt]

wip wednesday 💕

i'd like to take a brief interlude from my depressive spiral to present a small excerpt from the slutty elriel fic i'm working on, still hoping to get this out this week but taylor swift put a pin in my plans and i've been wallowing in bed for like 96 straight hours.

no warnings here bc im saving the actual slutty content for the full published piece.

hope everyone's having a good week 💖

Elain blindly wandered down the dark hallways.The echo of her heels on the stone floor was menacing, causing the already frantic beat of her heart to rise to an almost worrisome crescendo. It didn’t help that she could barely see and was relying solely on the occasional flickering fae light and the cool, insistent shadow pressed to the small of her back to guide her towards her mystery destination.

It felt like she’d been walking for hours, turning this way and that in the labyrinth that made up the various chambers of this unfamiliar place but finally, the pressure of the shadow on her back eased as she approached an arched door right at the end of the seemingly never ending hallway. She paused in front of it, unsure what to do until the shadow slid up her arm and along her neck, wrapping itself around her ear. 

Go.

Elain swallowed, her gloved hand reaching out for the doorknob. 

Subconsciously, she knew where that shadow had been guiding her. Knew that the neat, dark interior of this room was the perfect match for what she’d always imagined in those salacious dreams of hers.

She’d been ready to see him. Aching to see him. But to open the door and get her first glimpse of him… she hadn’t quite been ready for that. 

Azriel was reclined in a leather chair behind his desk. The jacket he'd been wearing earlier had been discarded and left to drape on cabinet at the far end of the room. The first few buttons of his crisp white shirt was undone, providing a glimpse of the tantalising tattoos hidden underneath. He had one long leg folded over the over, one ankle resting on his knee. And on that knee, cradled by his large, scarred hand, sat a short glass of amber liquid that perfectly matched his honeyed eyes.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

[liquidstar]

april fools is over so now im going to be slash srs instead of slash j. im going to post a little excerpt from one of the oc writing practices ive been doing :) again im not super experienced for a variety of reasons but im doing my best here.

but im going to try and put my self conciousness to the side (thats probably an important part of the practice too, right?) since this isnt final version either way, i can just say im sharing a WIP! so for now it will go the way of most of my other oc stuff..... under the cut

the only context you need is that this would be the opening scene for the story. if i post others i'll have to give more context bc most of them are taken from the middle of something. anyway here goes:

-----

“I love you

I've loved you since the beginning

From when you were only stardust

To when you will rejoin the stars

When everyone will be together again

Understand, you don’t simply live in the universe

You are part of it, taking on a form uniquely alive

You are the universe giving love back to itself

I love you so much”

“Wait!!!”

A lone girl jolts awake, crying a plea into the empty air. Tears stream down her cheeks, as she calls for someone she doesn't know. Her heart aches with a nameless yearning that fades with the memory of her dream. Still, against her will, the emotions linger. A profound sense of love consumes her, an agonizing, grieving love, meant for her. She sighs and wipes away her tears. It was an absurd dream, a ridiculous notion.

As her conscious mind clears, she takes in her surroundings; a forest drowned in the pale blue light of dawn. Her sleeping bag, now encased in dew, was laid on the cold grass. She sits for a while, gazing at the faint sliver of the rising sun’s glow with an indistinct expression, and eventually stands up.

The lone girl begins her daily routine by braiding her hair. With a wave of her hand, she freezes dew on a rock, creating herself a mirror. Her fingers carefully weave her brown locks into a braid, now adorned with a snowflake clip and a scarlet ribbon. She throws on a long blue half-skirt over her shorts, matching her shirt. She forces on a pair of black boots and cuffs on her arm. Lastly, she grabs a moon-themed spear, and she's ready for the day.

Before setting off, she made sure to pack all her belongings, including her numerous hand-drawn maps and a compass. However, she also stops to look into the bag deeper, foolishly expecting to find something new. Instead, she only sighs, "Still no food."

She puts on the backpack and trudges forward anyway, ignoring the hunger pains as best she can. She hums to keep herself distracted.

As she walks, the trees tower above her, shrouding the horizon and taunting her. Birds occasionally fly into view, but seem to disappear in an instant. She wonders if her eyes are playing tricks on her.

The lone girl scribbles on her maps, trying to record a labyrinth of identical tree trunks and twisted paths. This proves useless, as this elliptical forest has her going in circles. Exasperated, she fidgets with her compass, only to see the needle is frantically twitching around. She presses it gently to her forehead and quietly complains, “Don't tell me you're broken…”

Her train of thought was cut short by the sudden sound of running water, so loud she can’t fathom how she’s only now begun to hear it. She decided to put off one problem for another. Following the sound through some shrubs, she quickly finds the source.

Her spear at the ready, she approaches the stream. Scanning its depths for signs of fish, she walks cautiously. Her posture was awkward, her expression was uncertain, betraying her lack of experience. She held her spear to her chest with both arms as she encroached the water’s edge.

She inhales in preparation, removes her skirt and boots, and enters the water with slow, careful steps. The very surface of the stream begins to freeze as it makes contact with her skin. Tiny, thin crystals of ice form as she steps further in. Breathing deeper, as she tries to control the frost, she makes her way to the center of the stream. She stands waiting for fish.

Rather than throwing her spear to hunt, like the intended purpose, she stabs at the water. She’s not good at this, however, and only ends up scaring other potential prey away. She makes several attempts at this but is unsuccessful each time. Refusing to quit, her repeated strikes become more desperate and uncoordinated with each failure. Her growing frustration only makes the water freeze deeper, eventually solidifying around her legs. She yelps, now in a panic, and begins to frantically stab at the ice to free herself.

A mess.

Escaping this ordeal, the lone girl abandons any further attempt at fishing. It probably isn't her calling anyway. She trudges on, lost, wet, cold, and hungry.

She looks at her compass again, her face reflecting in its glass. “You're broken,” she tiredly states, as she feels her eyes begin to well with tears.

“No! No no no! Don't cry! Don't cry Polaris,” The lone girl, Polaris, reassures herself, “Last time you cried you froze your eyelids shut, and that really hurt,” She whines aloud.

Polaris takes a deep breath, slaps her cheeks, and swallows her tears. She elects to follow the river, her only hope of escape, pursuing the promise of a village just beyond this enigmatic forest. She daydreams of a warm meal in a cozy restaurant, and maybe a cold desert too. A glimmer of determination returns to her stride, as she continues her hum from before.