#but at long last it is here

[mourningcandles]

Moth-Winged

For @fallenlondonficswap's secret-swap, a much-delayed but much-loved story for @the-dye-stained-socialite. I hope you enjoy.

For the first Hallowmas in many, the Pavillion of Butterflies has not appeared in that quiet park in Elderwick. As the festivities end, Elias Leroux reminisces on a Hallowmas past and a chance meeting within the mirror-bright walls of a glasshouse long-gone.

Rated T . No warnings apply. Gen. POV second person. 1,295 words.

The garlands are unwound from the spokes of your wheelchair. The silk scarf which obscured its heart-shaped back is tucked away in your wardrobe once more, saved for another evening. And your mask… that you wrap in white crepe paper and tuck away for another year. It may not last, for masks are fragile things, but you try all the same.

This year was the first in some years that you have not worn the mask of the moth to the revels. That was the visage you wore on your first Hallowmas, that year when you were thrown headlong into the strange world beneath the one you once knew. There was something about Hallowmas drew you in: the strange new lovers and the old ones in disguise, the wild laughter, the world opened up to you so unexpectedly. Perhaps, hidden behind that mask of gant wings, you became one with the shadows, safe from the tricks and troubles of the season. The horrors passed you by and the wonders, oh what wonders, were yours to see.

Yes, that was how it had been, in a Hallowmas long-gone.

You were younger then, though not by much. You had seen less, won less, and your beloved first wheelchair was still in one piece. A less finely carved piece, but you couldn’t complain. You had been more accustomed to how it handled than your new one, making you a marginally better dancer. There would be dancing. There would be debauchery. There would be a little bit of everything, if one knew where to look.

The Blue-Eyed Moth led you north to Elderwick, where the socialites flocked for salons with the celebrated few. There, the Pavilion of Butterflies shimmered before you. Candlelight flickered off silver plates, leading moths big and small in a dizzy dance about the maze of Surface foliage which suffused the glasshouse. High above it all, upon her throne of wings, sat the Queen of Air and Darkness. She was your hostess, in a way. You ought to greet her. If only you could find the lift up to the balcony, if such a thing existed at all.

The glasshouse was a labyrinth. While the candles illuminated, the view through the throng was obscured by coiled fronds of ferns, clouds of pollen, spores, and mist from pipes far above. The vibrant colors of Surface blooms and silks dizzied the mind, such that you could only make sense of the scene before you by taking it in one segment at a time. To one side were the walkways through the foliage, where masked faces appeared and disappeared in the blink of an eye. Nearby were attendants handing out drinks and pamphlets. Maps, perhaps? Beyond that, a small group seemed to walk hand-in-hand upon the air. A chorus of laughter erupted as one startled upon catching a glimpse of the Masque far below the floor of glass and steel.

There: A maze of ramps arced upwards, each one framing the balcony below like the whiplash lines about an art nouveau fashion plate. They say that the Pavilion represents the Neath, that every facet of London is reflected within its panes. You could see it before you. Each landing held a shadow box view of high society: A handsome couple, arms outstretched to receive kisses from admirers and champagne from attendants. Above, gossiping amid mirrors, stood a set of society youths in masks of mauvine, fuchsine, aldehyde green, bright aniline dyes to burn the eyes. At the highest point, just below the arched glass roof, sat the Queen of Air and Darkness. Moth-masked courtiers raised their cups to her, content to bask in her glory. Upwards you climbed, taking the steep, steady path towards the Queen’s shimmering court.

It was not long before you found yourself lost. While it had seemed simple from below, more balconies seemed to appear where none should have been. It was upon one of these that you met a travelling companion. He was a Well-Attired Tomb-Colonist, his bandaged face glancing between a pamphlet and the dizzying view below.

When he caught you staring, he smiled, nothing but a slight shifting of the wrappings which hid him from view. “I’m hunting butterflies,” he said by way of explanation. With unsteady hands, he passed you the paper.

To your great delight, it was a guidebook on the butterflies and moths of the Pavilion.

“I was given binoculars,” he said, gesturing to the set tucked in his dinner jacket, “but my eyes aren’t quite what they used to be. With or without, I can’t seem to see a thing unless it’s right in front of me. I suppose you might make better use of these things.”

You took the binoculars and offered him the pamphlet. “I believe we might be able to help one another. If you consult the guidebook while I keep an eye on the moths, we might be able to identify these species more accurately than we would alone. Don’t you agree?”

The Well-Attired Tomb-Colonist reached out and accepted the guidebook with a bow. “I would be delighted.”

