#Snowbank flowers

[ourlittlechateau]

Missing these white little flowers in the house. Snowbank white blackberries are a rare breed of blackberries invented in 1916. Fun fact they aren’t actually white their skin is actually transparent. This gives them a white look because you can see the fruits flesh inside.

[stevie-petey]

oh, you didn't know?

“I was told there’d be cookies.” Dustin interrupted, flashing Steve another smug grin that made the teen want to shove him into a snowbank.  “Yeah, for her.” Steve pointed at you. “Not for you.”

Summary: steve is pathetically in love with you and for some reason the universe hates him and continues to pray on his downfall. typical.

Rating: general, some swearing

Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n

Words: 1.6k

Before you swing in: happy valentines day my loves <333 youre all my valentines, i didnt make the rules. anyways, pls enjoy this cute cheesy fic. dont ask how i thought of this: i simply do not know. however, its pathetic!loverboy!steve and i think we ALL deserve that today smh.

-

Steve has never had the best timing. 

When he first manned up to ask you out, it had coincidentally been the same day your childhood dog died. 

There he had been, flowers in hand and a proud smile on his face when he knocked on your front door, completely taken aback when you answered with tears streaming down your face. 

Immediately, Steve’s smile had dropped and he quickly pulled you close to inspect for any injuries or pain. “Y/N? What happened, is everything okay?”

“My dog died.” You wailed, even more tears spilling over. 

“Oh my god–”

“He… He didn’t suffer. He was old and–” You had sniffed, looking so small and frail in your heartbreak, before spotting the flowers in Steve’s hand. You gasped. “H–How did you know?”

Steve had been confused for a moment, but when he followed your gaze to the flowers that were originally meant to be “please be my girlfriend” flowers, his heart dropped. 

Well fuck. 

“Yes…” He cleared his throat. “I, uh. Had a hunch?”

You threw your arms around Steve, the flowers then crushed between you two, but he hadn't paid any attention to them as he wrapped his arms tightly around you. After a few seconds, you placed your lips by his ear and whispered, “You’re the sweetest.”

The sincerity in your voice had made Steve want to vomit. 

He hadn’t had a hunch that your childhood dog would die that day, but what else was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry your dog died, do you want to kiss now? Absolutely not. 

Steve is many things, and oftentimes he is an idiot, but he isn’t that much of an idiot.

So, instead of asking you to be his girlfriend, Steve had instead spent the next three hours at your house as he consoled you and watched your favorite movie to cheer you up. While it hadn’t been his ideal outcome, Steve had still been happy to simply spend time with you. Besides, you had needed him at that moment, so of course Steve was right there by your side. 

Life moved on, a few weeks passed, and eventually Steve decided to try again. 

You had no more animals to possibly lose, Christmas was approaching, and Steve was determined that this time he’d be able to ask you out. 

After buying you some chocolate and planning a fort building night on Christmas Eve, Steve had been sure that the night would go perfectly. There was a beautiful rose pendant bracelet sitting atop of his dresser in his room, wrapped and ready for you to open. 

Steve’s plan was foolproof. 

Build a fort, watch a cheesy Christmas movie, bake some cookies and drink hot chocolate, and then boom: Steve would ask you to be his girlfriend. 

However, Steve really should’ve known better. 

His parents had left that day and he had spent the entire time cleaning the house and preparing all the snacks before your arrival. At six on the dot, his doorbell rang and Steve eagerly ran over to answer the door. 

There, standing on his front doorstep, had been you with a smug looking Dustin Henderson.

“What’s the kid doing here?” Steve had asked, all his hope now coming crashing down upon him. 

You winced. “I know we made plans, I’m so sorry, but his mom asked me to babysit him and she offered me the rest of the money I need for your Christmas gift and–”

“I was told there’d be cookies.” Dustin interrupted, flashing Steve another smug grin that made the teen want to shove him into a snowbank. 

“Yeah, for her.” Steve pointed at you. “Not for you.”

“Stevie, I promise I’ll make it up to you later.” You groaned at him, and Steve knew you hated disappointing him. “Can we please just come inside? It’s cold and I was really excited for the fort.”

There are many times when Steve wonders just how he manages to get himself into obscure situations. That night, when he had Dustin Henderson wedged between you and him underneath a super romantic and cute fort that he had spent hours building, had been one of those times where Steve questioned his entire life. 

At that point, Steve was starting to wonder if he’d ever manage to ask you out in the first place. 

A few more weeks passed after that and you were still his best friend and nothing had changed between you two, but now Steve found himself constantly biting his tongue around you. He was so fucking in love with you, he had been for years, but after two failed attempts of confessing his feelings: it was becoming impossible to hold them in. 

Then, late January, your birthday came along. 

This time, Steve was sure that he had it all figured out.

You had wanted to grab some dinner at the local diner you loved, and Steve thought that a small, toned down proposal to date would be perfect. He’d give you your birthday gift (a matching set of earrings for the rose bracelet you now wore every day), he’d order you the strawberry shortcake you adored, and when you weren’t looking, Steve would ask the waitress to write “happy birthday, my love” on the cake. 

Steve was a goddamn romantic genius, honestly. 

Except that isn’t what happened. 

What actually ended up happening was the waitress somehow hearing “my love” as “Milo” and Steve had wanted to bash his fucking skull in. 

“Who’s ‘Milo’?” You had asked once the cake came out, confusion evident on your face. 

Steve, now used to nothing ever working out in his favor, had simply sighed and said, “Who knows, man. Just eat your cake.”

You had giggled, and the sound was enough to cheer Steve up a bit. Sure, it was looking more and more like the world didn’t want you with him, but at least he got to hear your laugh and admire the way your eyes shined whenever you looked at him. 

Now, a few weeks later, it’s Valentine’s Day and Steve is terrified that he will somehow set your house on fire with his horrible luck. 

He has spent the last two months trying to ask you out. Now, on the day of love itself, Steve is almost too terrified to even approach you. At the rate he’s going, if he tries to ask you out again, he’ll end up telling you he hates you or something. 

He’s miserable. 

Which is how he finds himself once again outside your door, except there’s no flowers in his hands, and he knocks. 

You guys haven’t made any plans tonight, but it’s Valentine’s Day and Steve is so in love with you that it hurts. 

The second his knuckles leave the door, you swing the door wide open and jump into his arms. “Stevie!”

Surprised by such an affectionate reaction, Steve almost falls into the bushes in front of your house. “Woah, hey!”

He steadies the two of you and you simply squeeze him tighter and giggle. You’re in an exceptionally good mood, almost too good of a mood, and Steve’s hands are sweating. He hadn’t exactly come here with a game plan in mind. 

“Happy to see me, I take it?” He mumbles into your ear. 

“Duh,” you press a kiss to his cheek. “It’s Valentine’s Day, why wouldn’t I be excited to see my boyfriend?”

This time, Steve actually does fall into the bush behind him. 

“Oh my god,” you run over and quickly try to help the boy up, but Steve is staring up at the night sky, overcome with pure shock and fear. “Stevie? Steve!”

Steve lays there, motionless as you continue to tug at his jacket. “How long have I been your boyfriend, Y/N?”

At his question, you stop tugging and look at him, confused. “I don’t know, honestly. How long has it been since the fourth of July?”

“The fourth?” Steve sputters. “Y/N, it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m just now finding out you’re my girlfriend?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?”

“No!” Steve finally scrambles out of the bushes and grabs your face with his hands. He feels insane, his hands are shaking a bit as he holds onto you. “When did this happen?”

You scrunch your eyebrows together. “On the fourth. We saw the fireworks, cuddled on the picnic blanket you stole from your mom, you grabbed my hand, and then told me you never wanted this to end. I just… I assumed you meant our relationship?”

Steve blinks. “You… You are the love of my life, Y/N L/N.”

“Well, I’d hope so–” Suddenly Steve’s lips are against yours and he’s kissing you with everything he has within him. All those months of pining after you, all the times he’s failed in asking you to be his, and this entire time you had somehow been his all along. 

God, he is so stupidly in love with you. 

He nips at your bottom lip and you make a sound that’s so soft and sweet in the back of your throat that has Steve’s head spinning. He nips again, revels in the breathy sigh you release against his lips, and Steve’s hand tugs harshly against your waist. 

The kiss is perfect and everything he’s ever dreamed of. 

Then, a thought occurs to Steve. 

“Wait a minute,” he breaks the kiss and your love drunk expression almost makes him groan. He tells himself to focus, even though it’s incredibly difficult to do so. “If we’ve been supposedly dating since July, didn’t you wonder why I hadn’t kissed you yet?”

“Oh, I just thought you were shy.” You shrug, as if it’s no big deal. Then, with a teasing smile, you add, “And I guess I love you too.”

Steve decides, then and there, that you will be the death of him.

And he couldn’t be any happier as he pulls you in again for another bruising kiss. 

Afterall, Steve has about seven months to make up for lost time. 

-

⌑ writing masterlist

[morverenmaybewrites]

A Crown of Bone

Pairing: Changeling! Reader x Fae Lord! Zhongli Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Additional Tags: Fae!AU, Implied Reincarnated Lovers!AU AO3 link Notes: Thank you to @sgri-sgri for beta-ing this!

Summary:

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank.

Imagine a lifetime of secrets: your first memories are of a spring that does not belong to the mortal realm. You dream of golden eyes gleaming at you from the darkness as your mother picked you up and carried you away.

Imagine keeping these things to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. Secrets that are half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly.

And you hope that one day, they will find you again.

Story:

Imagine being a changeling child and living your life in quiet yearning.

It is a life of hollow hunger and a longing for something you cannot quite name.

You had been found in the dead of winter, or so your mother tells you, a half-fey child abandoned in a snowbank. She has told you this story many times before. Sometimes in fond reminiscence, more often in hushed whispers, her eyes fearful and haunted as she recalled your unnatural stillness, the way the snowflakes that landed on your skin did not melt.

You don’t answer whenever she tells these stories; she is already frightened enough. You do not tell her that while you had been found during winter, your first memories were of spring.

Except it is not the spring of Snezhnaya, where you had been raised. It is not the cold sun, finally rising after months of not showing its face. Nor is it the first tentative buds of snowdrops, pushing their way up from the melting snow.

The spring you remember is brilliant, bursting with vivid color. You remember walking underneath trees whose leaves were the color of fire; you remember the taste of wine against your tongue.

And sometimes, in those odd moments between dreaming and waking, you would remember seeing the gold of someone’s eyes and the curve of black, gleaming bone.

You do not mention this to your mother, who is already half-afraid of you. Nor to your father, who gazes at you with a resigned sort of acceptance.

Instead, you keep it to yourself, tucked away against the curve of your ribs, right next to your slow-beating heart. A secret that is half-yearning and half-memory: someone had left you there in that snowbank, and there are days that you think that they did not do so willingly. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Imagine arriving in Liyue during winter, a season of cold and gnawing hunger. The trees that dot the landscape are now bare, their branches the color of bleached bone. Whatever flowers that once bloomed in its fields are now gone, their colorless stems now covered by frost.

It is also a time when ice forms in the harbor, icicles as thick as spears, cresting with each wave. No ship dares to land on the Liyue Harbor during winter. During winter, food, paper, and cloth grow scarce. The shrines you pass by on the road show only a few, meager offerings: a single piece of fruit, the skin shriveled and mottled with mold. A carved wooden statue of a carriage, half-burnt, for fire does not survive long in this cold. You wonder what the Good Folk make of such meager offerings, whether they are as quick to anger as your Tsaritsa.

Something gleams at the bottom of the bowl, wet and dark. You come closer to inspect it and feel a shiver of disgust when you realize what it is.

Teeth, still bloody and steaming in the cold air. You step away, stomach twisting, and you think: the Tsaritsa would approve.

Perhaps Liyue and Snezhnaya have more in common than you thought.

You reach your destination, some remote village on the outskirts of Liyue, and feel a sudden shock of fear at what you find there. The woman who greets you stumbling at the gates is already half a stranger. The Aunt Baiji you knew had been both vivid and beautiful, with dark hair that gleamed like oil even in the dim sunlight of Sneznahya’s endless winter.

She had been strong, too. As a child, you remember how her voice shook the walls of your small household, as she shouted down both of your parents. You remember looking down at your burned hands, still steaming from holding iron cutlery, and wondering if you are worthy of such rage.

She had handed you a pair of chopsticks before she left, carved from bamboo and coated in dark lacquer.

“They’ll see sense soon, little Dragonfly,” she had said. “In the meantime, use these instead.”

You had carried the chopsticks with you on the long journey to Liyue, wrapped in wool like a shroud. You find that they give you courage for what you are planning to do.

They give you the courage to lie now, and it tastes like iron against your teeth.

“It’s good to see you, Auntie.”

But it isn’t. The woman who throws her trembling arms around you looks nothing like the one who had defended you all her life. To hold her is like holding a skeleton, you can feel the individual knobs in her spine, the skin hanging loose over her flesh.

You feel it then, like the flitting of a bird against your chest: fury, bright and pure. And with it, the determination to see this through.

“You came,” she whispers, and her voice is as insubstantial as a ghost. “Oh, my love, when I got your letter, I didn’t believe…You know I would never ask you to do this. You don’t have to do this.”

Yet, in her eyes, you can see her raw, desperate grief and the way she swallows down her tears as if they are poison in her throat.

“Yes.” You say it as gently as you can, and even then, she flinches. “I do. Show it to me.”

She sucks in her breath as if struck, and you hasten to add, “It’s not him, Auntie. You know this.”

She gives you a shaky smile, one that makes the wrinkles on her face as deep as mountain crags. “I know, Dragonfly, I know. But it–”

Her smile shakes, then cracks like porcelain, and with it comes her tears. First a trickle, then a flood. And you watch as the woman who had never shed a tear in your memory cries as if she will never stop.

“I’m sorry, Dragonfly, it just looks so much like him…I can’t…He’s still lying there.”

Her head is bowed, her thin shoulders shaking, as if the weight of her grief is enough to split her in two. Watching her, you feel a knot forming in your throat, and you wonder if grief can be contagious.

You take her hand in both of yours, guiding her. She has grown so thin that you can feel the bones of her wrists pushing up against her skin, the way the current of rivers curve over stones.

“Let me show you, Auntie,” you say. “There is nothing underneath.”

She lets you lead her, childlike, through the doors of her own house and it is as bare as you have ever seen it. Gone are the oil paintings from Mondstadt, the tiny figurines carved from noctilus jade bartered from night market stalls at the Harbor, the bolts of embroidered cloth you had sent over from Snezhnaya. Apart from the small cot lying in the corner of the room, the small room is almost obscene in its nakedness.

You say nothing, but an image unfurls over your mind: that of your aunt selling her belongings, piecemeals, making offering after offering to appease the ones who have taken her son.

You remember the teeth on the shrine, still steaming from the heat of someone’s mouth, and you shiver.

“He’s in my room.” She pauses to inhale, as if she has to force the next words out. “I can’t bear to leave him. Or look at him. I’ve been sleeping here instead.”

The crib is made out of woven horsetail; you can see the pink cotton of their seeds curling around its base like flowers. A mobile of figurines carved out of sandalwood hung above it, circling slowly, providing toys for a child that neither saw nor cared about them.

Behind you, you can feel Aunt Baiji shaking.

“We don’t have to do this,” she whispers through bloodless lips. “Perhaps we are wrong. There is still time to call the funeral parlor. Burn offerings for him in the afterlife.”

Her hand is cold and shaking as she puts it on your shoulder; it is like being touched by a corpse. And for just a moment, you feel a shimmer of dread, the world splitting as if into fractals.

Aunt Baiji’s son’s had been declared dead for nearly a month, the time it took you to prepare and travel to Liyue. It had been long enough that the hell gates that welcome the souls to the afterlife are about to close.

During this time, the proper offerings should have been burned to accompany him to the afterlife: joss money to line his pockets for bribes, delicate wooden carvings of servants to serve him, a pagoda carefully painted on rice paper so that he may have a place to stay in the afterlife.

And perhaps, most importantly, food. So he did not spend his afterlife with an endless hunger gnawing at his belly.

And just for a moment, you are scared to look into that crib. Nausea pulses in your gut like an open wound as you take one step, and another, then another. Your fingers curl around the woven horsetails, and your eyes seek the mobiles gently swaying in the wind.

And you look down.

You had been there to witness every moment of Aunt Baiji’s pregnancy, written in careful hand in her many, many letters to you. You had been the first person she told about when she felt the flutter of quickening in her belly, when she first felt her son kick inside her.

I have not seen him yet, but he already owns half my heart. She had written once, the letter feeling soft and sun-warmed against your shaking hands.

I have decided to name him Sevastyan. After his father. I cannot wait until the two of you meet each other. You will love him like a brother.

Brother.

In Snezhnaya, where nearly everyone knows your story, you had nothing to keep you warm. There is only your mother’s wintery stares and your father’s endless silence. But now, in a remote village on the outskirts of Liyue, the word beats against your throat like a swallowed star.

But when you look down, the child inside the crib does not look like a brother.

After he was born, Aunt Baiji sent you letter after letter, describing the dark mess of curls on his head and the fat of his cheeks that resembled fried dumplings. She described the shape of his mouth that resembled his grandmother’s and the curve of his nose that was like his father’s.

He is perfect, my Sevastyan, she had written. He is beautiful.

