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ichorai · 2 years

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to noise making ; steve rogers.

track six of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; steve rogers x mutant!gn!reader

synopsis ; pure silence never sat well with steve. it reminded him of all the time he had lost frozen in ice. so when he heard your loose, disjointed hums coming from the compound’s kitchen, he came seeking your voice out more and more.

words ; 4.5k

themes ; fluff, mild angst

warnings / includes ; mild cursing, implications of depression/ptsd but not explicit, descriptions of injury/blood, a mention of a toxic ex, one mention of biological warfare, reader is a mutant with the ability to manipulate matter, reader calls steve 'old man' and he calls them 'sweetheart' once, reader and tony are best friendos, this fic is basically a huge FUCK YOU to steve's ending in endgame, a kiss !! that tony rudely interrupts, mildly an avengers tower-reminiscent fic bcs they're my found family okay </3

main masterlist. set in the same universe as: blue jeans.

Silence accompanied Steve everywhere he went.

It followed him through his morning—when he rose so early even the birds hadn’t started their day yet. When he went out for a quick jog, his shoes nearly mute against the sidewalk’s smooth concrete. When he showered with frigidly cold water right after, he stared wordlessly at the ground as the iridescent soap suds ran down his skin into the drain.

It followed him through his afternoon—when he filled out paperwork for the latest recon mission. When he played a quiet game of Uno with Bucky over the kitchen counter during lunch. When he went outside, where the curious stares of strangers seemed to grow exponentially with each ticking second, and phone cameras were shoved into his face not two yards out the door.

It followed him through the night—when he went on a blind date set up by Natasha, the dinner largely consisted of uncomfortable pauses, mostly because they really had nothing in common, and she’d also mentioned she wasn’t all that into blondes. When he later took his motorcycle out for a drive, stopping by an empty bridge to stare down at the river rushing by. When he slid into bed with naught a sound, digging his fist into his eyes until he hallucinated bright colors behind his eyelids.

Pure silence never sat well with Steve. It reminded him of all the time he had lost frozen in ice. All the time that had slipped right between his fingers like fine grains of sand.

That morning was as ordinary as ever. He brushed his teeth. Ran a comb through his flaxen hair. Changed into his jogging clothes. Tied his shoes. And he slipped out of the compound, off for his daily run.

When he came back, he was surprised to see Tony striding out of the kitchen—he wasn’t usually up this early.

“Dishwasher’s broken,” the brunette told him, sipping a large mug of dark coffee as he stroked his stubble with his other hand. “Remind me to get that fixed, will you?”

Steve blinked, then nodded.

Satisfied, Tony bid him adieu with no more than a limp wave as he shuffled past him, off to the compounds laboratory.

The rest of the day slid by as quiet as ever—paperwork, filing, having lunch with Natasha at a secluded Italian cafe, mission debrief with Sam, more paperwork, listening to Bucky complain about his cat scratching up his favorite henley, and finally, deciding he was hungry enough to make dinner.

He rose out of his chair, stretching with a soft groan as his bones popped with the movement. Then, Steve made his way out of his room, making a bee-line for the kitchen. He wasn’t at all surprised to see the compound’s living room empty—Sam had left for Louisiana to visit his sister, Natasha was off on an impromptu mission with Clint, Tony was doing god knows what in his lab, and Bucky was busy reprimanding Alpine for destroying his most prized article of clothing.

With everybody gone, it should’ve been quiet.

But it wasn’t.

Much to Steve’s mild surprise and curiosity, he could hear somebody in the kitchen.

Who could it be? Bruce? No—Bruce had flown off to Switzerland for some sort of fancy science convention. Thor? It was possible, but probably not—the Norse god would’ve barged into his room asking how to use the microwave for the millionth time by now.

Steve heard the clatter of pots. The sound of boiling liquid. A displeased noise, quietly followed by a frantic mutter, “Oh, too much, too much!” He heard water trickling down the drain.

Then, the humming started. It was loose and disjointed, following the tune of a song for a couple seconds at a time before taking a lengthy pause, only to pick up an entirely new melody a minute later.

It took him a moment to realize that lingering in the dark hallway whilst listening intently to someone in the kitchen was rather creepy, so Steve reared himself out of his thoughts and stepped into the light.

Of course it was you. You were more or less new to the compound—a long-time, trusted friend of Tony’s from all the way back when he first built his Iron Man suit. You were recently brought onto the team due to your mutant abilities, uncanny intelligence, and Tony’s undeniable fondness for you. Besides that, Steve knew very little about you: he knew you were around the same age as him (at least the same age as when he was frozen), he knew you were a genius physicist, he knew you had the power to manipulate matter around you (which made you an excellent asset to the team), and he recalled Scott once mentioning that you were allergic to styrofoam.

Steve assumed that the last one had been a joke.

“Oh!” Your startled voice echoed across the kitchen at the sight of him. “Oh, it’s just you.”

An eyebrow raised closer to his hairline. “Just me? Who did you think it was?”

You appeared embarrassed for a moment, waving a spatula in the air. “Well, I may or may not have stolen Tony’s top secret models for his next version of the suit—just because I was curious how much he was going to spend on it, you know? I figured he’d come storming in accusing me of theft.”

A smile graced Steve’s lips. “Well, knowing Tony, I don’t think he’ll notice anytime soon. He hasn’t left the lab in hours.”

You shook your head fondly with a part hum, part scoff, before turning back to the stove, mixing the large pot full of red sauce. The air was saturated with the scent of simmering tomatoes and aromatic herbs—basil and oregano, Steve mused, were probably two of his most favorite things since coming out of the ice. They certainly didn’t have flavors like those back in the forties. Everything was far too bland and excessively moist back then.

“I’m making vegan spaghetti,” you said, snapping him out of his mouth-watering daze. “I’d be happy to fix a plate for you.”

A polite protest was on the tip of his tongue—Steve was planning on quickly microwaving a frozen pizza before heading off to do some more work. Just as he began to voice this, his stomach rumbled loudly in betrayal, and a grimace etched over his mouth. A wave of heat seeped through his skin, tinting his face a subtle shade of scarlet.

Much to his relief, you merely grinned brightly, smothering a laugh by biting down on your bottom lip in amusement. “I’ll take that as a yes,” you quipped, ladleing spoonfuls of sauce into two bowls of steaming spaghetti noodles. “Take a seat.”

Complying, Steve gingerly sat at the kitchen table, resting his hand atop the smooth glass. “Can I ask you something?”

A smile danced across your mouth. “I believe you just did, Cap.” You chuckled mildly before gesturing for him to carry on.

“If you’ve got powers, why are you…”

“Cooking? I guess I just like to do things organically sometimes,” you replied easily, sprinkling herbs on top of the spaghetti before bringing the steaming bowls towards the table. “It’s cathartic.”

Steve thought to all the times he broke the sandbags in the gym—the satisfying thud of completion. He supposed he understood what you meant.

The dish in front of him was wafting with a fragrance that made his stomach twist painfully with hunger.

“Dig in,” you said, gesturing to his serving as you started twirling the noodles around with a fork. “And to elaborate on your question, I’ve made food using my powers before—but it just tastes different. Like it isn’t the same if I didn’t measure out the ingredients, waited for the water to boil, or chopped up the veggies. It feels almost as if I’m cheating, you know?”

Steve tilted his head in thought. “That’s an interesting way to put it,” he said with a small smile, before forking some spaghetti into his mouth. “How’d you find out about your powers?”

The light-hearted atmosphere about you seemed to thin away at his question. Your bottom lip was pulled between your teeth as you considered his question for a moment before responding. “It was an accident. A bad one. My ex… he was a real dick—excuse my language—and this one time one of our fights got out of hand. He started raising his palm like he was going to hit me. He wasn’t going to, by the way, he was just reaching for his phone behind me. But I panicked—and all of a sudden a shard of glass materialized right through his hand.”

Steve’s brows rose. He shoveled more spaghetti into his mouth.

“There was blood dripping all over the floor. We were both silent at first. Then, he started screaming. Luckily, we had a first aid kit in our bathroom. I bound his palm and drove him to the hospital—he was fine. No permanent damage.”

You sipped on some water, swallowing heavily.

“Are you guys still…?”

“Oh, definitely not.” You chuckled bitterly. “He never wanted to speak to me ever again. Called me a freak. A mutant.”

It was brief, but Steve could see the insecurity meld across your features, shattering through your otherwise bubbly persona.

“Well, he was an idiot. It was an accident, right? Accidents happen,” Steve quietly put forth. “And for what it’s worth, I think your powers are extraordinary. I mean, you can conjure up practically anything you want! That’s just… incredible.”

Warmth stained your insides golden as you pushed away a smile. “Thanks, Steve. Your powers aren’t too bad either—fast healing, enhanced strength. You’re quite the package.”

A generous smattering of crimson spread over his cheekbones. “Well, I’d have to thank Doctor Erskine for that. He was the one that invented the super serum—and chose for me to be the test subject. Because he believed in me.” There was a distant, reminiscent sadness to his eyes. You knew of Erskine, he was plastered across practically every American history textbook.

“I’m sorry he died so soon,” you mumbled. “He seemed like a great man.”

“He was,” Steve said, nodding. He regarded you for a moment, briefly wondering just why it was so easy to talk to you when the two of you had barely spoken before this. The blonde across from you cleared his throat. “Thinking about him always gets me strangely nostalgic. I dream about the forties sometimes… my terrible childhood, my creaky apartment, my first love, … life before the war—before all of this. Sometimes I wonder—if I was given the chance to go back, would I?”

Your fork stopped halfway to your face. “Would you?” you asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted, rather shamefully. “I don’t think I would. I mean, I’ve got my family here. Bucky, Sam, Natasha—they mean the world to me. I think I just feel… guilty about it all? Like when you mentioned using magic sometimes feels like your cheating at something. I feel like I cheated my own death. It feels unfair. When I look at Bucky—I feel like I betrayed him.”

“Oh, Steve.” You were shaking your head, reaching across the table to gently grasp one of his hands. Your palm was warm atop his frigid one. “I know how that feels—like you don’t deserve a place in the world because you’re different. But I promise it gets better. None of that was your fault. You’ll move on, with time. Plus, you’ve got a great support system here. I know we haven’t been the closest of friends but I’m certainly willing to lend an ear whenever you want me to.”

It mildly surprised him when he felt disappointment unfurl within his chest when you retracted your touch.

“That…” Steve released a small sigh, relaxing his muscles that he didn’t even realize were tense. “That means a lot, Y/N. Thanks. I haven’t really told anybody this because I thought it’d just… go away eventually. I don’t like the quiet. I hate it, in fact. The silence always reminds me of all the time I spent in the ice—how I cheated death. It leaves me with my own thoughts and makes me realize just how… unsatisfied I am. I’m not happy with myself when everything around me is quiet.”

He swallowed down another twirl of spaghetti, now cold and thick in his throat.

A part of him was afraid he’d scare you away with this confession. After all, it was a lot to dump on the first conversation with someone he had a lot of respect for.

Instead of finishing the rest of your spaghetti as quickly as you could and running away from him like Steve partially expected you’d do, you merely smiled at him, a newfound understanding reflected in your eyes. “Then I’ll make sure never to be quiet around you,” you said, genuine tenderness woven between each word.

Steve’s stomach lurched at that.

The rest of the dinner went by filled with stories of how you mastered your powers, stories of Steve finding out Bucky was still alive after all these years, stories of how you met Tony long, long ago.

It was safe to say, silence was nowhere near the two of you that night.