Together you sighted a vast array of winged insects, as well as spotting some which were suspiciously absent from the guidebook your host had provided. They were of a scarlet deeper than anything you had ever seen.

“I suppose it was the mystery which drew me here tonight,” you remarked. “The illusions played upon the eye and the secrets they hide… Every photographer knows how to alter an image after it’s taken. Only a magician can create such illusions in the moment. And you?”

The Tomb-Colonist gave a noncommittal gesture. “The Saint Elmo doesn’t call to me,” the dead man said. “I shall not die my last death in some dockside brawl. No, I shall be amid the moths.”

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

He gave no reply, only followed your gaze to where a pale moth alighted upon his arm and sighed. Behind his mask, he closed his eyes with the weariness of a life long-lived. “The Queen awaits. Will you come with me?”

You had gone with him to the highest point of the glasshouse. You had seen the Queen of Air and Darkness, her mask white-winged and covered in eyes greener than green. And what had you seen next? Secrets to make the mind reel, absinthe to make vision blur, and dancing to send your heart soaring. And… modern art?

When you returned to your lodgings that night, you found that the skirts of your gown had been stained red where your hands had brushed them. You fretted none, as there is no stain a chemist cannot remove if given the time. The rest of the night had been spent amid the tools of your work, your fine silk skirt rustling softly in your hands. It had taken pepsin of all things to remove the stain. Lukewarm soap did nothing, neither did ammonia or benzine. It was not wine, nor ink, nor paint. It had been blood.

A fleck of it remains on the yellowing guidebook to the moths of a glasshouse long-gone. Perhaps there was something you had taken for granted about Hallowmas: It is one of the few times of the year during which you were not the only one who wears a mask. For every thing discovered, there is another hidden. For every illusion, there is a trick and a truth. Perhaps someday you shall find it. Or perhaps, before those wings of gant, what you seek shall always fade away right before you can truly see it. Either way, there will always be dancing, debauchery, and you, right in the middle of it all. With that pleasant thought, you close the box, setting it aside until Hallowmas calls once more.

[fluentisonus]

He added, after a pause: “Remember this, my friends: there are no such things as bad plants or bad men. There are only bad cultivators.”

Les Misérables, Volume I / Book V / Chapter III, trans. Hapgood

[stil-lindigo]

the fox god.

a comic about a trickster.

--

creative notes:

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[linkeduniverse]

Dawn pt. 6

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[riaki]

ur highschool bully gojo was chefs kiss 💋 what do u think about them going to the same college and taking the same classes?? and the reader sitting next/talking to some other guy and satoru gets jealous?? arwahhhshdhshshs so many possibilities, i hope u continue writing it!!

hi nonnie !! thank you so much :) this is ur official part 2 ! i was struggling to think up some possibilities but this helped a lot :oo | read part 1 here ! -> cw: swearing, jealousy, i let it get fic length oops

(former) highschoolbully!gojo on the brain again… like. when you end up seeing him again however many months later, and you can tell that he’s changed. it’s not like its immediately obvious to anyone who doesn’t really know him like you (used to); but he’s a little softer-spoken and his smiles seem nine times more genuine. it’s not a hundred percent; the kind that really lights up his face instead of just barely falling short of his stark blue eyes, but it's something.

of course, you have nothing to base it off of, because when you do inevitably see him again it's the very definition of meet ugly.

college is a new frontier, but its also a clean slate. its your first time going into something so new without your old bestfriend at your side, but some faint flickering thought reminds you that it might be better that way. but the universe is against you from the very first day, when youre gettin yourself some coffee from the same chain you did the morning of that fateful presentation so many moons ago. you're too busy thinking to yourself what kind of strange parting ritual it is to relive your trauma to notice the lanky, white-haired boy who hits his head on the chiming bell over the doorway. people are giggling around you n sighing dreamily but youre too deep in the music pumping through your headphones to notice and your eyes are glued to the class schedule on your phone, trying to ensure you dont get lost on the first day when—

you blink and your ass is flat on the dirty floor of the coffee shop, and the first thing you register is that your stomach is soaked and burning. you'd spilled your coffee. it takes you a moment to realize, but when you do you're pissed. so you quickly get to your feet, trying to reign in what little of your ego you have left to give the offender who bumped into you a piece of your mind as you look up, then..

how unlucky do you have to be?