And he is. But the child in the crib has all the cold beauty of a carved statue, perfectly still and silent. No dreams chased behind his closed eyes and his chest did not flutter with each breath.

He does not look dead like the doctor had said. Instead, he looks like he had never been alive.

This is how you know, all those months ago. You have read enough stories and listened to enough legends about your kind not to know. The child in the crib is not Sevas, as your Aunt Baiji had feared.

Your hand hovers over his face, and on your fingers you can see the numerous cuts and bruises from your long hours of labor.

You’re shaking.

Perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear.

As your hands close over the child’s face, you can feel it, magic pulsing against your fingers like the threads in a loom. All it takes is a slight tug and the weaving collapses. Aunt Baiji lets out a wail as the child’s face warps and twists, then it finally collapses into a pile of twigs and dried leaves.

“Oh, oh Archons. My son is alive. But they–they’ve…”

Her lips tremble, unable to form the next words.

“The Fae have taken him,” you say. “And I mean to get him back.”

And then your legs are collapsing from underneath you, shaking so hard that you are afraid that they will never stop.

And then your heart is pounding against the cage of your ribs like a frantic, dying bird.

You can feel your bones creaking, pinned under the enormity of what you must do. It is a surprise that the weight of it doesn’t crush you.

For the Fae have taken your aunt’s son, and you mean to get him back. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Imagine wintertime in Liyue and all of its quiet menace. It is a time when the trees shed their golden foliage, leaving their branches bare and skeletal. No birdsong echoes through the woods during the winter, and no crystalflies light the way with their glowing wings.

It is only the light of the moon that guides you as you deliberately stray away from the beaten path. It is something children learn, even in Snezhnaya, never to do.

Do not go too deep into the forest. Do not stray off the path. Do not catch the attention of those who dwell in the dark.

You have caught glimpses of them as a child: the glint of the moonlight reflecting off their eyes as they peer at you through the foliage, the curl of fingers with too many joints as they grasp onto your windowsill.

You had always wanted to stumble after them, wanted to follow them down into the dark.

Take me with you, you had wanted to say. Tell me why you left me here.

But they never did.

This time, however, this time you mean to give them no choice.

You stand there, at the heart of the forest, shivering violently, for the robes you are wearing are not made for the cold. Instead, the robes you are wearing are reminiscent of spring. For the first warm day in Snezhnaya, when the sun’s rays finally split the frozen river in two, signaling the end of the cold months.

The silk is the blue color of rushing water, bursting free from underneath the ice. You had used silver thread to embroider the slow dance of the last of the snowflakes, doomed to melt before they ever touched the ground.

Your fingers still ache with the effort of embroidering them into the fabric. And yet, you consider the effort well worth it. The Good Folk are a hungry lot, and they were known to covet things they don’t have: love, music, and things of great beauty. They are often known to take the most well-cared-for children, the best dancers, the singers whose voices could wring tears from a stone.

If you are going to draw their attention, you need to bring your best creations.

Hours pass or perhaps only minutes–past a certain point, it doesn’t matter. Your fingers feel frozen, your face raw and frostbitten from the wind.

And finally, you see them.

Your breath stutters in your throat as they slowly form into existence, like the hazy figures in a dream. First came the light of their bonfire, only a faint glow in the beginning, then brighter and higher until you can feel its warmth spreading across your fingertips.

Then their music, the sound of lyre and war drums. It is something ancient and wild and speaks to the very core of you. You can feel your muscles tensing as if your body wishes to join in the laughter and the revelry. Or perhaps it longs to run free in the forest, and sink your teeth into the throat of some small, living creature, to feel the wild beat of its heart as it dies in your hands.

And then, you can see them. The Fae.

They are known to have as many forms: as many as there are types of fish in the ocean or birds in the sky. The ones who came to you this time are unfamiliar: the curves of a naked woman combined with flowers you have seen in the field. Their hair flows into petals, and their skin is as smooth and unblemished as the inside of a tulip.

There are three of them, dancing around the bonfire, their feet so light that they barely touch the earth. And yet, in the shadows, you can see the twisted forms of creatures, their clawed hands plucking the strings on a lyre, their palms beating a frantic beat on the drums. You can feel your pulse leap to the sound of it.

But you do not move to join them, even as your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm, even as you down on your lip so hard that you taste blood.

It is they who must approach you.

And finally, finally, one of them breaks free from the circle to approach you. You can hear the other two, giggling and making jokes, their laughter resembling the chittering of insects.

The one who approaches you has the pale blue skin of a mint flower. Leaves sprout from the top of her head, flowing down to her shoulders like hair. But the eyes that behold you are the eyes of a reptile: cold and calculating and nothing human in them at all.

Her hand is cold as she grasps the sleeve of your robes.

“This is beautiful,” she declares, and her breath sends a gust of cold wind against your cheeks. “Almost like a river before it is frozen over. Please, may I wear it?”

“You may wear it.” You speak through gritted teeth so that she can’t see you chatter. “For a price.”

The smile that unfurls across her face is slow and fluid, the slow trickle of water before the flood.

The hand that was once on your sleeve slides down your skin, until they are resting on your near-frozen fingertips. She looks at you, eyes half-lidded, and you see that her eyelashes are rimmed with frost.

In her presence, you find that the wind does not howl so loud and that you can no longer feel the cold. In fact, you begin to feel warm, as if there is a fire burning at the center of you.

“Name it.” Her voice comes as if from very far away. “I will pay a great number of things to wear a robe of such beauty.”

A price?

Your thoughts are muddled, like the hazy silhouette of people in a snowstorm. Your skin is burning.

You remember feeling the same way, in the snowbank where your mother found you, so many years ago. The same heat at the center of you. The same exhaustion.

And you remember a hand reaching out to you, a flash of gold through the trees.

The memory sears through your thoughts like a bolt of lightning splitting open the sky. You know this creature, and you know her story. Of the travelers she leaves on snowy mountaintops, naked, except for the frost that grows on their skin like moss. You step back from her, your voice almost cracking from the cold.

“My Aunt’s son. Your kind have taken him.”

The smile she gives you is nothing human, and when she reaches for you again, this time, you know enough to avoid her.

“Ah, the child. We left another in his place so she doesn’t miss him.”

“Wood and dried leaves make for a poor son,” you snap. “Give him back and you may wear the robe for the night.”

She grins at you, and you can see bits of gristle stuck between her teeth. Behind her, the fire roars, and her two companions dance faster. The creatures playing the instruments stamp their feet and lift their voices, their howls feral and inhuman. You can feel the pull of their magic as if your skin means to rip free from your body and, still streaking blood, join their dance across the snow.

“Of course. But first, you must join us around the fire.”

And this, you know from the countless stories. Of young men and women, joining the Fae on moonless nights, dancing to the beat of their wild, dark songs until daybreak.

And if the Fae end up liking you, they may grant you a favor. A good harvest. A fated marriage.

A son.

This time, when the snow-woman reaches for your hand, you do not flinch as frost forms where your skin meets hers. Your shoes barely skim the earth as she leads you to the fire, where the music thrums in your ears as frantic as a pulse. You grit your teeth even as the fire burns high enough to blot out the stars.

You remind yourself that you must be brave.

But perhaps, you have not read enough stories.

Or perhaps the snow-woman wishes only to trick you.

Because before you start to dance with them, you make the mistake of glancing at one of the musicians’ faces. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

You wake under sunlight and with the taste of blood in your mouth.

You do not have the boy.

What happened?

You try to sit up, only to gasp and curl around yourself like a newborn. Your entire face is pulsing with pain. When you touch it, your hands come away stained with blood.

And then, you remember.

Not the musician’s face, but what you had done after you had seen it. You had raked your fingers across your face and dug deep furrows into your cheeks. You had taken your thumbs to your eyes and pushed until they popped like overripe fruit.

You had taken out your eyes.

Yet, you can still see.

Carefully, with the gentleness of one afraid of what they might find, you explore your face. No scars meet your questing fingers, and your eyes are still intact in their sockets.

And yet, you remember: lying in the snow, blinded and sobbing, hot blood trickling from your eyes like tears. You remember, too, listening to the three beautiful creatures arguing about who got to wear the robes first. Their voices growing higher and angrier until they resembled the chittering of insects.

You remember they had come at you with teeth and claws, grabbing at whatever bit of fabric they could reach. Pulling at the silver thread so that they unraveled from their patterns, curved claws slashing away at the sleeves, cutting the soft skin underneath.

You remember screaming for them to stop.

What had happened?

By all rights, you should be dead. Blinded, and dead.

The robes you had worked so hard to make are shredded. You flush, realizing that you are almost naked, but the skin that peeks through is whole and unblemished.

“How–”

Your voice is cracked and hoarse. You can taste blood on your lips.

How are you alive?

You scour your memory for the answer but you do not know the answer. You only remember one other thing. Your hand is shaking as you raise it to your eyes so that it blocks your view of the forest.

Your skin is cold. You can feel the calluses formed from your many hours of sewing over the years.

But it is not the hand that rested over your eyes last night.

It is not the hand that healed you.

Someone had saved you last night. Someone who could heal the many cuts the Fae have left on your skin, someone who could restore your sight and your face, after you had taken your fingers to them.

And yet, you cannot remember who.

You remember only one other thing, seen only in the fleeting edges of your restored vision: a great curve of bone, rising over you, gleaming as dark as obsidian. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

Imagine Liyue in wintertime, when the rivers grow black and treacherous. No man or animal dares cross them, lest they come out blue and frozen on the other side. Underneath the wild torrents, you can see the twisting images of the creatures you’ve come to seek.

The image of a child, face bloated and black with rot, rises briefly to the surface. You remember, three years past, about a fisherman’s son who had drowned in this river. His playmates had claimed that they had seen him playing with a nobleman’s horse near the water. A scream rises in your throat like vomit when you realize that his eyes are boiling with maggots.

You stumble, water lapping at your ankles, making the hem of your robes heavy. You remember your own eyes, the sensation of them popping underneath your thumbs.

Perhaps you couldn’t do this.

Aunt Baiji will not blame you if you come back empty-handed. You know the truth of this with a heaviness in your bones. Perhaps this would have been easier if you knew that she would rage, that she would point an accusing finger at you and demand her child back.

But she wouldn’t. In fact, in her letters, she had begged you not to try. She would live if she lost her son, she wrote.

But she could not lose you both.

For her, you think as you step back into the river. For her.

And, perhaps selfishly, for something else. For the person who had placed their hand over your eyes and healed you.

For answers.

This time, you do not have to wait as long. The Fae do not come with the beating of drums or the sweet lilt of plucked lyres. Instead, they arrive in silence, rising from the churning waves, their forms still streaming water. Water-creatures that look like herons flap their wings, droplets of water flinging from them like feathers.

A trio of mallards circle the river, their bodies rising from the river, their feathers gleaming with barely-formed frost.

The boy who had drowned in the river grins at you from the banks. You can smell the stink of him: rot and the congealed blood of gutted fish, left to soak the deck of a fisherman’s boat.

And finally, it arrives. Faceless, its body formed from the river’s black torrents, it floats through the air as if cutting through water. This creature is old, old enough that no one alive remembers its name. All that is left are the stories: of the creature who lived in the rivers near Qingce Village, and who drowned any mortal who dared approach.

Its flippers glow like the wings of crystalflies as it approaches, beholding you with one gleaming eye.

“Your clothes are beautiful.” Its voice echoes through your head. You can feel it thumping against the walls of your skull.

You are struck with the sudden realization that this thing, just with its voice, can shatter you apart. Make its voice loud enough that your bones splinter into a thousand tiny pieces, like rocks of a cliffside crumbled away by the ceaseless waves.

You struggle to form an answer. Your thoughts are muddled as if your head is underwater.

As a child, you had spent hours upon hours in tea shops, sipping fragrant osmanthus tea and listening to the storytellers on the stage, their voices heavy with emotion and tragedy. Liyue is an old land, rife with legends, and you collected them like a magpie collected treasure for its nest.

You wear one of their stories now.

This time, your robes are the color of the skies over Liyue. And in its fabric, you have embroidered thousands of crystalflies, their wings glowing with the color of starlight.

It is one of Liyue’s most famous legends and one of its most tragic.

“Take them off and leave them here, so that they can decorate my riverbed,” the Oceanid demands.

The glow of its single eye is endless, and you find it nearly impossible to look away.

But still, you manage to shake your head.

“You can have my robes. But only if you are willing to trade.”

You can feel its disappointment and roiling anger like a sudden weight on your chest. You feel a sudden, fleeting panic that your cribs might crack in two, but it is all swept away by Oceanid’s rage. For thousands of years, it has been worshiped, fishermen and kings alike leaving offerings at its banks.

And yet you, stinking of your mortality, come to its waters and demand a trade?

Your skull thumps with the weight of its emotions, and for a second, you are sure that you will collapse. Your skin will split open, your bones will splinter, and blood will explode out of your screaming lips as thousands of gallons of pressure bear down upon you. You imagine your organs floating to the surface of the river, to be feasted upon by the mallards and the smiling child sitting on the banks.

But then, a word rises through your thoughts like an oncoming wave: Rhodeia.

And you are sure that you have found the creature’s name.

“Rhodeia.” Your word comes as if from underwater. “I have a story.”

You shake your sleeves so that the pale threads glint in the dim moonlight. You direct its attention to the crystalflies you have sewn into the fabric, so detailed it seems as if they are taking flight. On your back, the crystaflies form a bridge, cutting straight through the heavens, so that two lovers can walk across the sky.

You had embroidered their entwined figures just below your neck, at the curve of your spine. The star-crossed lovers of Liyue, cursed only to meet once a year for a single day.

And then you can breathe again, falling to your hands and knees on the soft, sucking mud of Rhodeia’s riverbanks. It floats in the air in silence, heedless of your strangled coughs. Somehow, you are sure that it is staring at the embroidery on your back. At the two entwined figures.

“Fine,” it says. “Name your price.”

Your lungs burn as you struggle for words. “I have a cousin who has been taken away by your people. Give him back to me, and my robes may decorate your riverbed until the end of time.”

“Done.”

Its tone is clipped and precise. Impatient. It holds out a limb to you, like the way a human would hold out a hand. It could have been a wing of a flightless bird or the fins of a leaping trout. Or it could have been nothing at all, as shapeless as water.

You grit your teeth. The Oceanid had agreed too easily.

“Show him to me, so I know that you’re not lying. Show him to me, so I know that I am not trading my work for bones.”

It beholds you, silent. And then, the churning waters of the river change, turning smooth as glass. In them, you can see him. Sevastyan.

And you think to yourself: he really is beautiful. This is not the carved statue that lay still in its crib. This is an actual boy, whose fat little fists wave in the air as he screws his face up to cry. He is still swaddled in the blankets you had sent for him, and you feel a painful twist in your chest as you remember your aunt writing that he adored the one decorated with sea turtles.

When he opens his eyes, you realize with a start that they are the same color as your Aunt Baiji’s. Black like the wings of beetles that crawled on your hand like a child.

These are the eyes of someone who had loved and defended you your whole life. Strange as you are, half-human as you are.

Your breath catches in your throat as Aunt Baiji’s words rise in your memory, as relentless as an oncoming tide: I have not seen him yet, but he already owns half my heart.

I cannot wait until the two of you meet each other.

The image dissolves into foam and the river begins to flow once more. You let out a startled cry, reaching out a shaking hand towards the current.

“Do we have a deal?”

In your head, you can feel the Oceanid’s biting impatience. You stand on shaking feet, the mud still thick on your open palms, between your toes.

And you let Rhodeia lead you into the river. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

You wake to the feeling of silt and mud curving underneath your spine. Your clothes are sodden, making your movements slow and your limbs heavy. The fabric is heavy, swollen beyond repair, the rich dye bleeding off of it like molten silver.

The dress is ruined.

And you do not have Sevastyan back.

You place a shaking hand over your eyes and curse softly.

“Fuck.”

Disappointment churns your gut like acid, and you are gripped with the sudden urge to vomit. There is a reason why people had spent centuries leaving offerings at the Oceanid’s banks: unlike the Fae in the woods, it is known to keep its bargains.

Then what happened?

The child. At the banks.

You remember his shadow, darting underneath the waters as the Oceanid guided you. A hand, webbed and pale and bloated with rot, reaching out to grab and pull you under. The rich fabric of your clothes had immediately become heavy and sodden, making you unable to swim.

Unable to move.

Perhaps the creature in the river had been a child once, but he is certainly more–or less–than that now. He had darted through your flailing limbs as nimbly as a fish. You remember seeing its twisting shape.

And you remember–

Its teeth.

Not sharp. Flat, like that of a horse. Ripping out a chunk of your arm. Then your leg. The muscles in your neck. Over and over until your vision ran red. And when you had broken the surface of the river to scream, you remember–

It had been so cold that you felt frost form in your lungs. Your scream frozen like hoarfrost inside your throat.

And the child had pulled you under again.

Like the first time, you should have died. Drowned and bitten to pieces, your bloodied entrails floating to the surface of the river for the mallards to feast on.

Then what had happened?

You are cold, yes. Your limbs feel stiff and frozen from your time in the river. But you are not dead. You pull up the skirts of your robes to examine your legs.

You remember, with a shudder, the child-thing’s flat teeth tearing into the soft flesh of your thighs, ripping apart at the fat and strands of muscle. Crunching through bone. The water going oily from your exposed marrow.