You were humming again. Steve could hear you from down the hall. It’d been a couple of weeks since that first dinner with you—with dozens more sprinkled in between. The two of you were practically attached by the hip after that.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He wandered into the kitchen with his hands behind his back, coming beside you at the sink, where you were washing the dishes (which reminded him that he forgot to remind Tony to fix the dishwasher).

“Can I help?” he asked, unclasping his hands and extending one towards you.

Without breaking off your humming, you handed him a damp plate whilst gesturing to a rag for him to use to dry. Steve caught sight of your bright grin from his peripheral vision. He ducked his head bashfully, pulse kicking up a notch. Your hip bumped into his, and the two of you quietly chuckled.

No words were exchanged between the two of you then, the only thing filling the silence between you was your disjointed hums to songs that Steve didn’t know.

“What song are you humming?” The scratching of Steve’s pencil against paper momentarily stopped in the middle of drawing a sketch of a bowl of fruits on the coffee table in front of him as he tentatively asked the question.

You looked away from your book propped up on your legs, which were carelessly thrown over Steve’s on the compound’s couch. His free hand was splayed largely on your knee—but you pretended not to notice.

“Huh?” you asked, having not heard his question properly, preoccupied with the story you were reading.

“You’re always humming the same song,” Steve said. “Well, parts of that song.”

“Oh!” Placing the book down, you shifted around so you could reach for your phone in your pocket. “It’s this sixties song called Summer Wine by Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. One of my all time favorites.”

You pressed the play button on your phone screen and Steve listened along, enjoying the softness of Nancy’s voice in stark contrast to the slow rasp of Lee’s. He bobbed his head to the song off-beat, but you found it endearing all the same.

“Yeah, that’s it, old man,” you teased, elbowing him in the side and mimicking his movements. Your smile, so wide it seemed to illuminate the entire room, made Steve giddy with excitement. “It’s a good song, isn’t it?”

Steve let out a breathy chuckle. “You know, I was so set on forties music being the best of the best for the longest time—I think you might just be able to change my mind. Don’t tell Bucky I said that, though—he’d skin me alive.”

A genuine gasp fell from your lungs as you lurched forward, grabbing at his hands and leaning in so close he could see his reflections in your enlivened irises. He could smell your perfume, a soft wafting of vanilla and lavender that made his head spin. “Really? Because I have so many more songs I could recommend to you—tell you what, I’ll make you a playlist tonight. Finally introduce you to the world of modern music.” You relinquished your hold on him, moving back with a grand beam. “That might be the nicest compliment anybody’s ever given me, Stevie.”

Steve couldn’t help but feel like you were overexaggerating just to make him happy, but you seemed happy to do so, and how could he ever interfere with that?

“I don’t know, though,” Steve started, his tone teasing. “Forties music is gonna be really hard to top.”

“It’ll be my mission to find something for you, then,” you said, determined. With that, you picked your book back up and began reading again, humming softly once more. Steve took that as his cue to continue drawing.

He spared you a glance every once in a while, observing the way the sunlight from the window cast a dewy, honey-like luminescence over your features. The way the sloping curvatures of the shadows on your face enhanced your relaxed state. The way your teeth sank into the flesh of your bottom lip as your pupils flitted to and fro from the book’s pages. He wanted to ask if he could draw you, but the words lodged in his throat, like he had swallowed a large stone.

So he stayed quiet, listening to you hum a song that Steve now knew.

“Steve.”

Natasha crossed her arms.

“Steve.”

She sighed, eyes narrowing.

“Damn it, Steve!”

Finally, the blonde startled, ripping his headphones off and whirling around in his chair to see Natasha standing a foot away from his desk. He’d been listening to the playlist you had meticulously curated for him, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet when you told him to listen to it.

The annoyance in the green of her eyes dissipated, replaced with mild amusement. “So much for super-hearing, huh?” she snarked, lacking any true bite to her words. Despite her stoic demeanor, she was really glad Steve found someone that made him happier than anybody else ever did. Even though he didn’t know it yet—Natasha saw the way he looked at you.

Steve scratched the back of his neck bashfully. “Sorry, Nat. How can I help?”

“Y/N just got back from their mission. They’re in the infirmary.”

Immediately, he stood up, chair squeaking at the abrupt movement, eyebrows furrowing. “Infirmary? Are they hurt? What’re they doing back so early? The mission was supposed to be take an entire week, that’s what—”

“Relax, Rogers,” Natasha sternly asserted, effectively cutting him off. “Just doing a check-up—they were exposed to some radioactive material but it should be fine.” In a much softer tone, she added on, “Y/N was asking for you.”

Breath hitching in his throat, Steve nodded and a quiet thank you left his lips as he jogged out of his room.

The few minutes of silence as he rushed to the infirmary did nothing good for his worrying. He passed by a pretty bruised-up Clint lounging across the waiting seats, pressing an ice cube to a gash on his forehead, and gestured to the double doors across from him. He knew of Steve’s budding relationship with you (because Natasha made it her personal mission to embarrass the poor guy) and could only assume that he’d come rushing here for you. The polished floors squeaked under his shoes as he came to a sudden halt, briefly saluting Clint thanks before knocking twice. Before he got a response, he slowly pushed the doors open, peeking his head in.

You were seated on the edge of the hospital bed, still in your mission’s attire, hair rumpled and a bit of dried blood on the side of your jaw, but you looked to be otherwise just fine. Doctor Cho was beside you, tapping her pen against a clipboard as she took note of your blood pressure.

“Hey, old man. Long time no see,” you said with a toothy grin when you heard the door creak open. “You missed the funniest thing on the mission. There was this—”

Steve strode forward, and before you could finish your sentence, he knelt down and enveloped you into a tight embrace, nose pressing against the crown of your head.

Your words were muffled into his shirt, which eventually died away when you noticed that he clearly was too emotional to listen to your amusing story of how Clint tripped on a big rock and cut his head. He smelled so good, like clean laundry and those tree-scented car fresheners. Steve barely registered Doctor Cho shifting awkwardly and excusing herself out of the room, entirely fixated by the way your arm loosely curled around his shoulders as you hugged him back.

“Whose blood is that?” he asked without pulling away from you.

“Not mine,” you assured him.

“Nat told me you were asking for me,” said the blonde, gingerly pulling away from you to meet your eyes. His hand went under your chin to tilt your head around, as if reaffirming that you were perfectly fine. “Exposed to radioactive material? What happened? Are you hurt?”

“Looks like someone missed me,” you laughed at his mother henning, bringing your hand up to wrap around his, holding it close to your chest. “The wrong kind of people were trying to steal stuff that could potentially be used for biological warfare—we intercepted, but one of the cases broke and I had to use my powers to forge a new one. I was only exposed for a couple seconds, but it was enough to warrant a check up. We had to back off because they were in possession of the last case and threatened to drop it into the city’s main water supply.”

Steve’s brows knitted together as you spoke. “We gotta go stop them, then—”

“They think they have the last case,” you said, a hint of a smile dancing across your lips.

“You used your powers to make a fake,” Steve whispered in realization. “You’re a genius.”

Waving away his praise, you leaned forward, gripping him tighter. “Enough about that! Did you listen to the playlist?”

His chest rumbled as he laughed. You had just gotten back from a dangerous mission and you were asking about him.

“I was around halfway through,” he said, grinning softly.

“Guess you’ll just have to listen to the rest with me,” you quipped, craning your neck to swiftly kiss his cheek. When you pulled back just a little, you did it ever so slowly, hovering close enough so that your noses brushed against one another.

Heat flushed across his face. His heart palpitated painfully against his ribcage. His stormy eyes flickered down to glance at your lips, then moved up again to meet your eyes. All he saw was you.

“You can kiss me, Stevie,” you mumbled against him, giving him the green light he was waiting for. “I promise I won’t bite. Unless you’re into that. I mean, you’re a super soldier, would you even feel th—mmh!”

That spurred him to shift forward, capturing your lips with his and effectively interrupting your thoughts before he could get any more flustered, foreheads bumping against one another. After recovering from your initial shock, you tugged him closer by the lapels of his shirt, tilting your head to the side so he could fold into you ever so perfectly. It felt as if a fire was crawling around his veins, consuming him entirely. Your skin was cold against his, quelling the burning sensation dancing over his skin.

You smiled into the mouth, laughing against his lips when he drifted his fingers up your side. “That tickles,” you murmured, pressing butterfly kisses on the corners of his lips and the tip of his nose.

Steve couldn’t help it. He began laughing as well, muffled when you slapped his tickling hands away, kissing him harder.

The two of you stayed that way for what felt like hours—breaths turned ragged and chests heaving, when really it was only about five minutes. By the stroke of the sixth minute, Tony strode into the infirmary room uttering, “Knockity knock knock,” despite not knocking.

“Woah!” he exclaimed upon seeing the two of you in such… close proximities. “Took you two long enough. Barnes owes me twenty bucks. And, Jesus, hang a sock on the door, Rogers! I know you’re old, and not at all accustomed to the sexual customs of our generation, but I do not want to see my recently-radiated best friend swap spit with you.”

You rolled your eyes, sticking your tongue out at him. “Nice to see you, too, Tony. And yeah, your recently-radiated friend is just peachy, thanks for asking!”

Tony glared at you. “Please, if you weren’t ‘just peachy’ Rogers wouldn’t be shoving his tongue down your throat.” Steve looked like he wanted to object, but he cleared his throat and diverted his gaze to the floor instead. Tony barked out a laugh, rotating on his heel to head back out. “Good to see you’re okay, kid. Remember to wrap it before you tap it!”

As soon as he was gone, Steve groaned, dropping his head against your chest, flustered beyond relief.

“Does he always have to be so crass?” he asked, wrinkling his nose with embarrassment.

“That’s Tony for you.” You shook your head with amusement. Then, your voice a notch softer, you asked, “Hey, Stevie?”

He hummed in response, lifting his head to look at you.

“You remember when you said you weren’t sure if you’d want to go back to the forties or not?”

Steve blinked in mild surprise. “Yeah?”

Your expression betrayed your clear hesitance as you swallowed uncomfortably. “Do you think you’d go now?”

“No, sweetheart,” he whispered, bending closer so his nose brushed yours. “I’d never leave you. Not ever. I wasn’t going to leave in the first place, because I could never leave my friends and family here. But you… you make me feel not guilty for being happy. Like I deserve a life of my own—with you. And I think the quiet becomes more bearable when you’re around me. I don’t think so much of the past with you because… well, because I’m thinking of our future.”

A heartbreakingly bright smile painted your lips golden, and you shook your head fondly. It might’ve just been a trick of the infirmary’s painfully artificial lights, but he could’ve sworn he saw the glimmering film of tears briefly gloss over your eyes. “Did you just come up with that on the spot?” The two of you laughed into each other, and you pressed a gentle kiss just under his eyes. “You’re something else, Stevie, I’ll tell you that.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, unable to stop smiling, before capturing your grin with his once more.

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windsweptinred · 1 year

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Metamorphosis

(Part Five)

Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

(This was meant to be the final part. But once again the story got away from me and merrily frolicked off in its own direction. So one last part six to come! There's no bold text in this part. As everyone's an anthropomorphic personification and it would get absolutely ridiculous 😅)

Upon the highest peak of the Dreaming, curled in the arms and wings of Death. Dream of the Endless, white in both appearance and attire, painted in the iridescent light of her wings…Opened his eyes. Destiny turned his page. And omniverse let out a great breath.

As with all those taking their first, bleary look at life, his first sight was the loving smile of Death. Warm and wide and an immediate comfort. She swept an errant curl from his eye, gazing tenderly down at him. "Hey there."