just like that, satoru's slid himself back into your life, after ramming through its locked gates. you forget that he always forgets the point of keys, both when it comes to his apartment (which you still have the spare key of in case of emergencies), and the door to your heart. to rub salt in the wound, the only thing that's stained with your coffee order are his shoes, which look like they cost three weeks of your old job salary, but it's all over your shirt. of course it is. because why not? make it look like you tripped and fell into a patch of mud on your way to the lecture hall and tack on an unwelcome reunion with your ex-bestfriend.

to you, it's like the cloud of gloom from your highschool youth has resettled over your head like a swarm of gnats on a dreary, hot summer day. the stars always seem to skew and misalign themselves for you. but for satoru, the stars have handed him one of those huge swirly lollipops that you only ever see being paraded about by toddlers. he recovers almost instantly, trading the burn on his feet and the way it sours your expression like he's just squirted pure citric acid into your throat for a pleasant burn of his own on his cheeks. but it's whatever. girls seem to like it when he blushes, for some reason. he won't question it, if it works on the only one he cares about.

he holds his hand out, ready to help you out like the good samaritan he's become— and it's like a real burn to his heart this time when you ignore it and stand up on your own, refusing to look up and meet his pleading gaze. might as well have taken an iron stoker right out of the fire and jabbed him with it. but he's gojo satoru! he won't be defeated by this one mere, maybe very significant reunion. he's got stamina.

so he offers to buy you a new drink, feels his heart sink when you shake your head (can't even spare a little 'no' in his direction), and talks enough for the both of you when you leave the dingy little store make your way down to campus and the lecture building. you clearly don't want to see him, but he ignores that in exchange to notice the way you shiver every so often. the previously searing-hot coffee that stains your shirt turns cold fast, and moisture n wind don't mix well. he wishes he could offer you some of his own warm coffee, no doubt sickeningly sweet, but he has some sensitivity now, apparently. so, in a brash moment, he decides to take his blazer off and drape it over your shoulders instead.

when you cross the threshold between city and campus, you expect him to yank it off your back and be on his merry way. but he keeps walking next to you, so you walk a little faster, and you absolutely loathe the cheeky little grin that curves the corners of his lips up to show a glint of teeth when he effortlessly keeps up. you curse his long legs when you find yourself winded, but at least you can lose him when you get there.

or, that's what you think. once again, your constellations break themselves to rebuild anew for satoru. you're about to call him a stalker when he follows you all the way to your classroom with that smirk that's growing exponentially until— oh, no.

your phone that's been on the schedule up until now desperately scrolls to the roster— and there it is. he's in your class. needless to say, not another word goes between you as you stomp in and take a seat. luckily for you, you've already corresponded with your roommate's brother (who's annoyingly cute, satoru notices) and agreed to sit next to each other. satoru takes the seat right above you and never stops kicking his freakishly long legs against the wood the entire time.

so yeah, it's obvious he's not a saint; he still has that undoable ego and he's cocky as fuck (as you have the misfortune of finding out when he quickly bullies your professor), but there's a certain familiarity in that no matter how ugly it might appear to others. and if you asked (which he really, really hopes you will someday), he doesn't hang around douchebags who use kids' foreheads for ashtrays and treat girls like they're candy from a glittery pez dispenser. and at least he's switched harassment targets. even though he has an overwhelming sense of superiority over others and never has his lips together for more than five seconds, and even though he has this hellish habit of clicking his pen whenever he's not talking (or when someone else is), it seems like he's changed.

and over time, you gradually find yourself warming up to him. the spunkiness that used to get on your nerves ceaselessly becomes an object of endearment, and you don't really mind the way he never seems to stop moving anymore. it's a nice sort of distraction in the lifeless still of the lecture hall, albeit the pen clicking still drives you near insanity. you notice he always does it obnoxiously and quickly when you're talking to your roommate's brother, but you ignore it.

and for satoru? he hates that he can kinda sorta really tell that you're the only one who can read him like he's a damn book, cus you slowly start to soften up in the nostalgia of his presence like cold playdough between warm fingers that tell you he may have finally caught you again after letting you slip the first time. and he notices it. this time, he's determined not to let you be the one that got away again. but youre really giving him a shit time outta it with the way you constantly entertain the guy who always has his breath in your face.

yeah, he's got a cute face that's sunkissed by freckles. yeah, his hair looks like he models for shampoo companies. and fuck, he has a nice voice. but what of it? satoru's the one with the mesmerizing blue irises and the cloudy white hair your professor wishes he had instead of sad little wisps of old age. still, as chilly days turn into frigid weeks, he gets the perfect backseat angle of the growing relationship between the two of you. the boy's kinda dumb so you copy off of satoru’s work when you need to (he has to hide the 1-0 scoreboard between him and the guy on a sticky note from you when you take his notes), but said guy’s always buying you stuff and lending you erasers and laughing when you flick the shavings at the annoying girl who never stops whispering in the front of the room.