You touch your thigh, shaking. The skin there is smooth and unblemished.

And that is when you notice the river. You scramble back onto the banks with a small scream, slipping on the mud and your sodden clothes.

The river is no longer a river.

What was once a raging current is now nothing but dark earth. It is less like it had been filled in like there had never been a river at all. You can even see the small buds of something new and green beginning to push up from the soil.

“How…”

A curve of bone. Gleaming black as obsidian.

Whoever–or whatever–had done this, it had been done as an act of rage. Perhaps for the child. Or perhaps of the Oceanid. Perhaps both.

You’re shaking, feeling your arms about to give way underneath you. Hot tears flow down your face, from eyes that should not have even been there in the first place.

“I’m sorry,” you cry, the words forming gusts of clouds into the cold air. “I’m sorry.”

Your shoulders shake, and you gasp clouds of frost in the cold winter air. “I have to get him back. I have to keep trying.”

Someone’s hand. Warm over your burning, bleeding eyes. You cannot remember the last time you had been touched so tenderly.

You try to stand but slip down onto the earth. You have to grit your teeth and try again, and even then you’re afraid you’d fall.

“If you—” Your teeth are chattering with enough force that you can barely get the words out. “If whatever you are…if you keep trying to save me. From the Fae. The Good Folk. From these monsters, why did you leave me in the first place?”

A child swaddled in a blanket decorated with sea turtles. His eyes are the color of the wings of beetles.

“I have to get him back,” you say and you hope that whoever saved you is listening. “I’m not you. I’m not going to leave him to some…some stranger to be his family. I have to get him back.”

And as you make your way up the river that is no longer a river, a memory rises in your mind again. Not from the forest, and not from the river.

But from the snowbank, all those years ago.

That of golden eyes, peering at you from the snowbank as your mother picked you up and carried you away.

Imagine Liyue in wintertime, when the land is at its most treacherous and barren. During summer, the trees are laden with fruit, so heavy that their branches bow from the weight. The skin would still glisten with morning dew as one plucks them, their juices bursting against a hungry traveler’s teeth.

But in winter the trees are empty, their branches bare and skeletal. No game wanders in the woods, and all of the animals are warm and asleep in their burrows until spring. Liyue in wintertime is a time of silence, and if one is not careful, it is also a time of death.

By the time you reach your destination, you are weak with hunger, nearly maddened by thirst. It is a live thing that twists and claws at the hollow place in your belly; it pulses like heat against your parched throat.

You find that you can barely stand as you gaze at the entrance.

Imagine a place in Liyue, one you have only heard of once or twice, in those strange, dreamlike hours before dawn. When all of the lanterns have been snuffed out, when all the tea has been drunk and all that remains is their scent, hanging heavy in the air like a ghost. When all the storytellers have closed their paper fans and set aside their gavels, ready to turn in for the night.

Perhaps, one of them–always, always someone ancient, so old that their skin slides over their bones like a river over stones–will have one more story in them.

About a cave, somewhere deep in the mountains. And a tree, large enough that its trunk towered over mountains and its leaves can cast entire towns in its shadow. Here, they say, lies the oldest and most powerful of the Fae.

Here, no human should ever disturb the earth with the sound of their footsteps.

Here, there are stories: of mortals transformed, their screaming faces turned into the bark of trees, their fingers dissolving into blades of grass, their tears becoming the spray of water from a rushing creek.

Here you stand, shivering and afraid.

The robes you have brought with you no longer fit you right, but it does not matter. It does not matter that there is a new hollowness to your cheeks or you can feel a fever burning behind your eyes.

Because you know that the Fae will come, to this most sacred of all places.

Because this robe is the most beautiful of your creations, and perhaps your last. It is the rich dark color of a patch of earth that used to be a river. The color of a tree bark in summer, when it decorates the forest with leaves the color of fire. The color of a farmer’s field, freshly tilled and awaiting to be sown with new seed.

In Liyue, it is the color of life.

Once upon a time, this color could only be worn by those of royal blood.

Once upon a time, wearing something like this would have gotten you executed.

Perhaps it still might.

You had used gold thread to embroider images of crystalflies, glowing with the color of Geo. You had embroidered the ginkgo trees in full bloom during summer. You had embroidered the tiny jade slimes you would see at the Harbor, carved with a chisel the size of your fingernail. You had embroidered delicate golden corals from across the sea in Inazuma. You had embroidered every little thing you think Sevastyan will miss if he is not returned to the human world.

And on your back, its scales glinting with gold, is the great Dragon of Liyue. The one who had shaped the mountains with his hands. The one who had driven the sea back so that his people could thrive on land. Across your shoulders, in the darkest thread you could find, sits his crown: a great rack of antlers, as black as obsidian.

You do not know how long you will last in this cold. A feathering of snow settles across your shoulders. Against your cool skin, they do not melt. This time, you do not have the luxury of waiting.

Instead, you unsheathe a knife from your belt. Even in the gloom, you can see its wicked edge. The curve of its blade. The scent of cold iron.

You swallow down your fear, beating against your throat like a heart.

The first cut burns like the cold, blood welling up from your palm as you slice into the meat of it. Your skin smokes, your fat bubbles, the oil of it running down your wrist.

You have not touched iron since you were a child. Since your Aunt had stood up for you, all those years ago. You think of the chopsticks she had given you, carved from bamboo and coated in lacquer. Just one of the many ways in which she loved you when you feared no one else did.

You let your blood drip down onto the snow, gleaming like rubies, the color so vivid that it makes your head spin.

Quickly, quickly. You do not know how long you will last. Hunger and thirst have taken much of your strength, while fear and exhaustion have taken the rest.

You call out to them, out to the shifting shadows you can see at the center of the cave.

“I am…” You can smell your burning skin. “I am one of you. Who you have left to die so many years ago. You have taken something precious from me. You have taken my brother. By heart, if not by blood.”

You sway, standing on shaking legs. The knife drops from your hand.

You bleed.

You burn.

You continue.

“Return him and you may have…”

Eyes, golden and glinting, stare at you from the darkness. You grit your teeth. You can feel yourself falter. Twice now, you have done this. Twice now, you have failed. And here, inside a cave forbidden to mortals, you know that you might fail. For you will never make anything more beautiful than the robes you are wearing now. If you fail this time, you might never have a chance.

Your voice cracks like porcelain, your words die in your throat.

You try again.

“Return him and you may have…”

The robes, the robes. Tell them they can have the robes. Tell them they can have anything.

Perhaps it is hunger that gnaws at you endlessly like a starving beast, or perhaps it is the sight of your blood, running down your wrist and staining your robes. Perhaps it is grief, or all three; you cannot tell.

But before you can finish your speech, your great and final offering to the Fae, your vision goes black and you collapse, unfeeling, onto the snow. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　

This time, you gain consciousness slowly, like someone waking from a pleasant dream. For the first time since you started your journey, you do not feel the cold. Quite the opposite, it feels as if you have been basking underneath a summer sun: your skin feels as warm as honey, your muscles loose and relaxed, as if your body no longer remembers all of its suffering.

Someone is stroking your hair. A hand is resting over your eyes.

You shift and whoever is stroking your hair stops. Somehow you feel a keen sense of loss at that, so sharp that tears prick your eyes. It is something like craving, something like hunger. You find that you do not wish for them to stop.

You cannot remember the last time you had been touched so tenderly.

“You’re awake.”

You can feel his voice echoing inside of your head, like you did with the Oceanid. Except this time, it is a call returned from a great chasm, the feeling of the earth shifting underneath one’s feet, the roar of a river now rendered silent.

Whoever is speaking to you isn’t human.

You rest your trembling fingertips on the hand resting across your eyes. There are legends, the way there often are, of Fae who are so beautiful or terrible that to gaze upon them would cause madness. Your mind would spiral into insanity as it tried to make sense of something inhuman and unknowable.

You are too afraid to look. So instead, you speak to them blindly and pray that you do not offend.

“Who are you?”

When he speaks, you can hear a note of amusement in their rich voice, and you wonder if this is another trick devised by the Fae. “Do you not know?”

“I don’t–”

You fall silent as you explore the hand resting over your eyes with trembling fingertips. And though there is only the slightest bit of pressure, the gesture feels sharp with memory. You remember blood streaming down your ruined eyes like tears and a gasp flutters against your throat like a caged bird.

“Were you…” Your voice cracks before you can continue your sentence, snapping under the weight of both terror and wonder. “Were you the one who healed my eyes? After I tore them out with my thumbs?”

“Yes.”

You realize with a start that the hand over your eyes did not feel like flesh. It is too smooth, too hard. Like a skilled sculptor had carved a perfect likeness of a human hand, entirely out of jade. You think of what you had seen, glittering at the edges of your restored vision: a great curve of bone, rising over you, gleaming as dark as obsidian.

You think of the image you had embroidered onto your robes, the crown of antlers unfurling across your shoulders.

And you swallow down your rising fear.

“And the river?” you whisper. “Were you the one who pulled me from it?”

“Yes.”

“And…” You think of the river that is no longer a river. The small buds of something green and new pushing themselves up from the earth. “You are the one who…you are the one who destroyed it.”

You feel a sudden stillness in whoever is holding you, the coiled tension of an animal just before the strike. When he speaks, you can feel a new anger in his voice, and a shiver runs through you. You can hear the creak of dried branches, the flutter of a bird’s wings.

Birds?

You think of the silence you had found in the woods. The absolute lack of birdsong. Most of them travel to warmer places for winter. And yet, for a second, you can hear their panicked chirping.

“Rhodiea was unable to control one of her subjects and ended up breaking her contract with you. She knew the consequences.”

In your head, his voice is magnified a thousandfold, and it is the Oceanid all over again. His anger is palpable, the slow grind of stone against stone, the feeling of the earth shifting underneath your feet, the sound of entire mountains crumbling overnight. You clap your hands over your ears, hoping to block out the way his voice echoes in your skull.

All of a sudden, it stops, and you are left gasping for air. You can feel blood welling up from between your clenched fingers, there is a new, endless ringing in your ears.

“Forgive me. I forget that you are now half-mortal.”

A Fae who asks for forgiveness?

You cannot remember if there are stories of that.

Will it anger him for you to accept his apology? Will he think that you consider him beneath you to do so? Will it anger him even more for you to remain silent? You tremble, and you remember: Sevastyan’s life hinges on your answer.

It is the Fae-Lord who decides for you, those strange hands lying on top of your bloodied fingers. You recall the forest. And the way he had held you, blinded and dying, before he restored your sight.

The ringing stops.

“Than–” You stop yourself, biting your lip so hard that you feel it split underneath your teeth.

You had nearly thanked him. A mistake that would have cost you a lifetime of servitude.

“If you wish to thank me, I give you my word that I will not use it to bind you to me. That is not what I wish to do.”

His word. You do not know if what he said is binding or if he is simply luring you into a trap. With a start, you realize that you can no longer rely on old legends or stories to guide your decisions. You are treading through the path of your own tale, and there are no old roads to follow.

Briefly, you wonder if the heroes of all the stories you’ve loved have ever felt so afraid. If they’ve ever felt at such a loss what to do.

You think of the Oceanid and her lost river. The consequences of a broken contract. You decide to take a chance.

“Then…then, thank you, Great Lord. For healing me. For saving me. I owe you my sight, my hearing...”

You think of sinking underneath the churning waters of the Oceanid’s river. Of both the current and the child dragging you under. You think of your scream freezing in your throat, of frost forming in your water-logged lungs.

You had drowned in that river, you are sure. And yet somehow, you are still here.

“...and my life,” you finish quietly.

He does not answer. The silence stretches out between you, and this time, you are sure that you can hear the faint snatches of birdsong, the carefree chittering of insects, and the sound of the wind blowing through the leaves in the trees.

The land you had passed through to get here had been covered with frost. The cave you entered had been as solemn as a tomb. You suck in a shaky breath, and you could have sworn you can smell the scent of flowers in full bloom.

“Lord?” you call softly.

“Yes?”

“May I see your face? Will it not…” You pause. Your throat feels dry with fear.

You think of your eyes popping underneath your thumbs like overripe fruit. You think of the musician, whose face you do not remember. And you think about how that might be a mercy.

“Will it not drive me mad?”

He does not answer for several long seconds, and then, you hear a slight exhalation of air. It could have been a sigh, it could have been his quiet laughter, or it could have been nothing at all.

“Mad? No. It will not.”

You remember the glimpse of him you had seen: the curve of bone, rising over you. The golden eyes glinting from the darkness. The shadow of a figure from across a snowbank, all those years ago. The knowledge suddenly comes to you with an almost painful clarity, it twists like a knife between your ribs: you had seen his face before.

He makes no move to remove his hand, still resting over your eyes. And you realize that he is waiting for you. Gently, you push his hand away so that you may rise to your knees in front of him.

What hits you first is the cave. Gone is the swallowing dark and creeping hoarfrost. Golden leaves blanket the ground you are kneeling on, and trees, gnarled and ancient, rise over your head. Birds of every color sit on their thick branches, snatches of their song filling the air. The fat buds of flowers sprout from the ground, in full bloom and so heavy that their stems almost bow to touch the earth.

The cave is now in the full flush of summer.

Or perhaps, it is something else. For the birds that stare at you from atop their branches are not ones you have ever seen. Their feathers are too bright, their colors too vivid. From inside a knot in a tree trunk, an owl with a human face blinks at you.

Even the flowers glow with their own strange light, summoning crystaflies as if from thin air. A few of them alight on you, touching their embroidered counterparts in the sleeves of your robes.

Perhaps, it is not summer that has visited this place, then. But something else. Something wild and ancient and free. Perhaps this is what the cave had been thousands and thousands of years ago before the first humans had even existed.

And yet, when you glance outside the mouth of the cave, you can still see the lands in the grip of winter. The trees, their branches bare of leaves, like skeletal hands reaching out towards the sky. Even inside, you can hear the howling of the wind, see the way the snow falls in sheets like rain.

You wonder what power the Fae Lord beholds, to be able to bring life wherever his feet touch the earth.

Finally, you turn to your savior. The Fae Lord that you owed your sight, your hearing, and your life.

Your first thought is that perhaps it is worth it to go mad, to feel your thoughts spiral away from you like a bird taking flight, just to be able to behold this man for a few fleeting seconds. Gleaming hair, the color of the bark of the oldest trees, long enough that it spreads across the forest floor where he sits. His face is smooth, unblemished, inhuman in its perfect symmetry, as if someone who has only ever heard of humans from legends had to carve one from jade. But it is his eyes that disturb you: it is the same shade of gold that you had seen glinting from the trees, the same eyes that had beheld you as you sliced your palm to offer your blood.

They are strange and reptilian, and they gaze at you with such fervor that you find it hard to look away. And on his head, like a crown, sat a gleaming rack of antlers, as black as obsidian. With a choked gasp, you realize that they match the embroidered ones on your robe perfectly.

And suddenly, your forehead is touching the earth before him, your vision spinning from the speed at which you had thrown yourself into a deep bow.

“Lord,” You force the words out like you are choking on them. “Please, forgive me. I did not mean to offend.”

In any other Fae, this show of subservience would have spelled your doom. The Good Folk are capricious and cruel, quick to try and humble humans with tricks and glamour. But the being before you is the great great Dragon Lord. The one whose legends tell of how he shaped the land with his hands, who had driven back the sea so that his people could thrive on land, whose spears had created mountain ranges. It would have been child’s play for him to destroy the river of an Oceanid.

It would have cost him nothing to save your life.

You feel him placing his hand on the back of your head, as if in reassurance, and you shiver at the contact. You think of legends of ancient kings, whose royal blood meant that they must not touch the skin of ones who are of lower status than them, lest they debase themselves at the contact.

You think about how, in ancient times, this gesture might have gotten you executed. You bite back a whimper of fear, trying not to cower like a frightened dog.

You feel his hand touching the back of your head, as if in reassurance.

“Forgiveness,” he repeats. “For what?”

For your insolence. For being in his presence. For a thousand other things you cannot hope to name.

Even with your wealth of knowledge in stories and legends, even with your endless hunger for contact with the Fae your entire life, even if you have started this journey with the knowledge that you may not survive, you find yourself at a loss for words. You grit your teeth, unable to come up with a satisfactory answer.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, still bowed so low that your lips nearly touch the earth.

“If you do not know, then perhaps you have done nothing that requires my forgiveness. Rise. I wish to see your face when you speak.”

You rise, still terrified. You realize that there is dirt stuck to your forehead and your cheeks, and you scrub away at them, feeling your face burn in shame. In the face of the Fae Lord’s beauty, every flaw you had seems magnified.

“Tell me, then,” the Fae Lord begins. “Why did you call me?”

“Call you…?”

You lift your hand to continue scrubbing at your face, and then you remember: your blood gleaming in the snow, the knife slicing through your flesh. The cut has now been healed, all that is left is a scar, stretched across your palm. And you wonder if you had the Fae Lord to thank for that once again.

He notices you staring at your scar and says, almost reproachfully, “The knife was made of iron. You would have died if you had cut yourself any deeper with it.”

“I did cut myself deeply with it.” You remember the stink of your own burning skin, the sound of your bubbling fat.

You remember, as a child, trying to feed yourself with iron cutlery. The burns you had suffered after. The way the skin around your fingers had gone tight and resisted movement. It had taken weeks before you could hold something again.