Dream looked at her ponderously, his head a chaotic jumble of memories, all fighting for prominence. Gradually, like scattered jigsaw pieces, they slowly slotted into place. This was..? Heavy burden yet light of heart. This was arms always open, to embrace, to advise, to guide. This was kind smiles and strong reprimands. This was… Death… This was…

"Sister?"

Her eyes crinkled. "That's right baby brother."

He sat up, wincing as his arms protested at the act, making to stand. That was, until he noticed the fading, pearlescent tracks, marring his sister's cheeks. He brought pale fingers to her face and swept them away delicately.

"You have been crying?"

Death smiled endearingly at him. Capturing his hands in her own. "It is nothing, my brother. I am happy, very happy. I promise."

Slightly doubtful but having no reason to question the truth in his sister's words, he began to rise again, shocked when the movement caused every joint to sing with pain. His legs trembled unsteadily as he rose, threatening to buckle under his weight. And he would have tumbled if not for Death's strong hands reaching out to steady him. "Take it slowly. You've been through a lot."

Had he? He creased his brow in thought. Three memories flashed and overlapped. One a child, flaxen hair and beating mortal heart, scared and cradled in the arms of his protector. The smell of blood and the lick of flame. The other, a doomed man, clutching desperately at his lover, pelting rain and an overwhelming sense of despair. The third, a youth, barely aware of his surroundings. Body contorting with unbearable agony. Held securely by two sets of arms and…

Worry surged in his chest as he anxiously looked around them. "Where is Hob? Where is…"

"Do not panic, sweetest Dream, we are here."

Dream's and Death's heads snapped simultaneously towards a couple, stood but a few metres away, smiling serenely at them.

At first glance, they looked no different than they always had. Night decked in his usual black attire, his long coat once again hung about his sleek shoulders. Time, in a cream tee, slightly worn from regular use, green shirt that sat somewhat haphazardly and blue jeans frayed at the hems. As if he'd simply strolled by on his way to the weekly grocery shop. But that they were no longer as they had once been, that was unquestionable.

Below Time's feet, flora, fauna and all manner of herb and shrub sprouted, bloomed, then withered before beginning the process anew. His hair and skin shone vibrant and sun-kissed, then pale as if touched by winter's chill. A continually shifting of the seasons in a rudimentary display of what would one day become the phases of boy, man and elder. Past, present and future. Night's hair, still wild and untamed, hung longer now. Flowing and sweeping with a perpetual motion all its own. Minute stars twinkling their way down each lock, forming their own tiny cosmos. About his neck and wrists where his pale skin could be seen, galaxies occasionally flared then vanished in sparkling, teasing bursts.

Death's face lit like a second sun. "Oh brother!" She all but ran at Night, flinging herself without care into his arms. They embraced tightly, whispering soft words of reassurance to each other. Pulling apart, she then turned to Time, who opened his arms with an easy grin, but was met with a harsh smack to the chest in reply. "Hob! You utter… Urgh!" She punched him half heartedly in the shoulder, eliciting an amused chuckle from Time, before leaping into his embrace, both laughing jubilantly while Night beamed at them.

Dream stood where Death had left him. Smiling sweetly at their antics but unsure of his welcome in them. That was until Time, shining with elation, turned his full attention to him. Throwing an arm toward him in an open gesture of invitation.

Hands playing nervously with the long hems of his tunic, Dream walked timidly to meet them, greeting them with a demure smile. Time reached out, placing a fatherly hand on his shoulder.

"Dream! It's wonderful to see you up on your feet. We weren't half worried for you."

Dream dipped his head lightly in deference at the statement. "Thank you…"

He faltered, at a loss at how to properly address the being before him. He drew forth memories of a man, bright smiles and attentive eyes. Hob Gadling. Simultaneously was the recollection of a distant, imposing figure. Commanding obedience, dismissive of his children's distress and sorrows. Like the unfeeling turn of clock hands….Time.

… "Sir."

Time grimaced, "Don't go calling me sir. Even my students don't do that."

Dream's eyes flickered down, he'd misstepped already. "Then, how should I address you?" He asked tentatively.

A welcoming beam lit up Time's face and below Dream's feet, flowers blossomed lustrously "However you please! This one always did." He nodded towards Night. "Still does! I woke up this morning, gazed adoringly into his eyes and do you know what he called me? A sloth! A sloth of all things! Just as hairy, twice as clingy with the same big, perpetually satisfied grin he says. That's a fine welcome to the morning for your new husband isn't it?!"

Dream giggled despite himself at Time's rambling. An obvious attempt to ease his nerves. But a show of kindness he was most grateful for. From Time he hesitantly moved his gaze to the being, affectionately rolling his eyes at his side.

Night. The once Dream. He was him, knew every step he had taken, every choice he had made. Yet, he was not him. He was Daniel, once human, his own, with his own thoughts and fears. It was a singular feeling. To be the same and yet different, bound yet independent. Like a newborn, still attached to its mother by the umbilical cord.

Night looked at him, smile soft, eyes kind. Somewhere within Dream, the child Daniel, hurt and unsure, cried out desperately for his mother's reassuring love. Dream felt himself sway instinctively towards Night's tender essence, but stopped short immediately. Berating himself with an unspoken reproach.

"Dream?" He felt two hands gently grasp his arms. "Are you well?"

Dream straightened, though his body screamed in protest at the act. "I am."

The hands on his arms gave a gentle affirming squeeze and Dream tried, and failed to hold back the reactive flinch it caused. He watched as Night's mouth twitched downwards, eyes flicking about his form assessing, and he slumped his weight into his hold, bravado abandoned. "I feel a little weak." He admitted shly. "And I ache… somewhat."

Night's eyes dimmed a little, bright moons clouding in a dark haze of blues. "Your transformation was far cruller than it should have been." Night looked out towards the horizon in contemplation, before taking Dream's hand, tugging him encouragingly to follow. "Come." They walked the short distance together through Time's greenery that now flourished atop of the cliff. Night bringing them to a halt at the edge of the precipice. Tangled vines and flora tumbled forth from below their feet, trailing down the steep incline below like a verdant waterfall.

The Dreaming lay before them, rolling swathes of vivid colour intermingled with brutal slashes of scorched earth. Night turned to him, "Do you remember how to call dreams back to you?"

Dream nodded unsurley, looking at the ravaged landscape below. With such ruthless devastation ravaged upon the land, he had no wish for his first act as its monarch to be one of further, self-serving destruction.

Night gave him an understanding smile, hand raising from his grasp to rub reassuringly at his elbow. "To begin to heal your realm, you must first heal. But do not fret."

Turning his attention once again to the realm, Night took Dream's arm, gently guiding it to reach out before them, his hand laying supportively atop of his.

"We crafted a dream together, the night just past, when all was flux and flow. You and I, both Dream and both not Dream. You recall it?"

Dream nodded and Night pressed to his side, whispering, "Call it to you."

Dream reached out, following the siren song of times past and transformation. By his side, he felt Night's presence, wrapped about him like a great cloak. And then, there was the White Horse, or the remnants of it, half covered as it was with root and foliage. About it, a youthful meadow had sprouted and was already rooting itself deeply in the Dreaming.

He called out to it, requesting its aid. And heard the voices of thousands of revellers old and new toast his health from within. Slowly, bricks and wood turned once more to grain, and drew into the air towards him. The meadow remained, blossoming white poppies in its wake. Dream pictured a great horse of swirling sands, rearing proudly, then galloping at speed towards its master, plunging headlong into his chest.

Inhaling deeply, already feeling the replenishing energy of nourishment, hearth and good company surge through him, he gave Night a wide, unabashed smile, who returned it benevolently. "There now. Last and first born." Night said, "That is better, is it not?"

Almost drunk with vitality, Dream flung himself forward impulsively. Wrapping his arms about Night and snuggling into his breast bone. He heard a surprised, slight intake of breath, before two arms wove about him, pulling him in further. Dream was surrounded by the smell of an August's eve. Of air thick with heat and cooling sun-kissed soil the slight wisp of refreshing darkness. A chin rested atop of his head and he sighed contentedly. Child, safe and soothed in the beautiful universe that was his mothers arms.

They stayed that way for a while, breeze blowing gently against them, mingling locks of blackest night and whitest starlight. Merging them into an ethereal sliver halo. Until they heard an eager voice call out, "Duck, I think we have some guests waiting at the castle."

………..

They made their way casually towards the heart of the Dreaming. Death and Time chatting animatedly while Night trailed behind, fondly caressing each soaring tree, each stone carving, as if bidding a silent farewell to something dear and precious. Dream followed in his footsteps, re- acquainting and greeting in turn. The denizens of the Dreaming cried out with rapture at the sight of them. There was no proclivity for either. Old and new masters had been safely delivered back to them. And they drew to them like flowers, turning towards the sun's life giving rays.

"Boss!"

Both Night and Dream looked instantly to the skies at the call, watching as Matthew swooped, coming to an easy perch on Night's shoulder, nuzzling fiercely into his cheek. "You're alright! We thought you were a total goner there for a second!"

Night pet the raven's head tenderly, smoothing errant feathers that stood in disarray with distress. "I am fine Matthew. More than in fact."

Matthew's panic, now seemingly mollified, gave way to evident mortification at his actions. He cleared his throat, ruffled his wings and put some distance between himself and Night's head. Attempting a more distinguished pose on the extremity of his shoulder. Only then did he appear to take in the changes to his master. Little head twitching too and fro in curiosity.

"What's with the glow up?"

"I am now the embodiment of Night and Space my raven." Night answered calmly.

Matthew cocked his head, considering for a pause before giving what was most definitely an avian version of a shrug. "You know, I'm not even surprised anymore." Finally, he turned his attention towards Dream. "Who's the kid?"

Night gave the raven a questioning look, before taking him on wrist. Moving him out, presenting him to the young man. "I think you know truly Matthew. But allow me to introduce you to your new charge. This is the Prince of Stories, King of Nightmares, Lord of Dreams, the Oneiromancer, Master of the Sleeping Marches. Monarch of the Dreaming. Dream of the Endless."

Matthew swung his head in abject confusion from Night to Dream. Night noticed Dream's lithe fingers twitching in barely concealed eagerness to reach out to the raven. But he maintained his composure admirably.

"Dream, I am sure you remember Matthew, he is hard to forget."

Dream smiled brightly before bowing his head politely to Matthew. "It is a pleasure to remeet you Matthew."

If Matthew found the wording odd, he did not show it. He looked once more at Dream, before turning on his claws to face Night. "So… Let me get this right. You're your mum and he's you."

Night inclined his head. "In a manner, yes that is correct."

He heard Matthew mumble something under his breath that sounded very much like 'Targaryen level shit' and chose to ignore it.

The raven turned reluctantly once more to peer at Dream. Night felt his talons tighten about his forearm.

Dream, who's sunny demeanour was now wilting a little, a touch of dejection in green eyes, reached into the pocket of his tunic. From it, he pulled what appeared to be a chocolate covered peanut. Offering it to Matthew hopefully. Matthew considered for a moment before edging forward, taking it carefully from his grasp before devouring it enthusiastically. After the third helping, he opened his wings and flew the short distance to Dream's forearm. Allowing a clearly delighted Dream to stroke down his back.

" Got any fries kid?"

"Matthew!" Night reprimanded. Matthew gave an unconcerned shake of his feathers. Acting in complete ignorance of Night's words, looking still to Dream expectantly.

"You must not overindulgence him." Night warned Dream, "He is impertinent at the best of times. Do not encourage him further."

Dream gave a sombre nod in understanding. Before reaching into his pocket and drawing forth a soggy excuse for a fry, drowned in salt. Offering it to Matthew who wolfed it down with abandon.

Night looked to the skies despairingly." Go extend your greetings to the new Time you troublesome little creature."