satoru tries to act unbothered, and he almost convinces everyone. including himself. but the angry, burning knot in his chest that's entirely different from coffee stains suggests something more. that should be him at your side. him, making balls of paper with rude scribbles and silly doodles to throw at the people he knows you don't like. him, surprising you with little gifts and the cheap trinkets he knows you adore so much instead of all the luxury things he could afford. there's no way this punk could possibly measure up to him, right? but at least you and satoru are well on your way to becoming friends again. not as close as you used to be, but it's something. substantial. and he's learned to be patient in the time you've been gone.

but he'd be lying through his teeth if he said he wasn't tired of it. he’s endlessly plagued with thoughts of increasing intensity— first, it starts out with just you. only you. the way he likes it. the way he likes your face, and your pretty eyes and your gorgeous lips and your soft hair and your figure and the complimenting clothes you wear. but it takes a turn; thoughts turn into dreams that turn into fantasies and he's lying when he says he doesn't enjoy them when he accidentally lets it slip during a group study session— and it’s all fine— but then, that guy appears. the brat who seems to sit a centimeter closer to you with each coming day. not only does he haunt satoru in real life, he’s tormenting his dreams, too. tainting the image of beautiful you.

needless to say, satoru starts to wake up with his hands gripping his damp pillow like he's choking it, acutely aware of the sweat sliding down his neck and over his chest as he stares up at the ceiling, listening to the dorm's air conditioner run and thinking of what it'd be like for dreams (the ones where he replaces the boy) to become reality.

it's a buildup. and soon, he reaches the apex; it's like a rollercoaster, that stomach-twisting moment when you reach the top of the rail that points to the steep descent downward. but this time, he hopes it's a thrill he gets instead of the usual falling fright; the one he got when he realized he’d slipped between your fingers in highschool.

and satoru finally comes to a grinding halt at the top of the ride one breezy fall day when he decides he wants you back in his life after you smile brightly at him and wave goodbye for the day. he’s tired of you having one foot in and one foot out of his heart; he wants, needs more. he always has, he realizes.

so he’s thinking about you and how to approach the feelings he’s realized during those long lectures, and one morning he comes up with some semblance of a plan when he’s high on the sugar from the fruit tea you bought him that morning. and he hopes that, by the end of it, he'll leave your apartment with your hand in his currently empty one, chilled with the remnants of cold condensation from the bottle.

soon enough, satoru finds himself extinguishing his nerves and raising a tense fist to knock on the door with nothing but the clothes on his back and a flimsy plan to ask you out on a midterm study sesh and maybe even a date, but he stops when he realizes it’s slightly ajar. a brief thought of what look might be on your face when he surprises you crosses his mind, so he lets himself in quietly, because he knows every single floorboard that creaks like the back of his palm from his childhood. he’s hit with a wave of warmth and an achingly familiar scent that twists at his heart, and your apartment is cozy and safe and it screams you and he thinks he catches sight of his jacket slung across the back of the couch in your living room, but he’s not sure so he takes a step forward and—

he’s greeted with the sight of that stupid guy with the nice hair and the freckles, and it makes his heart drop. but even worse, he’s kissing you and his arms are winding around your waist but you’re kissing him back with a slight hesitation that’s blinded to satoru by his shock and the fingers he thought would end up in his own tonight card through the boy’s hair and your lips glisten with the strawberry-kiwi flavored gloss he watched the boy give you a few days back and his world is turning red and he feels like his throat is constricting and he can’t breathe—

and he doesn’t even realize you’ve parted lips and you’re calling his name through the newfound tightness of his chest and the painful ringing in his ears thats even louder than any silence of a lecture hall, or the void that should’ve been filled with your voice during the time you were apart. but now satoru realizes he’d take that any fucking chance to have that again because it’s so much better than what he’s stuck with now. having you, but not really having you, because you’re there but you’re someone else’s and you’re not his and he isn’t yours. the best thing he could ever hope for was for you to own an article of his clothing and a piece of his shattered heart, broken into a million fragments. some cruel voice in his buzzing head reminds him to change the scoreboard to 0-100.

and he could buy you cheap hot coffee or earn your smiles from scrunched up paper balls or even hear your laugh with crude jokes, but there’s no point when he realizes he can’t buy you with caffeine or earn you with hitting the back of people’s heads with his bio notes or have you and your laugh all to himself anymore.

it’s almost pathetic, the way satoru’s voice cracks and changes. the look of unadulterated concern on the face of the boy who stole your lips just adds fuel to the fire.