“I should have died,” you found yourself saying. “Why didn’t I die?”

The Fae Lord’s shrug is easy, almost careless, as he looks away from you. But you catch a glimmer of blood on his lip, gleaming like a precious stone. An image flashes before your eyes, a memory hazy with pain and exhaustion: that of the Fae Lord with his lips on your bleeding palm, sucking the poison out as one would a snakebite. You feel a sudden flush of heat at the thought of his mouth against your skin. You find yourself tracing the scar with your fingers as if to recall the feel of his kiss on it.

“You saved me again.” You bow your head. “Thank you.”

“It was a foolish business with the knife. I would have come even without your offering of blood.”

“Foolish, perhaps,” you say quietly. “Or desperate.”

He closes his eyes. “Desperate, then. Why?”

You think of your Aunt Baijin, who had greeted you at the gates of her village, already half a stranger. You think of her belongings, sold piece by piece, so she can buy offerings for the Fae. You think of her many, many letters, begging you not to try and get him back.

You think of chopsticks wrapped in wool, carved just for you so that you will not burn your hands when you eat.

You think of a boy, swaddled in blankets decorated with sea turtles, with dark curls and eyes the color of beetles. You think about how Aunt Baiji had hoped that the two of you would grow to be as close as siblings.

“For love,” you answer. “And the promise of it.”

When the Fae Lord opens his eyes to look straight at you, they do not look quite so reptilian. Instead, you see something human in them: sorrow, perhaps, or the memory of it. Once upon a time, maybe he had lost someone, too. He stares at you with something like grief.

“For love,” He speaks slowly, carefully. You can feel the weight of his power in each word. “For love, then, you may ask of me a single boon.”

Somehow, you do not think that he is thinking of Sevastyan.

“A boon?” you repeat, your pulse pounding.

This is, after all, what you have been searching for this entire time. You sigh the long, bone-deep sigh of a traveler who sees home. Here, at last, is the possible end to your journey. But before you can speak, another memory resurfaces: that of the river, of your breath turning to ice inside your throat. You think of frost forming inside your water-logged lungs.

You had drowned in that river, you are sure. And yet you are still here. When your lungs have turned black and rotted from the water, you remember that he had pressed his lips to yours and given you his breath.

“Why?” The word comes out harsh and labored. You speak as though your throat is filled with broken glass. “Why go through so much trouble for me? Why save me, over and over again?”

He looks at you, but he does not answer. But your anger has turned your words into a raging flood, you find it impossible to stop.

“Why did the Fae take my brother?”

“Why did you…” Your breath is sharp. The question is like a knife pulled clean from the curve of your ribs, it leaves you bleeding on the way out. “Lord, why did you leave me?”

You can feel something hot on your face. You do not remember crying. But the Fae Lord’s face is devoid of expression. He is so still that he could have been carved from stone. You wanted to scream, you wanted to reach out and shake him.

“Please,” you whisper softly. “Please, answer me.”

“Is that your boon?” His voice is sharp and clipped. “Answers?”

You can feel your breath stutter. The way he spoke, as if in warning. If he gives you this, his tone said, you cannot have Sevastyan. If he gives you this, he cannot give you anything else. You look at him, and you can feel something split into pieces inside you. Here, at the edge of the thing you have longed for your entire life, you find that you must turn away.

“I have spent years searching for answers,” you say through gritted teeth. “For my brother, I can wait a while longer. This is not my boon.”

The Fae Lord speaks almost gently, as if he knows what it must have cost you to choke out those words. “Then what do you wish to ask of me?”

“My Aunt’s son,” you say quickly. “My brother, by heart if not by blood. Your people have taken him, and I wish to have him back.”

After a few seconds of silence, you add, “Please.”

He speaks, still in that same gentle tone, “Even a boon from the Fae will require an exchange.”

“An exchange…?”

Horror churns like acid in your belly as you glance down at your ruined robes. The silk is damp with tears and melted snow, the sleeves are stained dark with your blood. The greatest and most beautiful of all your creations, ruined. You have nothing left to offer. And yet, you have come so far.

The Fae Lord is still waiting for your answer.

You think of the words that had beat against your thoughts like a drum when you had sliced open your palm with an iron knife.

Tell them they can have anything.

You think of the Fae Lord: his hand over your eyes as he restored your ruined sight, his lips over your bleeding palm, sucking iron out like poison from a snakebite. You think about how he had kissed and given you his breath when you were drowning.

You think of the snowbank, and golden eyes glinting at you from the darkness.

“Lord. If you let me take my brother home. Then you may have…”

You pause. You can feel your bones creaking, pinned under the enormity of what you must do. It is a surprise that the weight of it doesn’t crush you.

For the Fae have taken your Aunt’s son, and this is what it means to get him back.

“You may have me,” you say resolutely. “I will give you my life and my name. And I swear on both of these things to live for you and serve you and stay with you for the rest of my days.”

Finally, the Fae Lord’s calm veneer cracks, like ice splitting over a frozen lake. He exhales, and for a second, you feel as if the sun in that small cave glows just a little bit brighter. You think you can feel the earth moving underneath your feet.

This. This is what he wants. Not the clothes that you have rendered with painful detail, now stained and useless. Not your skill, or your sanity, or your blood.

You.

“I accept.”

The words roll over you like thunder, and you sway in your place. The air is thick with his magic, and crystalflies manifest out of thin air, bursting into golden life around him. It is done, you think, raising a shaking hand over your eyes. Your life is no longer your own.

“What do you require of me?” you ask.

“Only your name, as you have promised.”

You look at him. Even sitting, he towers over you. The crystalflies that he has brought to life flutter about him as if drawn to his presence. A few rest on the horns on his head, and they look like they belong there. You are reminded that he is not human, that this is a creature who has seen hundreds of lifetimes. Perhaps, in that knowledge, lies your answer.

“I think,” you whisper quietly. “You already know it.”

The corners of his lips twitch as if he is pleased.

“I do,” he confirms.

Your skin jolts at this newfound knowledge. You feel as if you have been struck by lightning. In every story you have heard, every legend you have read on ancient, yellowed scrolls, you have always been warned of one thing: never to give your name to the Fae. To give your name may mean a lifetime of servitude, it may mean never leaving their realm again. It may mean your death.

But this no longer resembles a tale you have heard in a teahouse or something you have read in a book. You are treading through your own story, and there are no old roads to guide you.

“Then it is yours,” you say. “As am I. To use as you see fit. For…for the rest of my days.”

As a child, you remember walking down the darkened roads of Snezhnaya, hoping to catch fleeting glimpses of the Fae. Hoping that they would remember you and take you home. To think that all of your choices will lead you here.

“Thank you,” the Fae Lord says, and he sounds like he means it.

Again, this Lord breaks all conventions. You lick your lips and feel the split in them left by your teeth.

“If I am–” You have to pause, frozen perhaps, by your fear. Or perhaps it is something else. Frozen by the knowledge of hundreds of legends telling you not to do. But you have already given everything to him in exchange for Sevastyan. You find that you have nothing left to lose.

He waits, as still as the mountainsides. You find that his patience gives you the strength to continue.

“If I am to serve you, to be your companion, then may I at least know your name?”

His gaze is gold of the summer sun, peeking through the leaves of trees, it is the color of honeycomb, the skin of sunsettias as they burst between your teeth. It feels like you have known it all your life. And when he speaks next, you find that there is truth in his words.

“You already know it.”

“I do,” you realize.

Even the oldest, most ancient of storytellers had dared not mention his name in their stories. To speak the name of a Fae draws their attention to you, and they dare not do so, for fear that they will not wake the next morning, their flesh split open by a thousand glittering gems.

And yet, you are sure of it: you know this Fae Lord’s name.

“Then speak it,” he says.

This time, it is a command. You can feel the pull of it, tugging at the space behind your ribs. And you wonder if this is what it means to give your name to one of the Fae. Your lips move as if they are on strings.

“Morax.”

You feel it again, the sensation of power rolling over you like gathering storm clouds. Except this time, it is yours. Morax closes his eyes and you think you can hear his breath start to shake, his shoulders shudder at the way you say his name.

You wonder: if giving him your name meant a lifetime at his side, then what would it mean for you to know his?

“It is done,” he declares with an air of finality. “You may bring the child back to its mother.”

Sevastyan winks into existence, with a suddenness that makes you jump. First, there is nothing, and then there is a child, lying on a bed of golden leaves. He is still wrapped in a blanket decorated with sea turtles, and when he opens his eyes to look at you, you can see the shape of your aunt’s eyes in them. You find yourself scrambling on your hands and knees to reach him.

You do not know how to hold a child, how to keep him safe against the cold that you know is waiting for the two of you outside the cave. His skin feels warm, and when you lift him in your arms, he still smells of milk and sandalwood. The blanket that he is covered in feels too thin. After all, you had sewn it for him to wear in fall, not winter. It will not protect him against the cold.

And so you do the only thing you can think of: you strip yourself of your robes, the most beautiful of your creations, stained with your blood and your tears, and you wrap it around him. Underneath, you are only wearing a thin shift, meant to protect the rich silk from your sweat.

You stand on shaking legs, cradling the child to your chest. Morax stands with you, and in his presence, you feel small. His eyes are fixed on Sevastyan, at the clothes you had wrapped around him.

“And you?” he asks.

You blink, “What about me?”

“The journey is long. And you will be cold.”

You shake your head. Despite his words, you find yourself unafraid. After all, you had already gone so far and survived so much. You are confident that you can survive this, as well. But before you can answer, he does the same thing you did only seconds prior: he removes his cloak. Unlike your frantic movements, he does it slowly, languidly and there is an intimacy in it that makes your throat run dry. You find that you can’t look away. You see the expanse of his chest, the glitter of scales on his skin. You can see his hands and his arms, and you realize that you had guessed correctly earlier: they do not appear as if they are made from flesh. Instead, like his antlers, they look as if they have been carved from obsidian. Glimmers of gold run through his skin like the glint of veins in an ore.

You think that this is not the first time you have seen him like this.

When he finishes, he wraps his cloak around you. It is the color of the leaves underneath your feet, as light as air. As if someone had grasped threads of sunlight and used them to weave the cloth. You think of the forest, of lying almost naked in the snow, your clothes shredded from thousands of cuts. You think of the river, of the water-logged fabric, dragging you down to the riverbed. After you have faced only suffering and humiliation for your work, Morax chooses to clothe you in finery.

Gratitude keeps you silent, you do not know how to voice the enormity of what you feel. Perhaps he reads it on your face, on the tears that burn at the corners of your eyes, for he places a cool finger on your lips. You remember the cut there, and you wonder if he will kiss this one new as well.

“Wear my cloak. Go with my protection and return the child to its mother. Then return to me to fulfill your end of our contract.”

You nod and turn to leave. But something holds you back. You glance back at him, the question burning in your throat.

“Was I…always meant to come back here? This place?”

Was I always meant to come back to you?

But you had already asked for your boon, for the child shifting sleepily in your arms, and as you expected, he does not answer. You find that you do not mind. You will get your own answers, in time.

After all, you had promised him a lifetime.

“I will come back,” you say resolutely.

“Yes,” he says. “You will.”

“Not for contract,” you say. “For you, Morax.”

He looks surprised, staring at you with reptilian eyes that for just the briefest of seconds, look almost human. And then, he smiles. Something tugs like quicksilver at the edges of your memory.

This is not the first time you have seen him smile.

“Good.”

It is all he says.

It is enough.

Hugging your brother to your chest, you walk out of the cave.

[goldenamaranthe-blog]

Smooth Operator

Yang: (driving a snow-specified version of Bumblebee 2.0 across a large, frozen lake just outside of Argus - dials Weiss on her scroll)

Weiss: (answers her scroll from a cozy, lakeside resort) Yang? Where are you? I'm surprised you didn't call Blake.

Yang: (through a headset in her helmet) Hey, Weiss! How far away can you make those dust statues with your glyphs?

Weiss: (Looks at Ruby trying to help Blake learn to ice skate a little ways away and sees a glint of yellow off in the distance closing in) .....Why?

Yang: Is there a chance you can make a bouquet of ice flowers in my hand? (Raises hand high)

Weiss: (Sees the raised hand) ......I could.

Yang: Awesome! Can you do it right now?

Weiss: Why?

Yang: Trust me!

Weiss: Never and Always (sighs and hangs up before using her glyph to send a blast of ice dust to Yang’s hand)

Yang: (watches as a bundle of ice flowers form in her hand) Nice shot, Weiss! (Twists the throttle one last time to give enough speed to get her to the shore, slides off Bumblebee, grabs on to the end of the seat, and skates her way to shore)

Ruby: (holding on to a shaking Blake) You're doing great, Blake! You'll get this done in time for Christmas on Patch! (Notices a ball of gold barreling in) Is that Yang?

Blake: (skitters her feet to regain her balance) Yang?

Yang: (coasts into the skating area, releases Bumblebee and the motorcycle gently nestles itself into a snowbank like a bike rack, and slowly slides to a halt in front of Blake before presenting the ice flowers) For you.

Blake: (blushes but rolls her eyes in good humor as she takes the flowers) No one likes a show off.

Weiss: Oh, my, GOD!!! You did NOT just use my semblance to flirt with your girlfriend!!!

[skyclan-funny-name-squad]

Im going to explain my au starclan now.

There is no Dark Forest in this version of Starclan, only the Seasonal Borders. For instance both Tigerstar and Bluestar are Starclan cats, but they would be different kinds of Starclan cats.

Starclan is divided by the four seasons, and how you performed in life determines which season you are assigned too. The season is determined both your own opinions of yourself and personal reasonings for why you did things, along with the actual actions.

Each area is a perfect encapsulation of the season, Newleaf is BEAUTIFUL with flowers, Leaf-Fall has so many colorful leaves, and Leafbare is picturesque with frozen lakes and glistening snowbanks.

Greenleaf is the closest to Starclan as we know it. All year long it is warm and the prey runs very well. It's also very much the default tier, you were a background cat your whole life and did nothing but be a background cat? Congrats you're getting into Greenleaf. Kits are also automatically placed into Greenleaf.

Newleaf is a lot like Greenleaf but not as perfect, you're more likely to get rain and colder days. These are the cats that tried to do what's right, but fell short in very reasonable ways. This is for cat's like Blackstar or Mudclaw who really did good things and did try very hard and genuinely believed they were doing the right thing, but still had some black stains on them they couldn't wash away. Comfortable, but not perfect.

Leaf-fall is more on the brisk side. Lots of rain, and while prey isn't the easiest to find, there is prey, a cat can be mostly comfortable here, even if it's not the nicest life. This is for the cats that had negative intentions, but didn't do enough harm to be considered irredeemable or had reasonings that are sympathetic enough. Cat's like Ashfur or Mapleshade who did a lot bad, and maybe can't be forgiven, but weren't the worst ever and honestly didn't even do more damage then an intense battle between clans could possibly have done.

Leafbare is covered in snow, it's actually quite beautiful. Prey is very scarce but not completely missing, it's hard to keep warm but cats wont suffer from things like frostbite or anything, so they're just cold. It snows often, and many Leafbare cats will stick together if they're compatible enough to keep warm. Rarely there will be a more warm day as well, it's livable. A cat won't be the most happy here, but they have enough to be content, especially once they get more used to the cold. This is cat's like Brokenstar and Tigerstar who knew full well they were doing immense amounts of war crimes and didn't even have a good reason for them.

Depending on your season will also show how easy it is to dream walk, a Greenleaf cat can do so with ease, but a Leafbare cat will have to work hard for a long time to slip into a dream even once.

Cats can cross the borders, but only going down and up to the original season. A Newleaf cat can never enter Greenleaf but both a Newleaf and Greenleaf cat can visit Leaf-fall. To prevent trouble though, kits can only cross borders going down further then Newleaf if accompanied by a Greenleaf cat. So cat's are constantly crossing the borders, perhaps a Newleaf cat misses snow and so they spend a few hours frolicking in Leafbare. Or maybe some kits want to see their morally questionable Leaf-fall parent so a Greenleaf cat supervises the meeting. This keeps cats from being permanently separated from each other, but also keeps it so cats who may be more fond of other seasons can actually still experience those seasons.

This establishes Starclan as less like heaven and more like a genuine place where dead cats can rest and explore. Sure it's not ideal to be in Leafbare, but there's still things to do and prey to hunt. Even cats in Leafbare have a say in things if all of Starclan is pulled into a meeting, after all sometimes to best understand how to tackle a threat is the observations from a previous threat.

Along with that cats will often bring gifts as they cross borders, like yeah if you're in Leafbare most cats might not like you but sometimes someone from another season will come with a huge mouse and give it to you so you make sure no one bothers them while they roll in snow. Or your mom brings you a thrush because even though you did bad things she's still your mom and she loves you. If anything, it encourages Leafbare cats to make connections and friends after death, helping them become more well rounded and less aggressive.

[ohnoanalien]

Headache

@journey-to-the-au has an awesome fake marriage AU, and as someone with PTSD this post really touched my heart in ways I can't explain. My writing's not as good obviously, but it's a little 'thank you' gift for giving us such great content! Enjoy!

TW: PTSD, flashbacks, phantom pain, panic attacks

It didn't take long for the Monkey King to notice something was wrong. As he walked through the halls of the Jade Emperor's palace, each fiber on soft carpet felt like long-dead grass.