Matthew looked from Night to the man walking just ahead. "Hob's what now?!"

…….

As they crossed the great bridge that lay before the castle gates, Night took a moment to savour the sight. Home, his home. He placed a hand on the stonework, desperately wishing to feel the thrumming pulse of his once realm against his palm. But the bridge was just a bridge, as malleable to him as any dreamer.. But no longer a part of him. Home no longer. He felt Time embrace him from behind and leant into his warm support. "It's alright sweetheart." Time whispered. "I have built you a home once before with my own hands. I will build you another. Anywhere, anyway you desire it." Night placed a hand atop of Time's where it held his waist. How did I exist so long without you by my side? He wondered.

He watched as Dream approached the formidable gates. The great stone guardians bowing in unison at his presence. For a moment he dithered, looking to Night questioningly. Night broke from Time's arms with a fleeting kiss before joining him at his side.

"Go ahead." He prompted, "They will not let us enter without your permission." And oh the bittersweet irony in that.

Dream looked unsure for a moment, before he placed a palm against the vast doors and pushed. They let out a great creak before swinging forth at their masters command. And there, waiting for them in the great entrance hall, was Lucienne.

She made an immediate start toward Night, joy and relief flooding her features, before her sense of proprietary reasserted itself. Halting subtlety and walking instead towards Dream, a courteous expression on her face as she bowed respectfully.

"My Lord. It is an honour to welcome you home."

Dream smiled graciously, before turning to look briefly at Night, then back to his Librarian. He gave her a compassionate smile, before gracefully stepping aside, "It is alright Lucienne, I understand."

Lucienne's face shone with gratitude, "Thank you sir." She said with palpable warmth, nodding her head once more in deference, before striding quickly towards Night.

Night reached out to her, their hands immediately joining as they smiled with open affection at each other. "Oh sir, we were all so worried! We thought…" Tears formed at her eyes and Night rubbed at her hands soothingly. "Dry your eyes Lucienne." He said softly. "All is well now."

Pulling her hands from his grip, she dabbed gentiley at her eyes. Then returned her attention to him, a look of immense pride and wonderment on her face.

"You are resplendent sir"

It was Night now, who felt the well of tears in his eyes. He smiled, a great love and gratefulness bursting within him. "Lucienne." He whispered reverently. What shall I do without you?

"Lucienne" a soft voice parroted. And they watched as Dream approached them indecisively. Eyes cast down, before they rose in stark determination.

"I…If it is your wish to stay by Night's side. You may do so with my blessing. Though…I admit, I shall miss you."

Night looked upon him adoringly, Oh, sweet child. Before meeting Lucienne's gaze, sharing a knowing look. She pulled from his grasp, giving Dream her full attention. Admiration for the new Prince of stories clearly evident.

"My lord, I am the Librarian of the Dreaming and the very first Raven of Dream of the Endless. It has been my right, duty and pleasure to serve as his protector, companion and sometimes, to my great honour, council. I have never shirked from that, nor do I ever intend to. My place is now, and will forever be by your side."

Dream blossomed in relief as apprehension fell from him like a shroud. A beautiful smile gracing his face, slight wetness at his eyes making them shine exquisitely.

"I would ask," Night interjected," For permission to visit from time to time." He looked from Lucienne to Matthew, still perched loyally on Dream's arm. "There are many I will miss dearly."

Dream shook his head emphatically. "You need never ask permission. This is your realm!"

Night smiled fondly at his words. "It is imperative I ask your permission." He pressed, before standing to full height, demeanour, kindly yet serious. "For this is your realm now Dream of the Endless."

Dream nodded soberly at the significance of his words. Then with an expression warm and earnest, said "You will always be welcome in the Dreaming, Night."

……….

"Dream!"

A vexed shout rang through the air and Night felt the all too familiar presence of his once masterpiece, marching his way towards them. Pulsating ominously with fury and intent. He spun on his heel, ready to confront whatever vicious tantrum the nightmare was readying to unleash. He was however, left watching, highly bemused, as the Corinthian stomped straight past him, casting a cursory, defiant look his way. Before striding purposefully up to Dream, declaring with vehemence, "I snapped that trickster's neck!"

Dream smiled sweetly, as if he had just been presented with a neatly bowed gift of posies. "You need not have."

Night noticed Time send him a discreet smirk from behind them and rolled his eyes in fond exasperation. The weighty knowledge of existence immemorial had done little to quell his lover's bawdy humour it seemed. He cast a smouldering leer back Time's way. Heartened with the wink and the shift of Times locks to a flaming shade red it prompted.

"I'll snap it every night hence. I'll hunt him dusk till dawn so he dares not close his eyes in rest. I'll drag every organ from him as he screams and begs and lay them at your feet in offering. He'll have no respite in waking or dreaming from his torments!"

Dream looked utterly charmed. "You need not. Your defence of me is most admirable, my Corinthian and I cherish it." A hint of something dark and spectral washed over Dream, then was gone. "But I am more than capable of enacting my own retribution now. Though perhaps …" He sent the nightmare a coy look. "You might join me?"

Night smirked to himself. There you are, little Nightmare. The Corinthian grinned at his master. Smirk sharp as knives, practically pulsating with bloodlust. His teeth gnashing eagerly at the promise of a shared hunt.

Night considered the pair. The Corinthian's quick dismissal of him in favour of his successor had, he could admit, stung somewhat. But as he watched them, he understood. He took note of Dream's instant attentiveness to the Corinthian's attempts to please. The ease with which Dream's composure softened as he leaned into the nightmares solid support. There was a trust between them that had long been absent in the relationship between maker and creation. Their shared adventures had already forged a new bond it seemed. Good.

And yet, as Dream shifted his focus briefly to address Matthew, Night noticed the Corinthian turn, body angled slightly towards him. The nightmare sent him a devilish grin, before giving a lazy, two fingered salute in his direction. Then he spun back, fully preoccupied once again with his young Lord. Night grinned to himself. Goodbye my nightmare. Be good for your master. He pondered for a moment before amending, Be the least bad you can be.

He looked upon them one last time. New Dream, radiant and hopeful, Matthew perched on his arm, loyal and brave. Lucienne, wise and steadfast to his right. The Corinthian, zealous and diligent to his left.

He need not worry. He was leaving the Dreaming in the best of hands.

"Guys?"

All turned to Death, who stood half way up a grand staircase to their right, leaning casually against the ornate railings. She nodded her head encouragingly towards an open doorway above, soft firelight and the mumble of conversation spilling out.

" …They're waiting."

Art by the absolutely amazing @ibrithir-was-here of Night!Morpheus and Dream!Daniel

(Next up we meet the Endless. And I'm finally finished! Huzzah!!)

#dreamling #hob x dream #hob x morpheus #dream of the endless #hob gadling #daniel hall #daniel!dream #death of the endless #lucienne #the corinthian #matthew the raven #the sandman #tumblr fic

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semistsuga · 3 months

Text

Miscellaneous babes for sale!

Last Chance Yucca and Betula babies - related to one of my progens, the parents are both decade-old technomages involved in cutting edge research. The babies are swamp/banana/banana (female) and avocado/ivory/flaxen (male).

Schizanthus and Menhit babies - Schizanthus (dad) is a foppish noble primarily concerned with theater, being theatrical, and really bad poetry. Menhit is an avatar of death, a fearsome warrior and level 25 terror of the coli and, much to her disgust, very much in love with Schizanthus. The babies are pearl crystal / platinum shimmer / grey gembond and orchid iridescent / pink shimmer / platinum gembond, both female.

Cantaloupe pinstripe /cantaloupe noxtide / oilslick capsule Coatl female

Cantaloupe pinstripe / peach noxtide / black underbelly Wildclaw female

Cantaloupe giraffe / sunset facet / cream underbelly Wildclaw male

And a pair of pastel female Tundra twins, banana pinstripe / ivory toxin / cyan or seafoam contour.

Find them for sale, 10k treasure each or make an offer, here!

#flight rising #tsugababies #dragons for sale

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gweathney-propaganda · 8 months

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Gen 3 outfits <3

Amy: outfit (Female Fae; cherry Poison, ivory Malachite, and ice Lace)

Sammy: outfit (Female Fae; cherry Poison, buttercup Malachite, and white Firebreather)

Dave: outfit (Male Spiral; sand Lionfish, teal Morph, and cream Scales)

Ella: outfit (Female Coatl; mauve Harlequin, pink Jester, and black Peacock)

Jasmine: outfit (Female Ridgeback; chocolate Mosaic, beige Sarcophagus, and obsidian Gembond)

Leonard: outfit (Male Fae; avocado Chrysocolla, grey Hex, and brown Runes)

Max: outfit (Male Obelisk; maize Harlequin, dust Seraph, and Amethyst Wish)

Rodney: outfit (Male Tundra; ivory Chrysocolla, indigo Spinner, and cantaloupe Thylacine)

Scarlett: outfit (Female Mirror; cream Jaguar, sunshine Daub, and phthalo Okapi)

Sky: outfit (Female Skydancer; obsidian Speckle, flaxen Myrid, and wisteria Opal)

Topher: outfit (Male Imperial; azure Iridescent, grey Eye Spots, and buttercup Underbelly)

Shawn: outfit, dragon (Male Coatl; coral Cherub, amber Butterfly, and wine Circuit)

and here's Beardo: dragon (Male Gaoler; auburn Giraffe, slate Spirit, and denim Gnarlhorns)

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msb-lair · 5 years

Photo

Dragon: DrStrange - Imperial XYY Male

(Spines scroll applied on 2019-05-05)

Purchased For: 15,000 treasure Hatched On: 2019-04-29 ID: 51414790

Parentage: Sorceress/Unnamed Flight: Ice

Primary: Flaxen Iridescent Secondary: Obsidian Stripes Tertiary: Obsidian Underbelly Spines Eyes: Unusual

Comments: Another MCU fandragon, of Dr Stephen Strange.

Apparel:

Peridot Flourish Necklace

Teardrop Jade Ring

Leather Aviator Satchel

Toxophilite’s Cape and Wing Cover

Pomegranite Plumed Cover

Crimson Feathered Wings

Mage’s Sapphire Tunic

Brown Breeches

Burnished Gold Gauntlets

Tarnished Steel Boots

Familiar: Valorous Cape

Progeny Testing:

N/A

Broods:

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faeriefics · 3 years

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The Last of the Light Fae: Chapter Four

Pairing: Fili x Female OC Shaeleign (Shay-lean)

Word Count: 5.6K roughly (and oh BOY did I get into writing this one).

Warnings: Descriptions of bodily remains, death, and destruction. Death of close family members (alluding to Fili's father, and Shae's brother), grief, a suicidal thought if you squint (more of an indifference towards dying, really, but I wanted to flag it anyway).

Masterlist

Previous Part |

Important Story-Based Links (highly recommend at least skimming, for context on Shaeleign and faeries as a whole - slight WIP!):

Faeries in Middle Earth

A/N: My apologies for how long this chapter has taken me to brush up and finish writing, but it's my longest chapter yet - including a Fili flashback which I loved writing. I hope you enjoy it! As ever, if you wish to be added to be tag list, please let me know - and if you have any feedback or comments, I would really appreciate receiving them!

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Fili POV:

By no means did the flaxen-haired prince consider himself overly imaginative, but even he felt struck by his surroundings. This place was old - and unlike other ancient kingdoms, here there had been no maintenance, no new additions, no life. All, structurally, must have appeared just as their faerie left it, and yet… Clearly, that was not the case.