“gojo? what are you doing here— hey, are you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

he noticed you’d stopped calling him satoru a few weeks back. he should’ve seen it coming.

“huh? oh, yeah. i’m good. i think you’re the one hallucinating.”

he’d never told a bigger lie in his life.

satoru had left after excusing himself for intruding. how very unlike him to be so polite, you think.

so in the end, he leaves your apartment with something in his hand, after all. but it's not your own— just his blazer that you’d given back to him before he stepped out the door, taunting him with the faint scent of coffee and lingering perfume. his hope was foolish, so it seems. it’s too bad, he thinks. if it were him, he would’ve sandwiched you against your counter while he kissed. but it wasn’t. apparently, it was your turn for your stars to align at the price of his.

and so, gojo satoru, the boy force-turned man with a chipped ego and a completely broken heart, loses you again.

bonus bonus.. part 2….

[chloesimaginationthings]

Jeremiah and Mike’s first conversation in FNAF 2

[soldrawss]

Huntlow doodle dump including 3 different aus so yeah enjoy

[starwarjotta]

whether he has a gun or a knife (or a lightsaber) or is unarmed, Cody's always deadly

[floccinaucinihilipilificationa]

[akanemnon]

Please... they're so tired.

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[taakitz]

ATLA (zukka….) au where everything is mostly the same except that the phrase “friend of the Avatar” is a euphemism for being gay, a la the phrase friend of Dorothy

(the phrase started towards the start of the 100 year war because in this universe Avatar Roku was some flavor of gay, then Sozin canonically banned gay marriage after their situationship went downhill. so people had to be more subtle about communicating their identities, something something something, the phrase became semi-commonplace throughout the fire nation and later the earth kingdom. maybe it started even earlier because of bi queen kyoshi. who knows!)

miscommunication and self-discovery ensues throughout the events of ATLA:

early on into his banishment and search for the avatar, Zuko runs into someone who casually mentions that they’re a “friend of the Avatar” and he’s immediately like “THE AVATAR IS ALIVE? WHERE ARE THEY. TELL ME”

…he learns a new phrase that day! perhaps he didn’t even know gay people existed until that awkward encounter (bc sheltered fire nation royal.) maybe he does some self reflection at this point, or perhaps he puts off his sexuality crisis in favor of his avatar hunting mission. who’s to say?

(the next time he hears someone say they’re “a friend of the avatar” he asks if they’re gay or if they actually know the avatar. you know, just in case they actually do.

….and the next time after that, too.

but after that he catches on pretty quickly that, no, it’s REALLY just a turn of phrase, and he does not repeat the mistake again.)

+ early into the series events sokka runs into some confusion when he mentions to a stranger that he’s a friend of the avatar while aang isn’t around—

sokka: hey so uhh i’m actually a friend of the avatar… think i can get a discount for that??

kindly ally shopkeeper: oh! i love that for you!! you know, i have a cousin who’s gay, real swell guy. anyways about the discount—

book one sokka, canonically sexist and with perhaps a fragile masculinity: what wait a sec, IM NOT GAY??????

shopkeeper: oh that’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself or put a label on it to me (:

(sokka does in fact get a discount.)

he walks back to katara who was waiting for him and overheard the whole conversation, and she says “you know, sokka, it’s fine if you like boys.” sokka responds as you’d expect he would at this time.

(some amount of time later, sokka comes up to katara and aang very nervously and says “hey guys. i think i might. um. be a friend of the Avatar.”

and aang, confused but enthusiastic, goes “aww buddy, we’re already friends!!!!”)

at some point they’re fighting Zuko and during a back-and-forth exchange, Sokka proclaims “i won’t let you hurt him, the Avatar is my friend!” or something to that effect

Zuko, who has learned from his past mistakes in misconstruing this phrase, says “love is love. but your sexuality will not stop me from capturing the Avatar”

[slavhew]

charmed, i'm sure

[staticevent]

based on a true (?) story; the gallery

[garfield-milk]

this is my formal apology to the zukka nation for not posting art in *checks blog* 2 months , sorry!

[egophiliac]

HEY GUESS WHAT!! BOOK SEVEN IS COMING TO ENGLISH LATE THIS MONTH!! WE GET TO GO THROUGH THE SUFFERING TOO!! I AM SO SCARED ABOUT BAT DAD

S O O N

[yourlocalabomination]

I am not immune to funny crackships.

+ Bonus