The noblemen around him shot unwanted gazes. On the average day they buzzed like a swarm of gnats– annoying, but harmless. But all too suddenly, eyes pierced through the dark like cold spotlights. And the world blurred like a crude, two-dimensional set on a stage. 

He fought the urge to cradle his head.

No. No no no, not now--

"Wukong!" The Great Sage blinked back a dizzy spell, a soft beacon of light cutting through the audience. Earth Reaching Willow greeted him with a soft smile, hanfu gliding across the snowy fiel-- the floor. He shot back a wide grin with a bit too much teeth, unsure if her presence was a saving grace or a terrible nightmare.

"How is Flower Fruit Mountain, darling?" Earth Reaching Willow's dark eyes flicked briefly to the immortals that surrounded them, staring openly.

Keep your composure. Don't look weak. You were-- will be fine.

"Are you alright?" Willow whispered, interrupting her husband's thoughts.

In return her husband smiled wider, wanting to die.

"'Course I am!" He rested his hands on his hips. Willow didn’t miss the way the Monkey King’s tail wrapped tight around his waist, itching to lash like a broken metronome. "What makes you think I'm not?"

It seemed like they were the stars of the banquet, hushed chatter muffled into wine glasses. But his ‘beloved’ persisted. "You just seem...what’s the word. A bit off-color?"

"Pfft! Off-color?" A seething pain rattled Wukong's skull, and his pained smirk reached his ears, "I'm alright! I'm alright! Nothing to worry about, Master!"

The voices went silent. The palace went still. The Great Sage felt his face warm, slapping a paw over his mouth.

The pain was unbearable. Colors and lights began to morph and shift, and the ground rocked beneath his feet. He allowed himself to be pulled by an unknown force, and marble hallways stretched into a dirt road. No, no they were by a snowbank. Or was it a monastery?

"Wukong?"

The chilly air did nothing to dull the pain, gasping for air as Tripitaka’s eyes continued to change color and shape. Dark to light, scared to angry. Over and over until his mind began to crumble, disorientation clouding his vision.

"Poor thing." A soothing voice called from the flashback, cleaving the delusion open like a knife on the butcher's table. "How are you feeling?"

"I was-- I'm-- I'll be--" Wukong scrambled to collect his pride before it could fall any further.

"It's alright, it's alright. Just calm down and--"

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down!" Wukong snarled. Rage snaked up his throat like a trapped beast. "I am the Great Sage, Equal to Heaven, and I am no mere monkey!"

His eyes stung, desperately scraping at his head, searching to rip off a phantom crown. And ignoring the stinging, self-inflicted wounds that bloodied his claws. "I was the one who single-handedly took down the entirety of Heaven! I was the one who journeyed for years-- nnh! I-- I'm not-- I don't care about the pain!"

A muffled voice called above the panic.

"I don't care! I don’t care! So just make it stop!"

"Wukong!" A panicked voice called.

Earth Reaching Willow.

He cracked open an eye-- dammit, he was crying on the floor. His old friend kneeled on her knees, robes pooling around her like a waterfall. Delicate hands reached out, then pulled back. "Sun Wukong, Vengeful Fighting Buddha. Lovely monkey. Listen to me and listen well. You have to care."

For the first time in his long, long life, the Great Sage was speechless.

"You have to care." She repeated, tears spilling down her cheeks, "You have to because you're hurting yourself."

A terrible realization weighed on Wukong's heart, and he touched a shaking finger to his forehead. Blood seeped through a perfect, golden coat, and he breathed in the iron scent that burned his nose.

"I. I'm sorry for worrying you." He croaked. “I was lost.”

"No need to apologize, my friend." Earth Reaching Willow placed a hand to her chest, "I am no different. During my own panic attacks, my father would constantly tell me to 'calm down'. I'm ashamed I did the same to you."

"Willow--"

"But this isn't about me." A shaky, pale palm wiped at her cheeks. "Tell me how to help."

"Don't worry! Don't worry! I'm fine." Sun Wukong threw on a smirk, sewn in place with string and prayers.

Earth Reaching Willow shot back an unimpressed expression. "Wukong."

Mortification spread like wildfire across his face. Wordlessly, the stone monkey stared at her lap. And before he could open his mouth, Willow gently pushed him downward.

"Lovely monkey." She whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple-- worry unraveling as a relieved sigh brushed her ears. "You may have a position to uphold, and I may not always understand what you’re going through, but I promise you are safe with me. I will hold you if you need to cry. I will listen if you feel alone. I will give you your space when you ask for it. But please, for my sake, ask for help. Don’t try to hold up a century’s worth of pain and false pride by yourself. Let me keep you safe, as you have for me."

Gentle touches turned into strokes. And even when choking sobs wracked the walls, Earth Reaching Willow hummed softly, brushing aside the tears that soaked her fingers.

[two-red-lungs]

I’ll See You (In My Dreams)

Eddie x Fem!Reader Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Eddie Munson has been declared dead for five months. Five agonizing, numb months. And nobody seems to care. (Angst with happy ending)

Song Inspiration: x

The weather had turned. Oppressive summer cicadas fading to a whisper, then a deathly silence, replaced with the rasp of autumn leaves and a brilliant Hawkins forest filled with fire-orange foliage and a chill creeping into the west wind.

Not a lot of Jack-o-lanterns out this year. Not with all the ruin. Houses were still being repaired. People had left: a lot of people. A tiny, cursed town made even emptier.

But you had stayed. God help you, you had stayed.

You slammed the door to your car, rounding the front in the leaf-strewn parking lot, exhaling smoke from your cigarette. Dustin clambered out of the passenger seat and straightened his lapel.

“You ready, kid?” You asked him.

He nodded, tight lipped. You gave him a pat on the shoulder over his jacket, crushed the cigarette butt under your heel, and followed him into the Hawkins church graveyard.

The earthquake hadn’t touched it. Thank god for small mercies. The little quaint rows of dark graves, lichen-dusted and overgrown, were in disturbed. You wove through the rows. It was quiet. Crows called from the forest. Most of the headstones were old, but there were quite a few fresh ones. Too many.

You were only here for one.

A small one. Simple grey granite. Simple engraving. Everything else has been too expensive: too far out of Wayne’s budget.

Christ. Just seeing it made your heart seize.

There were no flowers on Eddie Munson’s grave. They kept getting stolen. People muttering about how he didn’t deserve them. You couldn’t muster the strength, the fire to hate them anymore.

“Can I, uh.” You said tightly to the open air. To Dustin, standing behind you. “Can I have a moment? Alone?”

He swallowed and ducked his head. “Yeah. Sure. Of course.” He ambled back, away towards the church. Giving you space.

You breathed. Inhale, exhale. That’s what the therapist had said to do, anyway. Just breathe. She made it sound so easy. But nowadays your chest felt so tight, all the fucking time. “Edward Munson”, the headstone read. “1966-1986″. The engraving of a cherub angel right below it: wings spread, hands cupping its face, eyes shut. “Gone, but never forgotten.”

An empty grave. They never recovered his body. Too dangerous.

“...Hi.” God, your voice was so shaky. Ruined from the chain-smoking, now. “Uh, Eds. Hey. I, um. Miss you. Hope wherever you are,” you paused to look around at the weak, dappled autumn light coming through the dying forest, “it’s better than this place. Somewhere with sun. And free booze. And lots of, uh, babes in bikinis running around, because you’d probably be into that.” You smiled for a half-second. It faded fast.

“Wayne’s okay. He’s still working. Gotta keep the lights on, and stuff. I’ve been spending more time with him. Keeping him company, you know? I cook him dinner a lot. We watch movies. Sometimes we sit out on the porch and smoke. He... uh, he doesn’t like to talk about you. I think it hurts him too much. And fuck, who could blame him for that?”

Great. Fuck. Here comes the tears. A knot in your throat, heat in your eyes, blurring your vision. 

“...Hey, do you, um. Do you remember our best date? December, when we got snowed-in at my place? And we tried to dig your van out of the snowbank with fucking.... plastic toy shovels because I didn’t have a real one,” You were grinning again, looking at the grass between your feet, tears damp on your lashes, “And you were just so frustrated you threw yours into the neighbor’s yard? And then we just looked at each-other and burst out laughing? God. That was so fun. And then you, uh. Then you kissed me.

“...God. God. Fucking jesus christ sonovabitch motherfucker I fucking-” you choked. “I miss you. I fucking miss you. So much, every fucking day. Sometimes I feel like I wake up with a fucking hole in my chest, like someone has punched straight through me, Eddie, and I don’t know what to fucking do I miss you so much.”

You wiped your face. Wet, hot water on cold skin. “Ugh. I’m a mess. And I’m a smoker, now, too. I found a... a pack, you left in my room, and it all sort of spiraled from there. I keep finding you, do you know that? It’s like you’re everywhere I look. Your favorite music playing on my cassette mix. Your laugh coming from someone else. Your shirts hanging in my closet. Sometimes, I swear, I fall asleep at night and think I can still smell your stupid hair product on my fucking pillow. I miss you. I miss you.”

The headstone was silent and unresponsive. An autumn breeze ruffled the weeds. 

“Our anniversary is coming up. October 30th. Basically Halloween. First date we ever went on: the corn maze. You scared the shit out of me, jumping out of the maze wall like that. The look on your face when I punched you was... god, it was priceless. It was perfect.” More tears. Fucking tears. You were so tired of tears: tired of how they wrung you out like wet rag every night. “What we had... was perfect. Some real, actual fairytale shit. The knight and the princess. It was good. God, Eddie, it was so good.

“And you know what the worst part of it was?” You turned your face up to the sky, at that clear, unrelenting blue. “I think I fell in love with you. Right at the end. Right when the daffodils were starting to bloom in the spring. You looked at me, in the van, and I just realized... I realized I was in fucking love with you. And I never got to say the words out loud.”

You let yourself have your moment. You let yourself cry. Standing there, cold and tired and sleep-deprived and reeking like burnt tobacco, in front of the grave everyone else reviled. 

It passed. It left you hollow. 

You pulled your jacket tighter. “At least I have my dreams, right? I see you there. Like every night: you’re just standing there smiling at me. I loved that smile so much, Eddie-bear. Big megawatt smile. Mister Sunshine.” You fumbled for another cigarette, lighting it and taking a drag. “I, uh. I gotta go. Dustin needs a ride home, and I need to go clean the trailer for Wayne before he gets back from work. But I’ll come back. I’ll always come back. I promise.”

Another breeze. Shifting grass stalks. The crow on the distant tree branch squawked and took flight, a blot of black against cerulean blue. 

You looked over your shoulder towards the stone church, catching Dustin’s eye and jerking your head to call him over. He tromped over the patches of weeds. “I’m done. You can... you can say what you need to.”

He paled. “I’m okay. I just wanted to visit.”

You bumped his shoulder with yours. “It’s nice of you. I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

He went even paler. His throat bobbed. “Yeah.”

“Let’s get you home.”

Dustin waved goodbye to the car in his driveway, dodged his mother’s doting kisses in the living room, and hauled the phone and extended cord into his room, firmly shutting the door and sitting down heavily on his bed. He took a moment to run a hand through his mass of curls and blow air between his lips before reaching for the dial and punching the number in. A number he knew by heart: he didn’t dare write it down. 

A ringing line. A click. Silence.

“...It’s Dustin. Dustin Henderson. I need to speak to him.”

The agent’s voice was gruff on the other end of the line. “Kid, you can’t keep calling this number. It’s for emergencies.”

“I know. I know.” Dustin wetted his lips and crossed his legs on the mattress. “Can I just... for a few minutes? Please? I’ll make it fast.”

The agent sighed, low and tired. There was shuffling on the other end of the line, the sound of movement. “It’s the Henderson kid. You have five minutes.” The agent said faintly. 

The phone readjusted.

“You know, every time this thing rings I think the world is ending a second goddamn time.”

“Eddie.” Dustin breathed, grinning at his bedroom wall. 

“Hey, pipsqueak.”

“Man, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yeah, well...” There was a grunt, and a shuffle: Eddie, moving away from his designated agent, taking the phone with him. “The whole point of this witness protection shit is that you don’t, right?”

“How are you holding up?”

A dry, derisive laugh. “Well, considering I’m in the middle of goddamn nowhere, being babysat by some big asshole with a gun, eating microwave soup for lunch every day, with an entire state still wanting me for murder and everyone else thinking I’m a worm-filled corpse, not too bad.”

“...I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

Eddie heaved a sigh. Dustin could see him in his mind’s eye, a hand running down his face like he always did when he was exasperated. “It’s fine, man, it’s fine. I appreciate it, actually. Nice to talk to someone who doesn’t communicate almost exclusively in grunts. I’ve got, like, crazy cabin fever.”

“Have they told you how much longer you need to stay there?”

“No, man. They have not. I’m guessing until the fucking... satanic panic shit dies down and people stop writing articles on ‘Edward Munson, the devil of Indiana’.”

Dustin could hear the strain in the young man’s voice. It was a heavy burden to bear. Eddie was all alone, now. The world had abandoned him. And everyone save for Dustin and a handful of agents that had retrieved him and revived him even knew he was alive. It was for his protection, they told him. There was no way to clear his name, not really. Not ever. He’d always have this staining his name. All he could do now was start again.

“I’m really, really sorry, Eddie.”

“I know. I know you are.” The line was silent for a moment. “So why’d you call, man? Did you really miss your dear old DM that much?”

“Are you alone right now?”

“Yeah. Mr. Impassive just stepped out for a cigarette. What’s up?”

“She visited your grave again today.”

 A muffled swear followed by several more, and a long, drawn-out beat of silence. “She did? God. Christ. Fuck.”

“She visits like, every three days. Ever since your uncle had the headstone installed.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” Another pause. Again, Dustin knew so clearly that Eddie was probably hanging his head right now, probably running a hand through his even longer hair. “I really fucking miss her, man.” His voice wobbled. 

“I know.”

“That’s my girl. And she thinks I’m dead.”

“She doesn’t have to.” Before Eddie could say anything, Dustin launched forward. “Eddie, I think I should tell her.”

“What? Are you insane?” Eddie hissed. 

“Just- just hear me out, okay? Isn’t this the same girl who kept your relationship secret from everyone for months? And nobody suspected a thing? The same girl who you dealt to for like, three whole years, and not even her friends knew she smoked? If anyone can keep a secret, it’s her.”

“I know that, man, she’s- goddamn perfect. Henderson, you can’t tell her. Do you even- fuck, do you know how much danger that would put her in? Hawkins thinks I’m a serial killer.”

“Eddie, she needs to know. It’s wrecking her. She’s even stopped going to college.”

A throaty noise of pain escaped Munson over the phone. “I know. I know. I just... fuck. I want her to know, so bad. Jesus Christ, you think I don’t want her to know? I’d cut off my own arm just to see her again. But it’s too risky. And the government goons would be pissed.”

Dustin pulled out his trump card. “Eddie... she said she was in love with you.”

Silence. Utter silence. 

“At the church today. I had to stand there and listen to her say she loved you, that she still loves you, and that she never got to tell you. And I had to just... act sad, like I thought you were dead too. I don’t know how much longer I can lie to her.”

“...She said she loves me?”

“Yeah, man.”

The quiet was deafening. It went on for so long Dustin was wondering if the call had disconnected. 

“Do it.” Eddie’s voice was tight. 

“What?”

“Do it. Tell her.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. But, Dustin, man... do it gentle, okay?” Eddie’s voice had taken on a soft, wounded tone. A hurt Dustin hadn’t heard before. “Do it so fucking gentle. And tell her... tell her I love her. Tell her I love the shit out of her. That I have since the shovels.”

“...The shovels?”

“She’ll know what I mean.”

They chatted for a few more minutes. Somber and low: about Wayne, about Hawkins repairs, about Steve and Nancy and Garette and the rest of his band-mates. And then the agent stepped back in from his smoke break and commandeered the phone, severing their connection with a click. Dustin was left alone, holding the plastic phone to his ear, staring out the window and watching the sun track across the neighborhood outside. 

He ran a hand down his face. A habit he’d picked up in school from the metal-head. One more night, he promised himself. He’d tell her tomorrow. Shatter her entire world, re-open her wounds, flip reality on its head. 

But tonight, she could still have her dreams.

[theinnerunderrain]

Apricity [Yan!Albedo x Fem!Reader]

Apricity- the warmth of the sun in winter

Warnings: Yandere themes, isolation, slightly manipulative albedo, mentions of freezing, abuse of power.

Word count: 1.3+

-

"You would feel a lot warmer if you sat closer to the bonfire."

Albedo remarked relatively calm as he peered attentively at your quivering form hunched just within the corner of the pitch-black cave. A thick layer of wool was wrapped over your body, along with a pair of black gloves that covered your flushed fingers, Albedo even made sure you wore a scarf before you left the laboratory, knowing the frigid climate of Dragonspine.

The reason he brought you outside to begin with place was so he could search for a flower of some sort to incorporate in his experiment, and he decided that now would be a good time to let you go outside and explore for a little. While he had a strong intuition that you would escape, he didn't think there was a worthy cause to detain you until the very last second given that the weather made it improbable that you would get that far.