So organic and overgrown was this ‘Ghilemaer’ that the forest just outside appeared barren. Vines greeted them from the arching entranceway - so long that they tickled the stone floor, a thick green curtain they had to part with raised forearms and hilts of weapons before stepping through. The wall, which formed a perimeter around the many towers, was as jagged as natural rock, so much so that it had him wondering if this were once a mountain; one hollowed. Elders had always begun their tales of Erebor with its vastness - how the Lonely Mountain housed a city grand enough to rival all kingdoms above the soil. Fili had always struggled to discern the nostalgic exaggerations from the genuine accounts in such tales, with only references, spoken word and drawings to develop the image of ‘home’ in his head. As such it was hardly surprising that his mind leapt to use these tall, natural walls as yet another reference towards the scale of his elusive ‘home’. Though this mountain certainly lacked a peak - idly, it reminded him of how one might decapitate the top of a hard-boiled egg, leaving jagged flakes of shell pointing skyward - and should that comparison hold any merit, this city was certainly the yolk.

Even after laying dormant for, what, near three thousand years? The walls glimmered dimly in the thinning sunlight, through their many layers of dust, debris, no doubt blood and moss. He’d never seen a material quite like it - sturdy and solid as stone, yet shimmery as a crystal in light - he watched as Dori cautiously pressed a hand to the strange structure, before hastily removing it, perhaps guilty at how his dragged fingerprints disturbed the settled dust. Every building was tall; towers ranging from short - perhaps two or three stories - to the tall, which pointed upwards to heights which beggared all belief. Craning up towards the skies, with roofs that glowed gold in the dimming light of day, and ivy which twisted around their skinny frames - some held external stairs, which spun around their structures staggered, and it was a wonder how anyone had ascended such towers without their head spinning.

A giant amongst the tall towered above all the rest - with skinny external walkways and passageways connecting it to shorter surrounding towers. Arched, ginormous windows of glass stained with enough varying colours to make the windows seem iridescent in the sunlight, even externally, decorated the tall building. Most were broken - leaving great shards of glass glinting in the frames as though they were the colourful teeth of a gaping maw, but some remained intact. Another hesitant gaze turned towards the faerie - or, Shae, he supposed he should call her, now they were better acquainted - and he found her expression nonetheless unreadable. Smooth as stone, eyes empty, had she not been walking she could have passed for an extremely life-like statue.

After ascending a short set of stairs, leading them to a cobbled square, the stone shifted from dark, with the odd light splotch, to a chalky grey-white. It clung to great mounds of debris, littered a half-collapsed tower, billowed and swelled in the breeze - turning the air white as it swept the floor. The leaves of the plants which had slithered through gaps and cracks in the pavements were dyed grey; in truth, most within this square appeared in shades of black, grey and white. He might have thought it a drawing within Ori’s seemingly endless supply of leather-bound notebooks.

Never would Fili have thought the dust to be bodily remains - so accustomed was he to tales of fields stained red by the brunt of warfare, bodies scattered, cold and silent, with faces ghostly pale and finger bones like vices - forever left clenching to their weapon of choice. Or, perhaps, the stench of rot and decay, the pestilence which clung to the air like smog as the buzzing of flies created a macabre symphony. He could even foresee skeletons with hollow eye sockets and bones laid bare of long-gone flesh, bleached white in the sun, the silence of their eternal rest deafening. Given enough time… Did all things mortal turn to dust? It seemed so obvious now, in this graveyard of a kingdom, but Fili had never considered how bones could one day crumble if left exposed to the elements.

Looking around, blue orbs caught the open doorways - some of which still had doors, swinging precariously in the breeze on one hinge, while others had their doors kicked in entirely. It became more obvious that there were hundreds… Nay, thousands, who had died and laid her for centuries. Without even a mass burial or a word spoken in their memory, they were left to rot. What was it all the stories of the fae said? That they disappeared, that they were snuffed out like a candle’s flame; swift and silent. True enough, many had stories, ideas of how their downfall ensued, and horrific tales of orcs capturing the survivors for… Wicked purposes. But the truth was far less simple than a ‘disappearance’, the truth was messy, saddening. It hurt to look upon, to see destruction of this magnitude.

“What is this… White stuff? Powder? Snow?” Fili spared an incredulous look towards his brother, whose skull, he feared, grew thicker by the day. Down Kili went, bending at his knees into a low crouch, fingertips squirming to answer his own question, but before Fili could personally smack that smooth brain of his back into place - Gandalf whacked the bottom of his staff from the ground upwards with such force that even Fili winced at the thud when it made contact with Kili’s wandering wrist. “Seven hells! What was that for-” “-Quiet, you fool, and do not touch anything.” Gandalf spoke as one might when reprimanding a small child, pronouncing his instructions with just enough patronisation to turn his brother’s ears red - Kili stomped over to him much like he used to do as a very young child, with that slight pout to his lower lip that betrayed his youth, and his hands thrust into his pockets.

“Snow - really, Kee? Does it feel cold enough for snow?” Fili deadpanned, unsympathetic to Kili’s plight - even as his brother made a vaguely flustered, frustrated noise in his throat. More interested was he in quietly observing, and trying to keep a discreet eye on Shae, who had not made noise nor moved for several moments - he saw Gandalf approach cautiously from the corner of his eye. “We’re standing in a fae kingdom - forgive me for questioning how their magic works…” That telltale glint danced through dark brown eyes, a barely concealed smirk pulling the side of Kili’s lip aloft. “...Perhaps I might ask your girlfriend-” His voice rose in pitch, and this time Fili did punch his shoulder, almost tempted to shove him to the ground but, given the circumstances, felt it might be disrespectful to do so.

He pointed over his shoulder towards the faerie, keeping his voice low, “Wrong time and place, unless you fancy continuing until Uncle notices? He’ll smack you so hard that you’ll wake up back in her time.” Fili very briefly snickered at the mental image his words brought to mind - one of Kili stumbling around in a bustling Fae Kingdom, carting around the place like a wild boar free from all supervision. But all amusement he felt faded as quickly as it arrived upon hearing a soft, muffled cry.

Shae visibly buckled as the truth dawned, hand gripping the side of her cheek hard enough to turn her flesh pale as she tried to muffle the sound that escaped her. Her feet stumbled clumsily, knees resisting imminent collapse valiantly as she fell back against Gandalf - who gripped her shoulder and straightened her as best he could at the moment. The noises shifted from that initial cry to panicked, panting breaths, tearing through her lungs in what must have been painful gasps. But her eyes were worst of all - wide, barely blinking, and brimming with- not tears, but shimmery golden-silver dust. It caught in her lower lashes, cascaded down her cheeks, stuck to the grooves between her fingers, and fell upon the white floor like stardust.

It would have been beautiful, were her reaction not haunting in their grief. A grief he could not begin to comprehend. Even if Fae were less attached to one another as Dwarrow - whose communities were linked and as strong as iron chainlinks, where family and kinship meant everything - to lose everything. An entire people, her home reclaimed by nature… To know the genocide she had left behind, to see the arguably tame version of the remains; where, at the least, she was spared recognising each face, knowing each passed figure…

Suddenly, her eyes locked upon something in the near-distance, and, like a wraith, she drifted forwards. He felt reluctant to follow - it felt wrong of them, being here, disturbing these hallowed grounds when they could not share her grief. Certainly, the company collectively seemed to feel regret for the suffering that had happened here, how could they not when they knew well the devastation orcs left in their wake? Though, the only personal connection they had to this mess resided with her - a near-stranger. But… Who else did she have? It felt reprehensible to leave her to deal with all of this alone. He had no particular allegiance with her, and finding someone attractive was hardly a reason to bend over backwards for them and completely forget his own priorities… And yet, he found his instincts steering him forwards, following in her wake.

A long-sword with the blade wedged between the cobbles stood up, impaled between the gaps of large, broad ribs; the mangled mess of fangs, the brutish bones, they all indicated the sword had killed this long-deceased orc. Besides it laid, going by the physical dimensions of Shae, the remains of a faerie - laid upon its front with a crudely made, crumbling axe smashed into its side. The armour it wore had not decayed, the chest plate, though, had split - caved in, ribbons of splintered metal curled around the axe. He thought little of it - a fight to the death, where both opponents had met their end upon the others blade, but Shae’s mouth fell open.

Moving forward far quicker than seemed possible in her current state, the faerie stumbled to a kneel beside her fallen kinsman and the sound that left her… It was only the second time, in all his life, that he had heard such a wail.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another nightmare had plagued the young boy, the kind which left him whimpering, tearful and clinging to his bedsheets; seeking to hide beneath them for comfort. It seemed every night since his father and uncle left, he fell prey to thoughts of terrible beasts and towering giants. Even Kili the babe cries less than me. His mother would always swoop in to chase the shadows away - she never seemed to sleep, not anymore, she had said it was because tiny little babes like Kili never slept. But in the very dead of night, when he was fast asleep, he would feel her scoop him up and carry him into the empty vastness of the big bed - where Ma and Da slept, and where he loved to jump in the wee hours of dawn - she would kiss his golden head, wet his hair with tears, whisper softly to him as though he would listen and respond.

He hadn’t understood why, for he would usually wake up grumpily to Kili squealing away in his cot, and mother telling him to go back to sleep while she hushed the baby. But he knew she felt sad, even when she pretended not to be. Her eyes were sad, even when her mouth tried to smile, and he took it upon himself to give her his biggest hugs, his widest smiles, to impress her by trying to read her favourite tome - she would laugh at his babbles, and that would make him happy; for sometimes, since Da and Uncle left, he felt sad too.

Ma had told him that his Da and Uncle were incredibly brave - that they fought those scary beasts in all the stories, who haunted his dreams, and with their pointy swords and brilliant axes, they laid them all to waste. They had gone away, just for a little while, to keep him, ma, Kili, and everyone in their town safe. Fili knew they would be back soon - he waited by his window every evening as the sun set, looking towards the gravel path which had taken them away from him. He remembered how his Da had turned around to wave him goodbye, axe slung over his back, his golden hair and magnificent beard - the same shade as his - shimmering in the early morning sun. His smile was much larger than his, and Fili hoped he could be as brave as him one day.

But now, while he cried into his feathered pillow; not only did mother not come, but he did not feel brave at all. He calmed himself down after a few minutes, big gulping breaths, shivering though he did not feel cold, he soon took to wiping his wet eyes and runny nose with his deep green woollen blanket. Only then, when his soft sniffs and hiccups settled into breaths, did he hear the voices downstairs. Quiet, at first… “Dìs, please, sit down-” “No, no. I will not sit down, where is my husband? My brother?” Ma’s voice was shaking, though she spoke loudly - she almost sounded as she did when she shouted, angry, but Fili could hear her fear.

Slipping from his bed, tempted to grab his blanket and let it drag along the floor for protection… He soon abandoned it. Warriors did not carry blankets, they carried weapons. While Da and Uncle were away, he would keep his Ma safe, and little Kee; even if his crying was annoying, Fili liked the way his tiny squishy hands gripped his fingers, and the funny way he burped after being fed. So, in his shaky hands which felt far too small for the task, he crept into Ma and Da’s room, and grabbed the fire poker they kept to stoke the fireplace. He left the room, weapon in hand, and no sooner than he did, did he hear a howl.

It was a fearsome sound - a wail so loud and deep that it shook the floorboards beneath his feet. Goosebumps crawled along his arms, his scalp prickled, and his courage momentarily abandoned him. Tears pricked the corner of his eyes, but as the howl descended into heavy, gasping sobs, to desperate cries of pain, he recognised those little cries as those of his Ma.

Had the beasts got to her, were they attacking her with their razor-sharp claws and teeth like knives? His throat felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton, feet rooted into the floorboards - the thought of facing them frightened him far more than the thought of them. But Da would be disappointed in him if he showed cowardice - if he abandoned his Ma to cower in his bed instead. And so, he charged. He descended the stairs as quick as his little feet would allow him, the iron poker heavy in his chubby grip.