Although you're still trembling, perhaps your attempt to flee would have been to blame. The only thing you managed to do was lose your boots by tumbling into a ditch and into a snowbank, which luckily managed to break your fall so you did not substain any major injuries. Albedo was quick to pull you out of the ditch, using a rope he brought alone in case of an emergency since he was slightly concerned at the possible avalanche. Given your current condition, he declined to take the chance of forcing you return to the lab by force, considering the night was beginning to set in.

However he didn't think that you would slip into a ditch.

As a result, he selected a small cave within Dragonspine, where the sole source of heat and light was a bonfire he had managed to built upon your arrivals. You should have applauded him for not penalizing you despite your rebellious behaviour, but you remained defiant and choose to sit in the room's darkest corner, quietly grumbling over the matter.

"I'm fine right where I am."

As a result of your refusal to drink anything Albedo provided, your voice sounded hoarse when you answered, barely above a whisper. While he does respect your tenacity, he secretly wishes you were more aware of your own circumstances and realized that you would be helpless without his help. There wasn't a single person within this part of Dragonspine besides you and him.

"Are you certain that you aren't thirsty? It would be better, in my opinion, if you could at least ingest water."

You prepare to chastise him as you open your mouth to speak. Yet, you stop in your tracks as a result of Albedo's gaze, groan, and eventually manage to drag yourself over to the campfire.

The warmth pouring from the bonfire made you feel somewhat soothed as you sat down directly next to Albedo, but you nevertheless made the effort to maintain your composure. Since Albedo is so intuitive, he certainly already realized that you were comforted with his assistance although you didn't want him to feel glad about it. Albedo was never a violent person by any means, but he also won't take rejection kindly when it affects your health.

You caught a glimpse of Albedo slipping out a small pouch of water, sipping it, and then passing it to you. But just as you reach out to grab it, the pouch escapes from Albedo's grasp and falls into the fire pit, the fire devouring the flimsy pouch. You could only maintain your focus on the searing flame for a fraction of a second before turning to scowl at Albedo, who had a rather innocent expression across his face.

"Why'd you do that?"

Albedo does nothing except stare at you, his face maintaining still as if he hadn't just demolished the remaining water supply despite the fact that he was aware that you needed it more than he did. He didn't even need to eat or drink to survive yet he still chose to eat with you, taking every moment to cook some sort of food for you.

"My hands slipped."

He gave an immediate response before throwing another piece of wood to the fire. His jacket collar was snagged in your hands as you sprang to seize it, drawing him close to your face and glaring grumpily at him. Even if Albedo's eyes don't appear to be absolutely lifeless, the typical person might certainly detect that the man is off-balance by the way they appear to be.

"I was merely joking."

His hands reached into his bag and pulled out another bottle of water, offering it to you before you let go of his collar, a sigh of relief escaping your lips.

"Albedo, you have a truly awful sense of humour."

As you feebly uncapped the water bottle and took a sizable swallow of the cool liquid, you could hear him muttering a low huff. The frigid water rushed down your tongue, reaching the back of your throat with its coldness, eradicating the painful throat you had been experiencing earlier, much to your relief. A moment of silence washes both of you as you sit in front of the scorching fire, the only evidence of sound was the quiet crackling of the flames.

"Albedo."

You abruptly spoke, causing Albedo to raise his gaze from the raging pit of fire, his gaze fixed on you once again.

"Why did you choose me?"

For a brief moment, he seems to chew over your question in his head, as though it were some kind of experimental inquiry. However, it's conceivable that's how he's always regarded you—as if you were an experiment that he was trying to piece together over time by removing tiny fragments of your body and soul.

"Mainly because you're a remarkable specimen."

He gave you a brief, direct response that provided no clarification to your question and simply served to further perplex you.

Remarkable specimen?

What does that even mean?

Albedo seemingly took a notice of the confused expression on your face as he motioned towards you, trying to further explain his perspective.

"... I would be more than happy to offer a thorough explanation, but this isn't the appropriate time to do so."

Albedo recognized he wanted to keep you close even if he was incapable of providing a theoretical justification for his attraction to you. Albedo may have violated many social conventions by how he defined "keeping you close," but he never saw himself as a member of society or even as a person, therefore those sort of laws did not have to apply to him.

Albedo, however, thought of you as the sun's warmth, exuding such a wonderful vitality that you reminded him of a glorious nova.

You felt perpetually warm in comparison to him. Not frigid and cold like him, who resembled to be a human but didn't require oxygen for survival.

Maybe he's reliving his human life through you.

Having to fiddle with your boots' fasteners led the Alchemist to feel mildly guilty. However, you can't really blame him for taking precautions after your odd behaviour that morning. Despite the fact that he appreciates it when you treat him like a regular companion, he can always tell when your statements begin to appear sinister. But perhaps he was so self-centered that he couldn't bring himself to put a stop to your actions, just adding gasoline to the fire and letting you dream of that fleeting moment of freedom.

Perhaps he liked it when you were nice to him.

He watches as the morning sun trickles down your face, casting a source of illumination against your resting figure. Further enhancing your beauty, captivating your flaws and imperfections. Your physical aspects were never important to him, since physical beauty is never permanent therefore it doesn't matter if an individual is pretty or not. But still, he would be lying if he didn't find you to be the most beautiful woman in his life. Even if he knew that it was objectively wrong to be calling you the most beautiful woman in the world since everyone has their differences.

Still, if someone were to ask of your physical aspects, he would describe you as utterly beautiful. The only thing that's keeping him sane, enough to avoid his corruption and the destruction of Mondstadt. Perhaps you were even in the answer to his pursuit of the world, perhaps you were the answer his master was waiting for him to seek.

But even on the coldest day of Dragonspine, Albedo would still feel needlessly warm when you exist.

His warmth of the sun in winter.

[sabineelectricheart]

The Coldest, Stormiest Day at the Scottish Highlands

Summary: Sebastian knows he has nothing to gain by keeping Rosalie with him against her will, but he does it anyways.

Rating: T - Suitable for teens, 13 years and older, with some violence, minor coarse language, and minor suggestive adult themes.

Words: 2300

Notes: I seem to like the Sebastians of things. LaCroix, Vael, Stardew Valley...

"You would feel a lot warmer if you sat closer to the bonfire." The teen remarked with relative calm. “Nights are much too long around here. Do not exhaust yourself needlessly.”

Sebastian peered attentively at the quivering form of his companion, hunched just within the corner of the pitch-black cave. A thick layer of wool was wrapped over her body, along with a pair of black gloves that covered her flushed and unfeeling fingers. He even made sure you wore a scarf before she left the laboratory, knowing the frigid climate of the Scottish Highlands. Although she is still trembling, perhaps her attempt to flee would have been to blame.

The reason he brought Rosalie outside to begin with place was so he could search for a flower of some sort to incorporate in his experiment, and he decided that now would be a good time to let her go outside and explore for a little. It would do no good for her to stay locked up at the small cave laboratory he kept, and it is not as if he finds himself with too much entertainment up there at hand.

They were there for business, after all. Not for a social call.

It is a grace freely given. While he had a strong intuition that his hostage would try to escape as soon as he turned his back for long enough, he did not think there was a worthy cause to detain her until the very last second, given that the weather made it improbable that she would get that far. It is so cold that even those with wands should reserve their efforts.

The blond girl, after all, had already tried once that day, with a result so pathetic she certainly would feel compelled to try again for her pride alone. The only thing she managed to do was lose her boots by tumbling into a ditch and into a snowbank, which luckily managed to break her fall so she did not sustain any major injuries.

Sebastian was quick to levitate her out of the ditch. He would not use a warming charm, an Apparition or some other, more direct, form of comforting, since he was slightly concerned at a possible avalanche. Given her current condition, he declined to take the chance of forcing her return to the lab by force, considering the night was beginning to set in.

However, he did not think that Rosalie Beausoleil of all people would be dumb enough to slip into a ditch.

As a result, he selected a hidden cave within the mountain, on the side where the wind blew the least. The sole source of heat and light in there was a small bonfire that he had managed to build upon their arrival, and they would sleep on Transfigured rocks and their coats that night.

She should have applauded him for not penalizing her despite her rebellious behaviour, as he certainly should. He would not even ask for much, a hug to stave off the cold would already be nice. However, she remained defiant and choose to sit in the room's darkest corner, quietly grumbling over the matter.

Well, there still is time. Perhaps his mood will sour before they reach home.

"I'm fine right where I am." She spat.

As a result of her refusal to drink anything Sebastian provided, her voice sounded hoarse when she answered, barely above a whisper.

While he does respect her tenacity and resistance, qualities that certainly attracted him to her in the first place, he secretly wishes that Rosalie was more aware of her own circumstances and that she would finally realize that she would be helpless without his help.

They are half a day’s walk up the mountain from Feldcroft, and almost a week’s off Hogwarts. This is such a miserable place that even the Vikings had no interest in the land. There is not a single person within this part of the Scottish Highlands besides she and him. She would not survive in the wilderness without a wand, and even if she stole his, it is unlikely that she would find her way before frostbite kicked in.

"Are you certain that you are not thirsty?” He insists, out of a kindness that he was not certain he truly had. “It would be better, in my opinion, if you could at least have some water."

Rosalie prepares to chastise him as she opens her mouth to speak. Yet, she stops in her tracks as a result of his gaze, groan, and eventually manages to drag herself over to the campfire.

The warmth pouring from the bonfire made her feel somewhat soothed as she sat down directly next to Sebastian, but she nevertheless made the effort to maintain her composure. Since he is so intuitive, he certainly already realized that she was comforted with his assistance although she did not want him to feel glad about it. He was never a violent person by any means, not against her, but he also will not take rejection kindly when it affects her health.

She caught a glimpse of her former schoolmate slipping out a small pouch of water, sipping it, and then passing it to her. However, just as she reaches out to grab it, the pouch escapes from his grasp and falls into the fire pit, the fire devouring the flimsy pouch.

She could only maintain her focus on the searing flame for a fraction of a second before turning to scowl at him, who had a rather innocent expression across his face.

"Why did you do that?!" She snarled.

Sebastian does nothing except stare at his hostage, his face maintaining still as if he had not just demolished the remaining water supply despite the fact that he was aware that she needed it more than he did.

It might be foolish, Rosalie can concede to that point under the current circumstances, but she has always refused any food and drink from him, even when they were back in the laboratory that he called home for most of his time, eating just enough to keep her strength. Not one to be discouraged, he would always find a pretence to cook her a feast, offer it to her insistently, and then proceed to eat most of it by himself. Even living in a bare mountain, he managed to gain a couple of pounds over the autumn.

"My hands slipped." He gave an immediate response, before throwing another piece of wood to the fire.

His jacket collar was snagged in her hands as she sprang to seize it, drawing him close to her face and glaring grumpily at him. Even if his eyes do not appear to be absolutely lifeless, the typical person might certainly detect that the boy is off-balance by the way they appear to be.

He laughs, nastily. "I was merely joking."

His hands reached into his bag and pulled out another pouch of water, offering it to her before she let go of his collar, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.

"Sebastian, you have a truly awful sense of humour…" She commiserates before throwing herself at the task at hand.

As she feebly uncapped the water pouch and took a sizable swallow of the cool liquid, she could hear him muttering a low huff. The frigid water rushed down her tongue, reaching the back of her throat with its coldness, eradicating the painful soreness that she had been experiencing earlier, much to her relief.

A moment of silence washes over both of them as Rosalie sits in front of the scorching fire, the only evidence of sound was the quiet crackling of the flames.

"Sebastian." She abruptly spoke.

The sudden, and rare, sound of her voice calling his name so softly causes Sebastian to raise his gaze from the raging pit of fire. He must admit that she misses it, even if her tone never conveyed the sort of love that he held for her, he does miss a time when she did not hold any hostility towards him.

His gaze fixes on her once again. “Yes, Rosalie?”

She sighed heavily. "Why did you choose me?"

For a brief moment, he seems to chew over her question in his head, as though it was some kind of experimental inquiry. However, it is conceivable that this how he has always regarded her. As if she was a curious knick-knack, something to stave off boredom at worse and a lead into his sister’s curse at best. As if she was an experiment that he was trying to piece together over time by removing tiny fragments of her body and soul.

"Mainly because you are so remarkable." He gave she a brief, direct response that provided no clarification to her question and simply served to further perplex her.

Remarkable? What does that even mean?

Sebastian seemingly took a notice of the confused expression on her face as he motioned towards her, trying to further explain his perspective.

"I would be more than happy to offer a thorough explanation, but this is not the appropriate time to do so." He complemented, giving a pointed look towards the fire.

He is self-aware enough to recognize that he wanted to keep Rosalie close even if he was incapable of providing a thorough and reasonable justification for his attraction to her. After all, he is a Slytherin, and people like him only related to each other if they had something to gain from doing so, or the usual philosophy would go.

However, as things stand, she is absolutely useless to his cause. She has provided him with a cure for his sister once before, but the sacrifice was much too great for him to bear. Reason would dictate that, if there is one way, there could be another, but he refuses to let her have access to her wand, and so she cannot use her strange type of magic to help him.

As a student and a researcher, she is certainly not the worse, but again, he keeps her away from his work stations, in fear of retaliation, and so he cannot use her in that manner, either. Her family connections, certainly extensive, could also be of worth, but her parents are hardly content with the state of their relationship, they would be so even if he presented himself in a more traditional manner.

On the other hand, the harsh life in the mountains taught him that everything that was not absolutely necessary, was necessarily a hindrance. The resources that he invested into keeping her safe, fed and under surveillance could certainly be put to better use, but he refuses to even consider the possibility. He may have violated many social conventions by how he defined "keeping her close", but he never saw himself as an upstanding member of society, therefore this sort of law did not have to apply to him.

Alas, he finds himself in a precarious rhetoric position, where he understands that everyone has much to gain from just releasing her, but he still grasps at straws not to do such a thing.

In the end, Sebastian supposes, it is quite simple. He thought of Rosalie as the sun's warmth, exuding such a wonderful vitality that she reminded him of a glorious nova. She felt perpetually warm in comparison to him, not frigid and cold, not consumed by grief and horror, not marred by the Unforgivables.

Maybe he is reliving his dwindling humanity through her, and that overrides any other consideration.

As he has to fiddle with her boots' fasteners to warm her feet once again, the teen boy feels mildly guilty. However, she cannot really blame him for taking precautions after her odd behaviour that morning. Despite the fact that he appreciates it when she treats him like a regular schoolmate, like the old times, he can always tell when her statements begin to appear sinister.

He acts as if he is oh-so-intelligent for realising her intents before she acts on them, but he never tries to stop her from actually going through with ultimately doomed plans, even at the risk of her physical integrity. Perhaps he was so self-centred that he could not bring himself to put a stop to her actions, just adding oil to the fire and letting her dream of that fleeting moment of freedom.

Perhaps he liked it when Rosalie was nice to him.

As morning finally breaks over Scotland, Sebastian watches as the cool morning sun trickles down her face, casting a source of illumination against her resting, peaceful figure, further enhancing her beauty, captivating her flaws and imperfections.

Her physical aspects were never important to him, since physical beauty is never permanent and, therefore, it does not matter if an individual is pretty or not. Even still, he would be lying if he said that he did not find her to be the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life.

For all his inexperience, and knowing that there must be someone out there prettier than her, based on her tender age alone if nothing else, he knows that he would never change his mind. If someone were ever to ask of her physical aspects, today, tomorrow or in a hundred years he would describe her only as utterly beautiful.

Rosalie is the only thing that is keeping him sane, enough to avoid his corruption and his march towards darkness, even more than the ever-dwindling hope of curing Anne. Perhaps, and he feels some sort of certainty over this statement, she is even in the answer to his pursuit.

Even on the coldest, stormiest day at the Scottish Highlands, Sebastian would still feel needlessly warm while she exists.

His warmth of the sun in the endless winter.

*_*_*_*_*

Hogwarts Legacy Masterlist

[hexalianrebel-blackfeathers]

The Blackblood Files--Subject 023887

((REMINDER TO ALL STAFF: MAKE SURE TO CHECK THE END OF FILES FOR THE MOST RECENT NOTES.))

The Blizzard

Awareness: 1C (Appears to move instinctively toward crowded areas; makes no attempt to disguise itself beyond its form.)

Receptivity: 4B (Submits to testing easily; has an aversion to being touched, with very few exceptions. Seems to understand speech, but makes little to no effort to communicate with staff.)

Whereabouts: CONTAINED

Upon taking form, this Blackblood resembles a figure in a heavy hooded winter coat, along with layers including a thick scarf, hat, mittens, and heavy leather boots. [The scarf has a line of feathers made star shapes stitched along its center, resembling Hexalia’s Mark and implying that its neck is a weak spot it’s protecting; it is important to note that the host The Blizzard is controlling does not share a matching Mark, nor a Mark on their neck at all. Research is still being conducted to confirm or deny working theories.] It never makes an effort or shows desire to remove any of these accessories, and it grows agitated when it perceives any outside attempts to do so. The body underneath, if any, is impossible to see aside from occasionally glowing eyes.