The front door swung open to his left, heavy, thundering footsteps rushed inside, Kili wailed from somewhere upstairs; and all Fili could do was swing, with all his might, towards the assailant entering the house.

Only… A hand grabbed it, as easily as if it were a puny twig, sending him off-balance and tumbling down the last step clumsily. Tears flooded his eyes, a scream building in his throat, but somewhere in his wavy vision, he recognised the dark hair, the large nose, the height. It was Uncle. His small face crumpled, bawling, so glad to not find himself doomed. “Uncle, someone’s hurting Ma!” He exclaimed in as loud a cry as his tiny lungs would allow, trying to get to his feet but his legs flopped about, lacking the mobility to rise with ease. To his relief, Uncle scooped him into his strong arms, and Fili did not hesitate to bury his hands in his dark thatch of hair.

“Hush, Irakdashat, nobody is hurting your mother.” His voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating into his own - though the voice was not as confident as it normally sounded. Uncle seemed… Sad. His arms squeezed Fili against him so tight it almost hurt, his words catching in his throat in the same way Fili’s did when he was on the brink of crying. “And this, little one, is very dangerous in small hands.” Changing the subject, Uncle bent to pick up the iron poker. Fili watched as his stormy blue eyes swept between the room his mother was in, where her heart-wrenching sobs continued to swell, and to the staircase, and then to him. He wanted to be with his sister in this moment, but perhaps Fili’s wobbling lip and swimming eyes made him prioritise his nephew first.

“Ah’m sorry, Irak’adad, Ma was screaming like a… Like a wolf, I was scared.” His voice fell to a shaky whisper, whimpering around that firm shoulder as Uncle ascended the stairs. Fili admired his Uncle in the same way he admired Da - only, Uncle was more serious, less inclined to join in with silly games like hide-and-seek or chase, like Da was. But he was strong, honest, and Fili felt a smile or praise from his Uncle was the greatest of rewards. He was forever striving for his approval - and he felt shame, now, admitting he had been afraid. Surely, great warriors charged into battle stone-faced, fear did not touch them for their blades were sharp and their bodies tough. But Uncle… He did not reproach his fear, only sighing, his lower face pressing against the top of Fili’s head. Not quite kissing him there, in the tender way Ma did, but his warm breath was a comfort all the same.

His large hand encompassed Fili’s entire back as his thumb rubbed his shoulder blade, steps pounding against the creaking floorboards in pursuit of his room. “Oh Fili…” Why his voice croaked, the young one did not know, but he whimpered as he awaited a soft, but nonetheless disappointed, scolding. “Listen to me, Fili. To choose to be brave, even when you do feel frightened - that takes the greatest courage of all.” His words, so regal and revered, set Fili’s chest warm. “I am very proud of you, and I know…” Thorin’s voice choked again, and as he set Fili down on his bed and knelt beside him, Fili could see tears in his eyes. “...I know your father was even more so.” His giant hand was shaking as he placed it against his cheek - Fili could only gawk, so surprised by the freely given praise, but all the more shocked to see his Uncle cry. Two tears slid down his cheeks, and Fili raised his hands to wipe them away, a watery smile pulling at his mouth. Could he make Uncle feel better like he did Ma? With the smile that everyone said made him look so much like his Da?

“Where is Da, Uncle?” He asked, and he didn’t know why, but he felt his eyes sting with fresh tears at the look that descended upon his Uncle’s face. Thorin reached into his dirty furs, his dark messy hair shining blue in the silvery moonlight which shone through Fili’s bedroom window, and in his hand laid a small bag. He poured the contents out into his hand, and within his palm laid… Da’s metal hair beads. “These are for you - to share with Kili, when you both come of age.” One was the giant clip Da used to keep his long hair gathered at the back, the four smaller beads he used to keep the two braids on either side of his head contained… And, Fili’s favourite, the smallest two he used to keep a braid on either side of his beard enclosed.

Fili was only young, but he recognised what all of this meant, in his own way. “Oh,” He hummed, unsure whether to sob like Ma or to react in some other way. Was there a proper way to react? He reached to touch the beads reverently - they felt a little warm from being next to Uncle’s chest, and he wetted his lips, looking up into Uncle’s glassy eyes meekly. “Da isn’t coming back, is he?” Whimpering, his voice felt small as he watched Thorin shake his head, and Fili gulped, upset, but full of questions. “D-Does that mean… Do I-” He tried to find the right words, and Uncle waited patiently, “-Do I have to look after Ma and Kili now? Because I… I do not know how-” Fili cried then, unsure if he was capable of such a monumental task. Kili could only squirm and cry, and though Ma was more than capable with a weapon, he wasn’t sure if that wail meant she would be less strong from now on.

“No, Irakdashat, do not worry. It is my responsibility, to look out for my sister, and my sister-sons.” That phrase made Fili’s eyes brim with tears - he would miss his Da, truly, but he now feared his golden hair and warm smile would become more a painful reminder of the dwarf now gone, rather than the cute imitation of his Da. But to think, in a way, he had not lost a father figure; that reassured him. “I promise, all will be well - you may come to me for anything. I know… I know I am not your father, but I made him a vow that I would care for you as though you are my own. Do you understand?” More tears slid down his Uncle’s cheeks, and it pained Fili to see this strong, serious man so impassioned. Everyone seemed to whisper about their crownless king, about how much loss he had seen, the pain he felt.

Fili squirmed to sit up, wrapping his arms around his Uncle’s broad neck, wetting his dark hair with tears, and petting the back of his head. “Thank you, Uncle… I love you.” It did not feel a tough thing to say, especially for a boy who wished nothing more than to be grown and brave and strong, but it did feel the right thing to say. For he did. He loved how steadfast his Uncle was, how he prioritised all around him before himself; he deserved to know he was appreciated. “Does- does this mean I might begin swordtraining?” He was pushing his luck, but in this instance, his Uncle let out a broken, soft laugh against his light hair, pushing him to lay back against his sheets.

“Perhaps when you have grown taller, and less skinny-” He accentuated by digging his hand against Fili’s side, tickling his ribs and prompting a shriek from him - the noise only sent Kili’s cries louder in the next room over, demanding attention. “Now, little one, I must see to that brother of yours, and you must rest - should you wake again, I will be in the guest bedroom… It may be best to leave your Ma tonight, she is safe, but she will be sad for a while.” That made sense, Fili thought, nestling into his sheets obediently and rubbing his cheek against his favourite green blanket, snuggling into the warmth Uncle’s arm left behind when he rose. Thorin strode to the door, posture less tall and proud, but when he smiled towards him, it was a smile warmer than any Fili had seen before. “And Fili…” He mumbled, directing the young one to look at him, “...I love you too, Irakdashat.”

The young dwarfling felt warm, comforted, as his Uncle left the room. His eyes stung at his brief thought, one of never seeing Da again, one of wondering how he was taken away. But then he remembered he would not be alone, that Uncle would take care of them, and his breathing slowed. As Kili’s wails grew softer, and Ma’s wracking sobs turned to soft gasps, Fili found peace in the warmth of his bed.

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It was a memory that seemed blurry to the fully grown dwarf, the details fuzzy through a child’s eyes, but the howl the faerie made? Somehow that was the same; shriller than his mother’s, a half-scream, but the raw pain of it? Equal. Running towards the figure with the split armour, her legs gave out just before they could touch, and so she clawed her way through the stone path - throwing herself over the metal with such force he wondered if she had hurt her chest. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the dreadful axe, pulled it free with little struggle and threw it aside; she had tried to roll him over, so he might lay on his back rather than his front, but the armour proved too heavy for her. And so she lay over him, sobbing loud enough that the noise echoed and bounced between the towers surrounding them.

“Laisren! Laisren, please, no-” The little words she did manage were choked, spluttering on her tongue, and if he hadn’t felt sufficiently sorry for her; this display left him pitying her. She wasn’t even left with skin to kiss, or hair to stroke, all she had to say goodbye to was bones, dust and armour. A few minutes passed, and the sky grew ever-darker, sunlight slipping away as if to mirror her sorrow. None among them knew best what to do; some suggested finding somewhere less… Desolate to make camp, others wondered whether the faerie would find it disrespectful for them to seek the local blacksmith or armoury; see if they could utilise any of the armour or weaponry. And maybe it was him encroaching upon a sensitive matter, but Fili had retained the urge to comfort in times of need from his young years; to turn the darkest times to dim light. It felt wrong to leave her alone.

Slowly, he moved to sit beside her quivering, whimpering form; lightly clearing his throat and wetting his mouth, which suddenly felt dry, before gearing to speak. “Who was he to you?” He asked, gently, trying to keep his voice as soft as it could go nowadays. At first, he thought she hadn’t heard him, or perhaps she simply preferred to be left alone, but just as he went to move away…

“My older brother, though…” More of that strange dust slipped from her eyes, running off the curves of the chest plate like sand; her voice was so quiet he almost couldn’t hear her. “I used to call him my Athair Beag - it means ‘little father’. He was-” She choked, swiping at her eyes, “He was the only one that cared, the only one that understood… He was all I had left to count on.” There was not just grief in her voice for a family member, but despair, one so deep that it chilled him to the core.

“I-” What on earth could he say? He couldn’t very well tell her everything would be okay, could he? Her situation was incomprehensible. How would he cope if he strolled home one day to find Kili slaughtered, all his people gone, most very clearly dead; and on top of that, to not even have the comfort of his own time, of his own place in history. “I’m sorry for your loss, Shae. Would you like me to-” He grimaced slightly, not sure how she might react if he did roll the body over and the skull detached, or if his arm came out the socket, but it was all he had to offer. “-help you roll him over? So he isn’t laid on his front like that?” He hoped he hadn’t offended her in some way, and thankfully she soon nodded.

Moving the hunk of metal and the bones it contained as carefully as one could, thankfully he managed to turn him without disturbing his remains too horrifically. There was only the sound of rib-bones bouncing around in their metal cage, which disturbed him somewhat, but she seemed a little comforted from knowing he was no longer stuck in the position he died. The emblem on the front of the chest plate was beautiful; a lantern, with gilded patterns up the sides, and a flame that looked real within. Shae placed her hand over it, and it was only then that he noticed the shift in her eyes.

An eerie stillness settled over her, and her expression was no longer grieved, not exactly. “Do the orcs still live?” Her voice turned icily calm, the question held no stutter, no quietness, no shakiness. She spoke so matter-of-factly despite the circumstances and her previous state that it felt a touch intimidating. Like the hard swell of air and the overcast sky before a storm. Balin edged closer, and perhaps that was for the best - he was so often the rational elder voice among them. “Well, yes, but-” “-And are they still widespread? Roaming the lands killing innocents - or might I find a majority of them at Mordor?” That edge rose, the glint in her eyes making them appear less like gold, and more like fire.

“I daresay you’d find them in their tens-of thousands there, lass; no army could oppose them, let alone… One of you.” Bofur’s voice rose above the rest, and while Fili knew he meant no offence, the way he looked her up and down, as though to demonstrate how lithe she appeared next to them, must’ve come across as patronising. “And who are you to speak of my capabilities? I have brought an end to creatures you could not even begin to fathom.” Her voice was harsh, her frame rising quick, beginning to march away from the group and the body with determination in her step.

“Have yer seen war, lass? Felt the bloody air of a battlefield? You may be fae, and I ken yer meant to live long, but I can tell young from old clear as day!” Came the thundering voice of Dwalin, who went after her with ease given her shorter gait. Fili joined, as did his Uncle, Kili and Balin; while the others lingered further behind, perhaps a safe distance away. Shae spun her head around, the glare in her eyes enough to tell she had not seen war, and Master Dwalin was quite correct, but she seemed far too stubborn to admit so. “It does not matter - I will see them dead and not buried; I will leave each one to rot, they will suffer. I will destroy every orc I cross paths with until I’m satisfied-” “-Or until you are dead - and you will be long-dead before you step foot in Mordor.” Thorin’s voice came like gravel, but the faerie did not appear fazed. If anything, quite the opposite, for she laughed. “Ah, yes, and death should be a deterrent, for I have so much to live for.” Sarcastic, and more than a little hysterical, the energy coming off of her seemed to crackle the air and stir the wind. It worried him to hear that she valued her life so little with this revelation.

One great push on the large doors of a great hall and open swung the door. At first, it was too dark to see, and he didn’t miss how she paused in her march, stepping back into the fading light, before summoning orbs of light so bright they made sunspots dance in his vision when he gawked. Thankfully, she pushed them away from her, sending them flying into great lanterns hanging from the ceiling; illuminating the room, and- Good Gods. Fili had never entertained the thought of feeling faint when he was otherwise fit and healthy, but his head spun at the sight laid before them. Let alone Uncle, who gasped and cursed in certain disbelief.

On each wall, hoisted two metres or so above the floor, laid skulls; ranging from tiny, a skull the size of a small dog’s head, to the average of the sizes, the size of a horse’s head, to one monster which sat on the opposite end of the hall from the door. So large it was that it took up all the wall-space, from ceiling to floor. Underneath most of the skulls laid weapons and nameplates; some swords, but most long lances and spears, all of ebony and platinum. Teeth glinted menacingly from their stark, preserved, white maws, sharp enough to pierce skin with even the lightest touch. Sharp, angular lines pulled along their cheeks, made all the more dramatic in the contrasting light. Even in death, they seemed to snarl and bellow roars, jaws pinned open - some with lanterns strung to the wall between their maws as if to imitate the glow of a fire. Sharp points and curled horns sprung up from their skulls like great fans; even the tiniest seemed a fearsome foe to meet. They were… Every last one of them… “Dragons.” Kili breathed, and, for once, that assumption was undoubtedly correct.

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Tag-List: @clumsy-wonderland @i-did-not-mean-to

#fili x oc #fili fanfic #fili smut #fili fanfiction #fili durin #fili son of dis #the hobbit #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit fandom #fili the hobbit #fili the dwarf #slow burn

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ukdamo · 3 years

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Homage to Minnesota

One of mine from October, 1999. It belongs with the murals for reasons that those closest me know well-enough. Think of them as opening and closing brackets.

In his shared student apartment in Maida Vale, on a borrowed airbed, covered by someone else’s quilt, we two lie. His head rests upon the pillow next to me but he is far away: silent, sleeping, still.

Last night, after he’d fallen asleep (so that he might never know) I wept. In that other hemisphere, beyond the terminator of wakefulness, the footfalls and sorrows of my past journeying would not disturb him, nor my tears for fears still to be encountered. This morning, as I examine the contours of his face, which describe a landscape I have never seen (and may never see) except through this mediation, I am in torment: I want to walk this land but dare not touch its features.

His hair is the ebony concerto of thunderclouds illuminating the far horizon and his forehead the amber prairie of sun-ripened grain, fragrant with wild flowers, dancing with butterflies, alive with the saddening songs of birds. Nature has cultivated neither the ridge above, nor the arid cleft below, the wetlands of his mouth: the sharp stubble shafts on his fertile cheeks and chin are simply the soft seekings of germinating seeds (for he is young). The red gash of his lips marks my favourite swimming hole, fed by the meltwater from hearts fast frozen. From the recesses of nearby caves comes his breath, sighing with the stately cadence of a funeral march, bearing aromatic witness to the deepest, darkest, dun-brown pink of his vital processes. His eyebrows are the carapaces of beetles whose iridescence lives beneath closed lids. (No pharaoh ever worshipped scarab more devoutly than I reverence those eyes) Hidden from the merely inquisitive, burrowing creatures live a secret life: that’s why his hazel eyes flit busily beneath flaxen fields, intent upon their task, mapping the uplands of the soul.

When he opens his eyes they become great lakes and his lashes a forest of black-painted signs along the shore, which read: Deep Water. No Swimming. But I am heedless, intent upon drowning. I see no warnings, only the encouraging smiles of tall, thin undertakers who await me patiently. Soon they will draw me, lifeless, from the depths and lay me to rest in Minnesota.

#jason #poetry #minnesota #damian's writing #love #loss #death #endings

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i-scry · 7 years

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Some autumn girls

#flight rising #scrying workshop #bogsneak #fae #skydancer #flaxen #pumpkin #rust #iridescent #shimmer #circuit #crystal #rosette #lace #jaguar #bee #capsule

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amitieos · 2 years

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[ TOGETHER ]: when the receiver awakens, they discover that the sender has been sleeping next to them, arms wrapped around one another for warmth, comfort, protection ( or something more… ) !!

The last embers of the campfire had long since puttered out. The moon hung high in the night sky. Midnight has passed overhead on her argent chariot and Elincia stirs awake.

Soft, flaxen locks of hair are the first thing she makes out in the inky darkness. The warmth of another, curled into her side. How strange, there was plenty enough room for two people in the tent and they had their fair share of blankets. Despite this, Elincia can’t quite bring herself to shift Sharena. The younger woman seems so peaceful, breathing softly against her chest.

By daylight, Sharena wears a halo of sunlight, bright and golden like the ichor that surely must run though her veins. She is so very alive as to seem positively divine. Iridescent and breathtaking, her enthusiasm and kindness is heaven sent. It’s such a sharp contrast, Elincia thinks, to see her dainty in her arms like a sugarplum dream. Quiet, softened and gentle as gossamer wings. At peace.

It’s still late, the sun slumbers just as Sharena does. Too early to rise and yet with a heart too full to possibly fall asleep, Elincia settles for stroking Sharena’s gilded hair with a touch lighter than pegasus down. Gently, she hums a song. An old lullaby, the words of which she has long forgotten. Something about princesses, angels and an ancient longing to be whole, she thinks. When mother sang it to her, she had never quite understood. Not until now, as she embraces a woman who is half seraphic and half storm beneath the glow of a silent, secretive moon.

-- Elincia stops her serenade and places a fragile kiss upon the crown of Sharena’s head. A revelation of things perhaps better left unsaid. For Icarus too, had loved the sun too much.

& the sun had loved back with her ardent zeal.

#s:sharena

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morgana-ren · 4 years

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Come Down to the Black Sea (II)

Here’s the second part to this fic! In case you’re not caught up, here’s the first! (Part One)

There’s a sickly sweet sense of satisfaction that tugs his blistering lips into a sharp grin when you inevitably return. You couldn’t stay away from the ocean even after your traumatic encounter with him. The pull is too strong, and while any normal person would stay far, far away from the shoreline after learning what stalks beyond the edge of the sand, you’re not any normal person, are you?

Oh no, you’re much too brave for that. Or maybe much too foolish.

The next time he sees you, he has to admit, you look different than what he’d gotten used to. Maybe a little less aloof. Maybe a little more vigilant. Perhaps even a hint of visible bitterness that his presence taints your peaceful metaphorical sanctum. Your thinly pulled sneer and cautious glances hint at something akin to spite and he’s unsure if the snub intrigues or enrages him further.

You keep your distance at first, sitting far back on the concrete curb only a few meters from the tarmac of the dimly lit parking lot. You look out, squirming uncomfortably as you stare long to the ocean as if you're trying to relax but failing miserably. The souring experience with the sea creature has poisoned any semblance of tranquility you found before, and your resentful vigilance is written plainly on your features. Even as your muscles pull taut from the tension you’re holding in, the skin beneath your eyes still crinkles as you occasionally search out in the distance for the telltale sign of silvery hair or leering crimson eyes beneath the murky waves.

He lets you have your comfort days, keeping himself hidden well in the shadowed waters as you regain your footing and attempt to trust the thought of the ocean and her creatures again. As he predicts, every moonrise, you move slightly closer to the sea. Only slightly, but it's more than most of your kind would do given the circumstances.

He's curious if you believe he's moved on by now. After all, he's been a good boy. He hasn't drowned any swimmers in weeks, and more boats have made it to dock than usually do when he’s skulking the depths.

Humans expect most other creatures to react to their presence being known in one way; fear. In all of your novels, movies, all of your self indulgent garbage, the creatures flee in the face of the mighty human race or face ultimate destruction. Your hubris blinds you. He's not going anywhere. Not until he's gotten what he came for.

Not long after you return to the beach and his impatience reaches an insurmountable peak. He pops his flaxen head up to the surface and studies you until you inevitably realize you’re not alone. Your initial reaction is one he expects, and that’s fear. Your secondary reaction however? That one is the one that grates at him. Irritation. You’re irritated at him.

You don't flee from your spot like he thought you might, but you visibly tense up for a moment. Once your rationality takes over once more, he swears you shake your fucking head at him as you tear your eyes away from his general direction. The unmitigated gall of some humans. He cannot deny that it sparks his interest, though.

He stays the night with his gaze fixed on you; a gaze you don't return. In fact, you actively keep it pulled away for the duration of your stay. It irks him more than it ought to. Are you trying to pretend he isn’t real?

How dare you ignore him. You didn't even know he existed until recently and you think you can go back to pretending you don't know? Is your arrogance so overwhelming that you'll turn a blind eye to him over petty hurt feelings?

Okay, maybe he tried to drown you, but if you had just returned his call, it never had to be this way. You would be dead and he would be miles down the coast, wreaking havoc on some new stretch of land. Instead, he's stuck here in a battle of stubbornness with some human idiot because you couldn't just die like you were supposed to.

What makes you so goddamn special?

Well to hell with that and to hell with you. You’re nothing. Just another ordinary human girl, and he'll drag you to the trenches if it's the last thing he does. He swears it.

That night and every night after, he allows you to see him. His eyes might as well be the lighthouse to his location, and if that wasn't enough, you can always make out the silver mop of hair somewhere in the distance. He calls to you and he knows you can feel it. He sees you jerk instinctively towards the ocean, having to consciously keep yourself rooted to the ground, but you always manage to resist somehow.

It infuriates him, rage building deep in his gut as he sees trickles of light from the sun climb over the horizon and paint the sky with yellows and lavenders as a harbinger of the daylight, and thus the end of his time with you. He watches the rising tide erase your footsteps every morning only to be replaced the following evening, inching ever closer to his territory.

'Patience' He reminds himself.

Sure enough, one evening as the moon pulls over the sky, you're situated yourself once again on the rocks where you first met, albeit further back than he'd like. You learn from your mistakes, it seems. Unfortunate. For him at least.

He cautiously swims to the edge of your makeshift perch, hoisting himself up slightly out of the water once more and resting his head on his crossed wrist as he blinks his large red eyes up at you. You still refuse to return the favor, despite the fact he knows that you’re aware of him based on the way you pull your body further into itself when he makes his appearance. The silence lasts for several minutes before he opts to speak, growing weary of being ignored.

"I knew you'd be back."

You don't even so much as nod.

"It's rude to ignore someone. Where are your manners?"

Despite his persistence, you refuse him the attention he craves. Something wells in the pit of his stomach that feels a bit too much like the humiliating sting of rejection, and he doesn't like that one bit. He doesn't like being ignored.