The Blizzard exudes an aura of intense cold which it controls with apparently effortless skill. Even in artificial high-heat conditions, it is able to render its surroundings to near arctic conditions, as well as appearing comfortable despite temperature changes. As the epicenter of this aura, it keeps aggressors away by quite literally freezing them out. Observation and testing have shown that it is fully capable of manipulating the size and barometrics of its aura. This is to say, wherever it goes, The Blizzard is able to lower the temperature enough to cause localized snow flurries. There is debate among research groups on whether to classify this ability as true weather manipulation or simply a summon. [Addendum: Observation has shown that as trust is built with the Blizzard, it will allow certain others close enough to touch it. It seems particularly fond of being hugged. Reports made state that its touch is actually warm despite its cold aura being inches away.] 

Its method of hunting, if one can call it that, is…contrived, to say the least. Upon its initial rediscovery, we set it loose on a small city nearby. It seemed content to wander aimlessly, mostly avoiding interacting with others. But its aura was spreading the entire time, and within 72 hours, the entire city (and approximately 2 miles into surrounding areas) was blanketed by strange-colored clouds and covered in unseasonable snow. While most of said snow was normal water, researchers observed certain flurries that appeared in odd colors: a sort of mix of purple and green breezes within the fog of white. Observations and the few conversations with civilians has revealed that these flurries consist of some sort of ice magic--a crystalized potion, we believe--that blends into snow by resembling snowflakes. When these flakes come in contact with skin, the potion quickly melts and causes a ticklish sensation that only spreads based on how much exposure the victim has. We have observed instances of children and teenagers pushing each other into snowbanks and being rendered immobile with laughter as the snow melts into their coats. The Blizzard, apparently, does not necessarily need to be near victims when they’re laughing, so long as they remain within its aura. 

With painstaking effort, samples of snow were collected and specimens of these snowflakes were isolated. Researchers have nicknamed them “Feather Flakes” for ease of reference in files; they need to be kept at subzero temperatures when outside of the Blizzard’s aura to maintain crystalized structure, and, despite resembling snowflakes, each of them appear identical. From over 200 specimens inspected under magnification, only one shape has been identified: a sort of six-petaled flower, with each petal slightly resembling the feathers stitched into the Blizzard's scarf. [Addendum: Research and Development has managed to create a concentrated Feather Flake potion. DO NOT INGEST under any circumstance. Experiments are still being conducted at varying levels of dilution.] 

The Blizzard only begins to show active hostility after reaching a “starved” state. After two weeks of constant, isolated containment, the Blackblood showed signs of restlessness. When test prey was offered, it suddenly attacked by exhaling a focused blast of cold air apparently consisting mostly of its Feather Flakes. When its hunger was sated, its behavior became nervous, as if it were regretful of its actions. This was the first recorded instance of the Blizzard initiating physical contact; it hugged its prey close until its potion wore off and their laughter subsided. It is unknown if its embrace reduced the needed recovery time; further testing is planned. [Addendum: Due to recent discoveries, the Blizzard is no longer permitted to have close physical contact with certain staff members. Those newly assigned are advised not to indulge its requests for attention.] [Addendum 2: If she whispers, you are to ignore her pleas.]

NOTICE TO ALL ASSIGNED STAFF: Be advised that this file is slated to be locked and archived indefinitely. Please turn in any personally-kept notes and report final observations on this Blackblood before its relocation.

Final Conditions:

Awareness: 4A (Reportedly capable of speech. Openly expresses emotion and seeks fulfilment aside from hunting.) 

Receptivity: 3A (Still submits to commands and testing, but openly shows fear of certain staff members. Reports show failed attempts to conspire with its original handlers. Likely developing distrust and potentially attempting to deceive newer staff. Relocation is advised to be expedited.)

==========

Amalgamate #7: The Whiteout

Components: The Blizzard // The Tagger

Awareness: 3B (Performs strategic hunting tactics without being instructed. Occasionally ignores commands in favor of instinct. Learns quickly.)

Receptivity: 3C (Standoffish with certain members of staff. Acknowledges commands of those that have built trust with it. Rarely hostile to staff. No current reports of active rebellion)

Status: Complacent // Restless // Healthy

This Amalgamate was created and implanted in The Tagger’s host in an attempt to mitigate his rebellious behavior with The Blizzard’s compliance. It was awoken from stasis with no detectable complications and sent for testing immediately. Receptivity and Recall testing showed satisfactory results. The Whiteout performed several levels of tasks on command and returned to its handlers when called, even while outside without restraints. Because of the Tagger’s Trueblood bond with its host, the Amalgamate’s form builds around his body instead of fully overshadowing him upon transformation. The Blizzard’s heavy coat has been replaced with a sort of trench coat tied tightly at the waist with The Blizzard’s scarf. The Tagger’s original hazmat-type suit can be seen underneath, and its mask, now bearing a large Feather Flake design, appears to have been fused with The Blizzard’s original hat. The Whiteout’s hands and feet are covered by thick gloves and boots respectively, both wrapped tightly at the cuffs of its sleeves and pant legs to seal out the cold.

The Whiteout’s magical abilities consist of both the Blizzard’s aura and the Tagger’s summoning capabilities, with the former having gained an exponential boost in range and power. After proper preparations, the Amalgamate was deployed into Settlement S-F-TS-4 (See: Crater). It seemed to actively avoid interactions with locals, only rarely approaching undercover staff members before avoiding them as well. Said staff members reported sightings of the Amalgamate spray painting symbols in secluded parts of the city, mostly along its borders; its paint appears white, purple, or green, but fades to visibly nothing after a few hours, as if it were snow melting to water. Supplied photos and recreations don’t match any of the Tagger’s original repertoire, but certain symbols incorporate the Blizzard’s Feather Flakes into their patterns. Researchers are assigned in groups of two to monitor the areas these symbols are placed in twice a day. As of Observation Day 4 , the Whiteout has not attempted direct attacks, and while temperatures throughout the city have been quickly declining, no active phenomena has occurred. 

Recent reports and observations have captured the Whiteout’s most basic hunting method. It tends to lure or follow prey to secluded areas at night, cornering them before using its spray cans to blast a colorful haze into their face. This gas attack is nearly identical to that of the Tagger, but the resulting reaction is much stronger, rendering victims hoarse with laughter from even small doses. [Addendum: The Whiteout was called into the local base for testing, and, through sample collection, it was confirmed that this gas is an aerosolized version of the substance Feather Flakes are made of. Based on staff testing, this version, despite being somewhat diluted, causes near full-body reactions by simply being inhaled.] The Amalgamate has been seen both abandoning its prey after subduing them and occasionally staying beside them, as if to console them before it flees. Staff has made sure to intercept any locals that recognize the Amalgamate after its attacks. Concurrent records show that the Amalgamate appears to be growing restless, wearing its mask more often and returning to areas where it has placed symbols.

As of Observation Day 10, Temperatures within the Settlement have reached the average of the Blizzard’s original aura, and its chill can reportedly be felt for miles beyond the walls. Locals have been fascinated by the falling snow, given the local climate, but rumors have been steadily increasing surrounding the Whiteout’s presence and the increase in disappearances. Several locals said to be missing are not within the custody of staff. The Amalgamate has been making itself more scarce: actively avoiding most of its handlers and other staff when they approach. Noted sightings over the past two days have included notes regarding its appearance; its clothing and accessories have all begun changing color to a stark, bright white, which has now become uniform across its entire body. For the first time since its awakening, it has painted a face on its mask: the same smile the Tagger used.

==============

The following Audio Transmissions were received and recorded overnight between Observation Days 11 and 12. Consult the provided transcript as necessary. ===== (21:13) Handler 1: This is Handler 1! We’ve lost sight of the Amalgamate! It’s not responding to its signals, and this fog is blocking the cameras. [Clothes rustle in the background; a door opens, and screams can be faintly heard] We’re heading out to find it ourselves. Visibility is already low. Requesting precautionary backup. Rendezvous with us in town square. (22:00) [Footsteps can be heard running through snow, with scattered laughter somewhere in the distance. The radio falls into the snow as someone coughs and giggles softly.] It’s the fog… [The radio is pulled back; the voice is clear aside from their growing laughter.] Don’t breathe the--[Something roars in the distance; the radio falls as the voice is lost in loud laughter.] ///////////////// (00:28) Hello? T-This is [REDACTED], Researcher 7, of the Crater Division reporting from my Residential Acc--Look, um, listen, please. I’m in my house with my thermostat pushing 90 degrees, and it’s like nothing is changing. I’ve sent in today’s--or yesterday’s?--temperature reports already, but there’s been a sudden drop. I-It’s so cold, I can’t sleep. [She laughs wryly before pausing] Ah… Oh, that isn’t… Is the Observatory seeing this? How long--I have no messages about this. It’s a complete haze outside; visibility is next to nothing, m-maybe 20 feet. I can’t even see across the road; the closest lamppost is near covered in snow and… The snow is up to the truck tires. Okay, this isn’t anything like the expected conditions; please advise. (00:40) Researcher 7: This is Researcher 7. Block 4. All of the windows are frozen shut. I’ve woken the others, and they don’t have any notice about this either. [Someone calls her name; Her voice shakes as she walks to the source.] I’ve tried to make contact with the Handlers, but no one is picking up. How long has the weather been like this?  Researcher 5: [REDACTED], I can’t find anyone on the cameras. Half of them are all snowed to hell anyway. Security 14: I’ve been going back through the feeds. It’s not good. Researcher 7: …S-Sirs. Requesting Emergency Evacuation. We’re entering a Code 5. Alert all staff. //////////////// (03:27) …This… This is [REDACTED]. I’m Security Officer 22 in the Crater, and… How long were you going to wait to tell us? Did you know? I know you won’t respond, but I want to make sure that whoever finds this knows: They were right. They were always right.

==============

As of Observation Day 20, the Whiteout’s storm has yet to subside. Surveillance equipment is only rarely picking up any sound or activity within the Crater. The Observatory’s main camera cannot pierce the layers of clouds and haze to provide data, and many of the cameras within the city have either frozen in place or become covered in snow. Video logs showed the Whiteout’s various symbols glowing brightly on the night of Day 11; many of them, those bearing the Feather Flake symbol, began emanating the fog that now fills the city streets while others apparently summoned constructs made of snow to assist the Amalgamate in hunting stragglers. Several unmanned drones have been deployed into the Crater in the days since, and, through sample testing, it’s been determined that this haze is highly diluted Feather Flake potion. All data since the storm fell was obtained remotely, as the drones were lost before they could make their way back. Of the total 30 drones sent into the Crater, none have returned. Recovered video data shows the Whiteout or its constructs descending on the drones within minutes of their arrival, regardless of their entry point, suggesting it is able to detect movement anywhere within its aura. Data also contained footage of a home with a light flickering SOS in the window.

Current orders are to maintain constant observation. Continue deploying drones into the Crater at regular intervals to collect data. Keep the Amalgamate’s attention focused until further notice.

We would like to remind all staff that we are grateful for all you do for the Prince’s cause. Your Presence, Your Loyalty, and Your Sacrifice.

=============

Panda's Notes: Hey, it's me! >w< Thanx so much if you read the whole thing; and thanx even more if you enjoyed it! I wrote this for @squealing-santa's warm-up prompt involving "Feather Flakes". Clearly, I got kind of carried away. I'm really proud of this one though, even if it is a bit more monster than tickle. >w< I hope you guys are excited for Squealing Santa!

[ai-art4]

To the Thawing Wind

by Robert Frost

Come with rain, O loud Southwester! Bring the singer, bring the nester; Give the buried flower a dream; Make the settled snowbank steam; Find the brown beneath the white; But whate’er you do tonight, Bathe my window, make it flow, Melt it as the ice will go; Melt the glass and leave the sticks Like a hermit’s crucifix; Burst into my narrow stall; Swing the picture on the wall; Run the rattling pages o’er; Scatter poems on the floor; Turn the poet out of door.

[sebsxphia]

Sebbie?? My dearest Sebbie?? I was debating on whether or not to send these in because I know my thoughts aren't the smuttiest (although I do have thots I can definitely throw in, lol) and I was a little worried.

You and Preacher!Rhett are living your best lives up in MT, raising Amy as your own, owning your own land with a big timberframe house and making the best of whatever situations you find yourselves in and each season comes with its own little gifts.

Winter for you guys means getting ready for Christmas and the ungodly amount of snow that gets dumped on your town every year. It means Rhett being outside with Amy while she plays in the snow and he drives the plow truck up and down the driveway to make little snowbanks for her and the neighbor kids that live over the hills. It also means a ton of baked goods and prepping the church for the Christmas Eve services and also celebrating your anniversary (you and Rhett got married on Christmas Eve and your preacher was a sobbing mess when he saw you in your red and gold wedding dress and Amy in one that matched yours). He even lets Amy do the honors of putting out the creche that Royal made and gave to you both as a wedding gift and also lets her leave some homemade milk and cookies and a bag of oats for Santa. Rhett's even been known to referee some seriously intense snowball fights with the parishioners' kids after Sunday services are over too (lol).

Spring is without a doubt your favorite time of year. There's tons of animal births on your land and Rhett takes every opportunity to show Amy how to take care of the critters. Spring also means alot of baptisms at the church and Rhett knows that when this happens your baby fever rages out of control along with his breeding kink (Royal and Cecelia took Amy for a little bit and it ended with the two of you doing unspeakable things in just about every room in the house except for the garage since that was just straight nasty, lol). You and Rhett show Amy where the flowers are just beginning to sprout in your garden, where the buds on the fruit trees and bushes in the orchards are just beginning to open up and the grass beginning to get greener.

Summer is always warm and green, bursting with life. Amy will go out with Rhett and gather the grapes, blueberries, raspberries, strawberries, blackberries and huckleberries from the bushes. You love to hang the wash on the line although you've dropped a few things here and there and your large bump gets in the way, but Amy and Rhett are always there to help you. Mason jars full of sweet peach tea are placed in your kitchen while you and Amy wear your prettiest dresses on Sunday, although the church where Rhett preaches is really old and doesn't have central air yet so every single window has to be open to let the cool air in. It's endless days of swimming at the lake and on the hottest nights, ice cream and popsicles at the local food stands along with outdoor movies.

Fall is more homey for the both of you. Yours and Rhett's first baby is born at the house in fall and that's when you work on all your knitting and crocheting. You've made fingerless knit gloves and blankets for you, Amy and many of the people who live at the shelter downtown. Fall means new Sunday school students, especially those in the high school youth groups as well as gathering leaves, acorns and branches to make fall decorations for the church. Rhett may be a man of God, but he absolutely loves Halloween and everything that comes with it. You can't help but admire the way he and Amy utilize the kitchen and all the baked goods they make and you are all more than content to curl up on the big sectional in your living room to watch The Nightmare Before Christmas, Corpse Bride, Casper or even The Goonies which is Amy's favorite.

Sebbie dahling, I know these aren't the smuttiest thoughts/thots in the world but I miss our dear preacher and was thinking about this all day at work (lol).

ohhhhhhh my love! 🥹 i love all of these scenarios/season descriptions so much! i like to think that in another universe, preacher rhett can be like this and he’s not a murderer 🤭 in all universes though, i’m always sure that all preacher rhett wants for you both is a home that you can both call your own and make incredibly special and sweet memories in, as you so perfectly described 🥹 thank you so much for these sweet thoughts my love! mwah! 💌

[practically-an-x-man]

✨💼🎯❤️✂️🍎💀🎓 for Madison Ophelia and Gia

Thank you so much!!!

Ask Game for Someone's OCs

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

Madison: Her first name was just picked because I wanted her to have nicknames - I wanted her changing her name/nickname to represent the different stages in her life, where she goes by Maddie as a child, then exclusively uses her full name after running away from home, then is called Mads by Alex as a symbol that she's found another home. Her last name, Douglas, comes from the Gàidhlig "dubh" and "glas", which directly translates to "black gray" but less-literally means "dark river", signalling her connection to water and her aquatic mutation.

Ophelia: It was a combination of several things: alliterative O's to connect her to her father and the superhero trope of alliterative names, the name Ophelia to reference the tragic character in Hamlet and represent all the grief in her life and that her death was sparked by her own action (and potentially as a piece of long-game foreshadowing to Charybdis, with her madness), and her first and middle name (Jo) both being literary references as a connection to her mother.

Gia: Her first name was mainly picked just because I liked the way it sounded (technically it means "God is gracious" or "gift from God" which I suppose could be linked back to her clover, but I didn't plan it that way), but her last name is derived from a Greek salutation meaning "may you live forever" - fitting, don't you think? I was actually pretty proud of that one.

💼 - What do they do for a living?

Madison: At the moment, she's a full-time X-Man and doesn't really have a personal source of income outside that. Later, once she soft-retires to settle down in her own place, she'll make money selling wood carvings and ornate carpentry pieces.

Ophelia: She's a biomedical engineer who primarily works in prosthetics, and later acts as the face of Denarii Technology and Proceedings (AKA what used to be Oscorp, but rebranded and no longer military-focused)

Gia: She owns a flower shop in Hell's Kitchen!

🎯 -What do they do best?

Madison: She's a fantastic survivalist - drop her anywhere, she'll make it out alive.

Ophelia: Problem-solving, in a technical sense. She's great at building a machine to fix what needs fixing, and troubleshooting that when it goes wrong.

Gia: Appreciating the little things. Despite her anxiety, she is genuinely happy about the small pleasures in her life, and she's an optimist at heart (when the anxiety and PTSD doesn't interrupt that, at least)

❤️ - What is one of your OC’s best memories?