He brings his arm back and spreads his webbed fingers, letting the water pool around the center of his palm before slapping his hand in your direction. Stark cold sea water drenches the entirety of your front and he watches in amusement as your skin pimples and you recoil, frozen in shock for several seconds. He can't help but chuckle when you begin to screech, angrily wiping your face and yanking at your doused clothing that slaps against your skin with each movement. Try to ignore that.

"What the FUCK!"

"Don't ignore me, brat."

Your face contorts and soon you're hissing and sputtering, unable to formulate words in your fit of pure rage. A smug little grin plays on his mouth as he rests his head in his palm, watching as you fail miserably to find some venom to spit back in his face.

"Are you kidding me? You tried to fucking drown me and you’re pissed I’m ignoring you?"

He shrugs, huffing out his cracked lips like you're the biggest drama queen on the planet. "You're still breathing, aren't you?"

"I wonder if I'll get a special price when I sell you to a fucking sushi restaurant!"

The smile fades from his face and he scrapes a talon against the rock. Apparently dark humor is only funny if it’s not being aimed at him. "I'd like to see you try, human."

You two glare each other down for a moment before you sigh and tear your attentions from him to his dismay. "Just go away. Whatever you are, I don't care. Just leave me in peace."

"You know my name." He spits through gritted teeth, instinctively rising a little higher in defense.

"Yeah, I also said I don't care. Go away, fish."

You are so fucking lucky he can't reach you.

"No." His answer is simple and deliberate, trying to keep the urge to slither onto the rock and dig his nails into your yielding human flesh at bay. Land is your territory, and he rather enjoys the home field advantage.

"Why? You have an entire ocean to go be a dick in. Why do you have to bother me?"

He ponders your words for a moment before settling on a less than sufficient answer. You aren’t sure what you expected.

"Because I can. It could all be over if you'd just quit being stubborn and get in the damn water."

"Asking me politely to kill myself, huh? That's a neat strategy."

"I've heard your kind say drowning is very peaceful. Probably better than any other way you'll die."

"Nice sales pitch, bud. Still no takers."

You sit in uncomfortable silence for a few more moments, and he decides that this is going nowhere. Obviously the shock of meeting a sea dwelling humanoid has worn off and isn’t working to his advantage any longer. He's going to have to try another route.

He heaves himself up to sit directly on the edge of the crag itself while keeping the bottom of his tail below, steady flicking back and forth in a rhythmic fashion. Shaking the water from his hair, he slicks it back out of his face and runs his fingers through the length, brushing the tresses back behind his fins. He’s allowing you an up close and personal look at something most humans will never get to see. No matter how angry at him you are, he knows you can’t resist the urge to look.

As expected, your curiosity is a bit too much for you to overcome. While you do initially move to scoot away, it’s quickly replaced with a particularly intense look, clearly marveling at the differences in your physiology versus his own.

His torso is human enough, albeit with an unusually iridescent sheen to it, until you get to the rounds of his hips. That's where thick, black scales accumulate and eventually lead into a sleek, muscular looking tail. The fins on the side of his head twitch slightly as he massages his scalp, and you wonder if it's how he hears things or if it's just a natural reaction to the stimulation. His nails are sharp but he seems to be acutely aware of their placement, avoiding harming himself at all while your cuts are still healing up under a rather gratuitously thick blood tacked bandage from when he grabbed you during your previous meeting.

His hair isn't blonde, it's literally silver. It frames his pallid face in shaggy waves that reach lazily down below his shoulders and somehow glows with unnatural shine that haloes his head in the moonlight even when sopping wet. While his eyes are that of a predator, they're oddly mesmerizing; a deep, luminescent scarlet that contrasts his pale skin beautifully. You're willing to bet that's a technique developed by his kind to disarm and lure prey, though one of his victims or perhaps another sea dweller must have tried to gouge it out, since one of his eyes has a jagged, pale scar stretching from his thin eyebrow to the chapped, baggy flesh underneath.

Life in the sea must be just as treacherous as land, as puffy, pink scars crisscross the expanse of his skin, some rounding from the front of his chest all the way around to his back. There's prominent marks around his gills as well. Small, repeated nicks just under the column of his neck. It’s a rather peculiar pattern, but he seems unbothered by them, and most look fully healed. Apparently he's become more cautious- or perhaps more skilled- with age.

How old is he anyway? He looks about your age, but it's rough to tell between the dried patches of flesh that litter his face. Even from beneath them though, you can tell he's oddly alluring; it somehow adds to his unique attraction. He's even got a little beauty mark adjacent to a jagged scar that runs through his chapped lips.

He’s like something out of the story books you read or the tales you were told as a child. The beautiful creature that haunts the darkness, another pretty mask death facades in. His appearance bodes nothing but an omen of ill will, yet you can’t bring yourself to run from him no matter how much your inner child shrieks at the danger.

Fairy tales aren’t real, and according to the rest of the world, he shouldn’t and doesn’t exist, and yet here he sits right in front of you as if it's the most natural thing in the world. Decades of fantasy stories with tales of nefarious monsters pretending to be something they aren’t just to entice the clueless protagonist into their ultimate demise should have somewhat prepared you for this moment, but you’re too enthralled with the flick of his tail and self indulgent thoughts of being special to really adhere to the rules of self preservation set forth by predecessors ignorant to his existence.

You're so lost in observing him and every oddity that his body offers up to your gluttonous mortal eyes that it almost causes you to jump when he speaks again, turning to face you with eyes crinkling in mocking amusement.

"Huh, you're staring. How rude of you. Unless it's for a different reason, that is."

"What? Wait- no!" You shake your head adamantly even as a telling darkness creeps up your neck and across your cheeks.

"Humans are bad liars." He grins, tongue poking out from beneath his sharp canines. "It's okay. You can come down and get a closer look if you'd like."

"Ha-ha. Nice fuckin' try."

"Suit yourself." He clicks his tongue and turns his attention from you, languidly stirring the water where his scaled appendage swishes just beneath the surface.

You eye it, far too curious to resist leaning your head forward slightly to get a better look at it in the cloudy water. “It looks… slimy.”

He balks at your rude admission and it’s apparent you’ve insulted his pride. For a moment, it seems like he wants to admonish you for your careless affront to his form, but he seems to think better of it. Instead, he remains quiet for a moment, trying to think of something tactful to say.

"Well, it's not. Think...." He pauses, filing through his knowledge of human creatures for a decent comparison. "A snake. They might look slimy to someone ignorant, but they're soft and smooth."

"Not if you rub them the wrong way."

"Obviously. That's why you don't do that, idiot."

"What about your-" You gesture vaguely before pointing at the scales that dot his arms and chest. "-Those."

"Are you stupid or something? It's the exact same thing." He runs a clawed finger up his own arm and then clenches his hand. "Smooth."

"Huh."

"If you'll come down here, you can feel it for yourself."

"Give it up, tailbait."

His wet hand reaches upward and scratches lightly around the scars that mar his neck. He didn't actually expect it to work, but he's irritated nonetheless. This shouldn’t be this much trouble, and he shouldn’t be putting this much effort into anything. Why does he even bother?

"Fine then."

Despite his tantrum, he knows you're tempted. He can tell by the way you keep eyeing him. You're presented with a once in a lifetime opportunity, and it’s not in your nature to pass it up. Granted said opportunity is a loaded spring trap, but still, it's rough for you to even pretend you’re not interested.

Although, to be fair, the same can be said about him. He never really talks to humans beyond the regular ‘Oh god, what are you, please help me, let me go, I don't want to die like this’ nonsense your kind spouts off when you realize what's happening. This is his first actual conversation with one of your kind. He’s not happy about the circumstances surrounding it, but he’ll take advantage of it while he has the chance.

"What about you? When your skin isn't wet, what does it feel like?"

You pause at the question, unsure of what really to say. You drag your own fingers across your arm, trying to find a way to describe it. "Uh... Fleshy? Sort of squishy? It can be soft or rough depending on where you touch. Maybe a little hairy depending on who?"

He stares blankly and you realize that's probably not the best description, but what the fuck does he want you to say? It’s such a weird thing to describe. You’ve never even really thought about it before.

You reach your arm forward to let him touch for himself, but immediately yank it back when you realize what a dumb fuck move that is. He must realize it too, because he's cackling loudly as you cradle your offending arm and look at him as if he’s the one in the wrong. He could have easily yanked you forward and taken you under if you had gone through with giving him the chance.

"You're a fuckin' dick."

"I didn't do anything. It's not my fault you're an idiot."

"Shut up." You knead your teeth into your lip, scanning him over again. "What about your magic?"

"Magic? What are you? A child?"

"What do you want me to call it, then?"

"Do you call it magic when one of your kind uses a harpoon gun?"

"No, because it's not."

"Then why would what I do be considered 'magic?"

"A harpoon gun is human technology. What you do isn't. At least as far as I know. You weren’t like… made in a lab, were you?"

He gives a grunt and scratches at his neck again. "Typical human. A tiger has claws it uses to defend itself and catch prey that come naturally to it and not to you, but do you consider it magic? Well mine is no different. We evolve different from your kind, but we're not any sort of mythical. Just because we're not known to you doesn't mean we're some sort of wild outlier. Humans aren’t the end-all-be-all of intelligent life."

You consider his point, nodding after a few moments. "You're right. My bad. It's just... it's new to me. I'm just trying to understand. Is it rude to think of you as mythic? I don’t mean for it to be, it’s just-"

He huffs angrily before you can finish, scowling again. "We adapt to our environment, same as you. Typical human arrogance. You all think you’re so intelligent and so learned. If you haven't heard of it, it must not exist, right? The mighty human race, epitome of knowledge despite knowing nothing at all!”

You break up his tirade before he starts going off, raising your hands defensively to disarm him. "Fair enough! I didn't mean to offend you or imply something offensive. Sorry! I’m still learning."

He says nothing, but the rage building within him begins to deteriorate. At least you're smart enough to recognize you're stupid.

Another stark silence, the sound of waves crashing and wind blowing is all that passes between you. A gale brings in a new bout of smells; salt and slight sulfur, the same scent that’s comforted you throughout the entirety of your life. You inhale deeply, relishing in the peculiar sense of nostalgia the sea offers you, even knowing the danger you're literally facing.

The sounds of the waves pushing and pulling with the tides relaxes you, lulling you into a sense of contentment. Leaves rustling and waters bristling on the surface. The sand stuck between your toes. The breeze in your hair. The call of the ocean.

You can't see the look of peace that overtakes his features, but he can feel it too. Eyes closed, a rare look of tranquility settling across his face as he turns from you and faces the horizon and the open water.

The wind eventually dies down and you break the unspoken moment of serenity between you. You make the choice to speak.

"Why do you hate us so much?"

His eyes snap open and you are made instantly aware of your folly.

Wrong choice.

"I'm not surprised.” He hisses, shoving away from the rock with a look of disgust that tells you that you’ve made an egregious error. “Typical human. You know nothing."

With a flick of his tail and another splash of water directed your way, he's gone, submerged beneath the water with nothing but a ripple headed off into the sea from beneath the waves. Even several minutes later when you bring yourself to peer over the edge, you can't see the silvery glow of his hair or the deep crimson of his eyes.

He's really gone.

It doesn't bring you the comfort it should.

You sit on the edge for a few moments, even rolling the dice on dangling your feet in but nothing slippery attaches itself to your ankle or threatens to drag you below. Orange tinges the horizon and birds begin to chirp, you realize it's time to go home. You don't feel the peace of mind you usually do as you begin the long trek home.

Taglist: @dubliinwaltz, @lemonzoey

#Shigaraki Tomura #shigaraki x reader #BNHA #Shigaraki #Siren!Shigaraki #I got told I'm not tagging these with the right tags to reach the x reader audience so if you have any advice lemme know

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