Madison: When her older brother first got his driver's license, the two of them went driving around to look for Christmas presents for the family - they stopped for hot chocolates on the way, went through all kinds of gift-shopping gymnastics to avoid the other one discovering what present they got them, and then Johnny crashed into a snowbank getting out of the parking lot (everything was fine, it was just surprising and hilarious)

Ophelia: Winning the state robotics competition in high school and going out for ice cream afterwards - it was both an incredibly happy memory on its own and one of the last times she saw both of her parents alive and happy.

Gia: Visiting her grandparents and extended family in Greece for the first time, swimming in the ocean and hearing her grandmother cluck about riptides and sunscreen, getting into a splash war with her siblings and cousins until her eyes burned from the saltwater...

✂️ - What is one of your OC’s worst memories?

Madison: Excluding the absolute worst of the worst since that's a big plot point... being captured by the Brotherhood and having her mutation enhanced. She was physically struggling since the cell was so cold it put her into torpor, mentally struggling because having her mutation enhanced gave her some dysmorphia and depersonalization issues, and she either expected to die there or escape and have to rewrite her life entirely (since she expected to be cast out from the X-Men). It was torture for her in so many ways.

Ophelia: When Officer Stacy came to her door to tell her that her father had passed away. For one thing, her mother had died only a few months before that, so she was already grief-stricken and now newly orphaned, but she was also closer with her father to begin with and it was utterly devastating to lose him. It literally changed the entire course of her life, in a way.

Gia: When HYDRA cut off her leg in an attempt to see if the clover would regenerate it. She doesn't remember much from her time with HYDRA because of the trauma, but she remembers that. It was the most painful thing she's ever experienced, and to her represented a turning point in her life (she could, and does, pretend that her clover didn't change her life, but she can't ever get her leg back).

🍎 - What is the OC’s relationship w/their parents like?

Madison: Moderate. She grew up in the 50's, so she always felt stifled by expectations of conformity. There was a lot more strain once she became a teenager, since they expected her to play into traditional gender roles and expect to become a housewife for someone, and that's never been how Madison rolls. Still, they weren't bad parents, and she genuinely does love them.

Ophelia: Incredibly close, to the point that losing them absolutely devastated her.

Gia: Very close at first, but it fractured after her younger sister's leukemia diagnosis and eventual death. It was never really the same after that, and only fractured further after everything with HYDRA.

💀 - Does your OC have any phobias?

Madison: Not really. She gets incredibly protective of her family - we're talking protective like a wild animal, she goes feral when they're in danger - but this isn't exactly a phobia.

Ophelia: Not a phobia either, but she's definitely a lot more wary about the multiverse after everything that happened with Charybdis. She's also a lot more wary of herself - Charybdis is a version of her, they're the same person at the core of it, and she's inwardly terrified of going down the same path as Charybdis.

Gia: Strangers. After HYDRA, she develops a strong case of agoraphobia, particularly with the anxiety that HYDRA could still be watching/targeting her through undercover agents, and anyone she encounters on the street could be one of those agents.

🎓 - How long have you had the OC?

Madison: Since 2020, I think? I started writing her story in mid-2021, but I think she was marinating in my mind for a while first.

Ophelia: Since December of 2021, after No Way Home came out.

Gia: A few months, since somewhere in the realm of November or December of 2023. I was in rehearsals for Little Shop of Horrors at that point, and all that time being cooped up in the puppets got me thinking about the codependence between Seymour and Twoey, which led to me thinking about an OC who's also linked to a plant (to both the success and detriment of their life), and Gia was born

[mountrainiernps]

Some people say Erythronium grandiflorum. Some folks call it glacier lily. Others say yellow avalanche lily. And a few people prefer dogtooth fawn lily. That’s a lot of names for a plant that only grows about a foot high.

But this is a pretty special flower. It’s typically one of the first flowers we see bloom in the sub-alpine meadows. This yellow flower is a sure sign of summer on its way.

The glacier lily is a bulb plant. During the summer, it is gathering lots of sunshine to make its seeds and to make food which it then stores underground in its bulb. It dies back, leaving nothing above ground for winter snows to hurt. Then the bulb waits under ground all winter, where it’s protected from the brutal winter weather. Come spring, the snow starts melting. Sunlight slowly reaches down through the snowpack and starts to touch the ground. Eventually, sometimes through the last inch or so of snow, the bulb sprouts and the yellow bloom graces the subalpine meadows again.

What is your favorite subalpine meadow for glacier lilies? Glacier lilies can be found from British Columbia south to California. Have you hiked in other states and seen this beautiful yellow flower? ~ams

More information on wildflowers in the national park can be found here https://www.nps.gov/mora/learn/nature/wildflowers.htm . Remember to leave wildflowers where they are so they can grow new generations for years to come.

These photographs are from years past and do not reflect current conditions. NPS/Spillane Photo. Yellow glacier lilies blooming amidst snowbanks in Edith Basin in Paradise. Mount Rainier in background. July, 2014. NPS/Vecchio Photo. Close up view of yellow Glacier lily bloom.

[rumbelleshowdown]

Author: onelastedit

Prompts: Wrong hotel room. Snowball fight. Nymph, nature, storm, tease.

Group: D

-

Love is a Battlefield

It was the perfect snow day. All around the park lay a crisp blanket of snow, freshly fallen the night before. The sunlight twinkled on the snowbanks and the covered branches of the fir trees above. Occasionally a refreshing wind would come through and douse them in a mist of snow, and Belle would laugh with delight because she had never before experienced a proper snow day. That was the problem with being born and raised in Australia; sure you had gloriously sunny days, easy access to adorable koalas, and white sandy beaches - but no snow. 

Now that she lived in Storybrooke, Maine in the good ol’ U.S. of A. she was treated to all of the seasons Mother Nature had to offer; brutally cold Winters with frequent snowstorms, breezy Springtime’s fragrant with newly blossomed flowers, sweltering sunny Summers the air heavy with salt from the nearby seaside, and Autumns as crisp as the apples that grew in the town Mayor’s own backyard. 

However, this snow day was special for Belle because she had two very special people to share it with. In the five years she had lived in Storybrooke she never actively enjoyed the gift of a day when almost every store was closed on account of snow, and the local school allowed the children to stay home, effectively unleashing them on the town’s park. Sure, she had curled up with a cup of tea and a good book occasionally gazing at the snowfall through her window, but she’d never been out amidst the joyous chaos it created. There were little snowsuits sporting rosy-cheeked children running joyfully around the park screaming with glee as they pulled each other on sleds, made snow angels, and, of course, had snowball fights! 

Bae yanked on her mittened hand to get her attention. The precocious eight year-old had his arms crossed and a very serious expression on his face. Apparently, snowball fights were no laughing matter. But Belle had a tough time suppressing her giggles as the mop of curls on his head bounced merrily in the wind as he gestured to their “battle ground.” 

“Are you listening? This is important. It’s your first snowball fight and it would be totally humbling if you got ‘out’ in the first five minutes.”

“I believe you mean ‘totally humiliating,’ Bae.” His father, Alexander Gold, came up to him and handed him a small hot chocolate from the carrier in his hand. He turned to Belle with a twinkle in his eyes, clearly just as amused by the boy’s General-like behavior towards a simple game. 

“I got you a coffee. Thought you could use something bracing before the big battle.” He murmured, giving her a quick wink.  Belle snorted into her coffee and Bae leveled them both with a chastising look. 

“I’m not five - I can tell when you’re teasing me. Emma is ruthless when it comes to snowball fights and she always wins!” Emma Nolan, a feisty eight year-old with bright blonde hair, was Bae’s best friend, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t do everything she could to claim victory in a fight of any kind. Apparently it was true, all really is fair in love and war.

Belle leaned towards him and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. She understood what it was like not to be taken seriously. She’d been a very studious kid and had always wanted to talk about the books she was reading, but had always been brushed off by her father and her teachers often being told to go play with the other kids her age - the problem was, the kids her age didn’t want to talk about Treasure Island, or The Secret Garden, or her favorite book Her Handsome Hero. So if Bae needed her to treat this winter-time game as a serious exercise in battle tactics, well…she would. 

“I’m sorry Bae. You have my full attention and I will do my best to have your back. Now, show me where our basecamp is again.”

As she listened attentively this time, it struck her just how much he was like his father. Sure they had the same soulful dark eyes and dark hair, but their personalities seemed worlds apart. Alexander was cautious and an introvert - almost painfully so - he was caustic with most of the town’s people and was such a creature of habit that Belle sometimes wondered if there was an underlying medical diagnosis that could account for it. But Bae was animated and outgoing - he loved meeting new people and would chat your ear off if it was physically possible. His emotions lived on his sleeve. Sometimes, to Alexander’s horror, he was a daredevil of the highest caliber; diving off the highest board, trying to grind his skateboard down the longest rail, and sneaking off with his surfboard to the choppy waters on the other side of the cove. 

However, as Bae told her his battle plan, everything about him reminded her of Alex. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he told her about his cunning plans and his meticulous attention to detail was surprising for a young kid. He was calm, calculated, and knew a great deal about his ‘enemy’s’ weaknesses. The apple truly didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to the business of winning. 

As they waited for Emma’s army to arrive, a tall figure clad in a red ski suit came bounding up to them. “Reporting for duty,” she jauntily saluted to Bae, “I am ready to kick some butt!”

Belle looked at Bae in mock aghast, “You asked Ruby to join? I thought you had faith in me?”

Bae had the decency to look a little bit sorry, and responded that he thought Belle would have more fun if her friend Ruby joined them. Ruby smirked and hugged Belle into her side, “Besides, I have more experience than you, newbie!” Turning to Gold, Ruby gave him a short nod saying, “Mr. Gold I didn’t believe it when Bae told me that you participate in the legendary snowball fights between him and Emma Nolan.”

Bae piped up before Gold could answer, “He’s responsible for artillery!”

“I sit on that bench,” Gold motioned ahead of them, “drink my coffee, read a book, and make sure the snowballs don’t run out.”

“He’s really good at making snowballs! And really fast!” Bae chimed in.

Ruby leaned into Belle whispering, “Sounds like he’s very good with his hands.” Belle turned beet red and nudged her in the ribs. “What? You still haven’t given me any juicy details about him and you’ve been dating for three months!” Ignoring her friend, Belle followed Alexander and Bae to their basecamp. 

Alexander got comfortable on the wrought iron bench and began leisurely packing snowballs. Sidling up next to him, Belle let out a dramatic sigh, “I can’t believe you get to sit while I’ll be running around like an idiot getting pummeled with snowballs by little kids.”

Alex chuckled draping his arm around her like he’d been doing it forever, “Think of it more like frolicking in a winter wonderland, a forest nymph biding her time waiting for the trees and animals to awaken in the Spring, and delighting in the distraction the lowly townspeople have to offer with their silly Winter games. ”

This time Belle let out a genuine sigh. Alex always surprised her with how poetic and romantic he could be. She stilled Alex’s hands as they formed another icy sphere, and without warning cupped his face between her mittens drawing him into a heartfelt kiss. His lips were warm and bitter from his coffee, and as she pulled away their breath created tendrils of steam. She could tell Alex was surprised by the sudden burst of affection; he wasn’t used to people loving on him except for Bae, of course, but this was different. She didn’t care if it took another three years or three decades, but she was determined for him to get used to tactile displays of love - from her. That last part was particularly important. He didn’t know it yet, but she’d recently realized he was the one; the one she would spend the rest of her life with. 

“What was that for?” Alex pressed his forehead against hers clearly a little dazed from her kiss. 

She shrugged, “Nothing. I’m just really glad you got your hotel room mixed up with mine three months ago.”

“Best mistake I’ve ever made, sweetheart.” 

“Hey lovebirds! The game is about to start,” Ruby called out. 

“The battle is about to start!” Bae corrected testily. 

“Oh, so sorry captain!” Ruby stood at attention, “Permission to drag Belle onto the battlefield, sir?”

Bae just rolled his eyes and laughed, finally relaxing now that the fun was about to start. “You better get out there,” Alex whispered, “but remember if you get ‘out’ you can always cuddle with me.”

“I just might take you up on that Mr. Gold.” 

-

[safyresky]

Crystal Springs Chapter 21: now on ao3!

It's one of my favourite chapters, to boot! Check out some funky Frosty (and fiery!) sibling shenanigans right hecking HERE

Chapter 21: Jacqueline's Cat (Two Weeks Later)

Sibling shenanigans ensue two weeks later when Jack writes a letter to Santa and Jacqueline is adopted by a cat. Fino has a lot of questions. Meanwhile up North, Santa and Bernard make a deal.

Chapter's been cleaned up! Fixed some spelling errors and removed some redundant saids. Yuck. Said is NOT dead but my GOD it doesn't need to be so repetitive! Ah well. We learn and grow. Here, have my favourite part of this chapter for today's excerpt (it's long so feel free to click "J" to jump past the rest of the post):

"I'd duck if I were you, by the way."

"You'd what now?" There was a nasty thwack; Fino's head flew forward, a hiss as something cold and wet landed on his hair, rapidly melting down his back. "ACK!" "FINO SERAFINO FROST!" The colour drained out of Fino's face. "I'M SORRY I'M SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN TO LET THE CAT IN THERE IT JUST. IT REALLY LIKED IT, DON'T TURN ME INTO A PILE OF ASHES!" He scrambled around Jack, hiding behind his back. "You're lucky I've had the day to cool off," Jacqueline said with a huff, dodging the six red poinsettias floating behind her brothers as she caught up to them. "More flowers?" "We went downtown. Made a day about it. Picked up some more since Fino felt that there wasn't enough fiery holiday décor." "You've been harbouring this fugitive all day?!" Jacqueline sounded appalled. "What is it you say?" Jack said, feigning forgetfulness. "Oh, yes! That's it. I do what I want, Jacqueline. Besides, it was mutually beneficial. I needed a tour guide." "And I delivered," Fino said proudly, the three siblings turning the corner onto Evergreen Lane. "I am sorry about the cat, Jacqueline. I've been trying to coax him out all month but he's very stubborn." "What's his deal?!" she asked, cradling a litter box full of cat related toys and things in her arms. "He likes the cold but doesn't like the outside. Your room is like, his preferred climate. I was trying to strike a deal with him, that if he left your room I'd take him to Aunt Spring's, because I think the chilly spring weather may be nice for him, but he was adamant on staying put." "You were trying to strike a deal with a cat?" Jack asked, perplexed. "I can talk to animals," Fino said proudly. "Did I know that?" Jack asked. Jacqueline shrugged. "I dunno. Can't remember mentioning it. Or it coming up. This month's been a blur. Does the cat have a name?" "I've been calling him Catto." "Catto?" "Catto!" "I hope he isn't attached to it because that sure as sleet isn't sticking." "I don't think he is. I figured if he did get stuck there when you came, you could name him! I know you're not too fond of cats but you'll like him. He's a big sweetheart! And he's cuddly." "And sharp and pointy, so we'll have to take baby steps before cuddles." Jacqueline said. "And we'll need to work on him stealing my stuff! Speaking of which, Jack, did you manage to—" A battle cry rang out from the forest alongside them, cutting Jacqueline off. The siblings stopped, watching as a sooty child tumbled out of the forest, beelining for Jacqueline. "YOU'LL NEVER TAKE HIM ALIVE!" the soot monster screamed, rushing for Jacqueline's knees. With an eyeroll, she stepped to the side. The soot monster ran right past her, Jacqueline's slight tap of her foot going unnoticed by everyone but Jack. The soot monster slipped, squealing, and slid, finally falling over. A snowbank met them halfway, the snow poofing up with some soot, the monster laughing delightedly now. "Hot girl soot went well today, then?" Fino asked, grinning down at the sooty child. "Heck yeah it did!" she replied, wiping her face off to reveal a very flushed Fiera. "I think I've almost got hovering with firepower totally down." "Without exploding us?" "That's still like a non zero chance," she replied, stepping out of the snowbank (carefully) and dusting off her mantle coat. "But I'm CLOSE!"

Sorry it's so long! The whole excerpt is gold and I couldn't bring myself to skip ANY bits. Wanna find out what preceded this moment? Read Chapter 21: Jacqueline's Cat HERE on ao3, and HERE on fanfic dot net!

Wanna take it from the top? Check out the Prologue: An Encounter, here on ao3 and here on fanfiction dot net (which will have a freshly edited Chapter 21 later today! Probably after work. I'll reblog when it's up:) donezo! ayo!

Summary is below the cut, as per the uzhe. Two more chapters before FRESH CONTENT 🥳🥳

It's been almost a year since Jack Frost thawed and things are looking...well, not so great. Jack's powers are seemingly gone. Without them, the Dome that keeps the North Pole safe from the cold and its magic controlled is melting, putting everything and everyone magical at risk. Unable to hide his power shortage any longer, Jack is forced to admit the truth. Thankfully, there is a solution: enacting the Legate Law, bringing Jack and the sister that he hurt so many centuries ago back together again. But when Jacqueline starts experiencing destructive blackouts, the pair are forced to head back home to Crystal Springs, bringing Jack face to face with the rest of the family. Needless to say, between getting his powers back, helping his sister figure out what in the FROST those blackouts even were, reconciling with his parents, meeting the two even younger siblings he didn't even KNOW he had, NOT TO MENTION the ancient threat that's had it out for the ENTIRE Frost family finally making a move? Saving Christmas (regrettably) is looking to be a little bit...complicated.