#casts flaming foam blocks

[silverchronicler]

the devstream today was so good I have done nothing but think about it for like over two hours

[ameliathornromance]

The Manor House: A Vampire x Reader: Prologue

Another nick at the steed's ribs made it gallop faster into the blackness.

Dark, looming trees soared past you.

You leaned over, pressing your head into the horse's loose mane, ducking the never-ending onslaught of branches that reached out to you, trying to pull you into their long spindly grasp and hold you tight.

When the villagers find you, the tree would gladly hand you over to them, where you would then be hung - the tree honoured as ‘the witch catching tree.’

They wouldn’t even use the dunking stool on you. That’s used to prove innocence… But only the guilty run.

Of course, you weren’t a witch. But that hardly mattered now.

The shouting of the villagers grew further and further away, their flaming torches and pitchforks glinting in the night, dim and only emitting embers of their location.

Raising your head, you dared to hope that this was the escape from the nightmare. Away from death, illness. The baseless accusations.

“Over there!”

Your stomach dropped. How did they find you? You had no torch, nothing-

No, don’t focus on that, just get to the bridge. They won’t dare go beyond that point. All sorts of monsters lurk beyond that point.

It was dangerous, yes, but what other choice did you have? At least you would live longer beyond the bridge than in the village.

You dug your knees into the horse's ribs again. “Go! Faster!” But the steed stammered, sputtered.

It shrieked as it backed on its hind legs, its hooves tossing dirt up high into the air. You gripped even tighter onto the reins, the hastily packed bags and satchels sinking toward the back end of the animal.

The horse landed on all fours, steadied, exhaled sharply and trotted on its hooves, shaking its mane as if to cast off anxiety.

Squinting through the darkness, the moon light caught the rushing rapids. Where the bridge should have been.

“No…” You whimpered. “No, no, no!”

Your only escape route, gone.

“There you are!”

The glowing embers of torch light drew closer and closer, the angry and contorted faces of the villagers loomed from the darkness, disembodied.

There was no other option. What were you supposed to do? Let them strap you into that wretched chair?

Leaping off the horse, you smacked its rear end.

The sharp slap of skin earned another shriek from the animal, backing onto its hinds once again, taking off into the darkness, your satchels and other items with it.

You narrowed your eyes at the villagers as they closed in. Every other exit, blocked off by spitting red faces and scorching torch light.

Even though you’re surrounded by flames and heated anger, the air is chilled. Icy.

You thought you knew these people.

Backing to the edge of the bridge, your heels hung just over the edge.

The waters below spat at the hem of your dress, eager to claim a life to its never ending churning.

Your actions caused the villagers to spur onward, what choice did you have, other than to go further?

“Don’t let her-“

But it was too late.

Turning your back on them, you leapt into the waters.

The water splashed as you hit it, consuming you in a curtain of freezing foam bubbles.

Water soaked through your clothes, like it broke through your skin and pierced through the heart with a steel dagger. Your arms flailed, desperate to try and gain some kind of control from the rapids.

Skirts weighed heavily around your lower end, dragging you down under the surface.

You gasped, thrashing even harder. You inhaled earthly water, causing you to splutter and cough.

The water tossed you to each side of the banks, taking you further and further away from the villagers like they were playing a game of catch.

The rapids laughed at your attempt to save your life, enjoying their sick little game.

Realising that their ball was sinking, they tossed you one final time to the right side of the bank.

Your head whipped and slammed into the rocky embankment.

With blood trickling down your nose, past your lips, seeping through your teeth, the water retook you and all was black.

*

A dull throbbing pain awoke you, splitting down your head right down the middle, worse on the left side. 

You scrunched your face, squinting your eyes open ever so slightly. A dull, flickering light seeped through your eyelashes. You had no idea that faint candle light could sting so badly. You shut your eyes again.

Where were you just now? 

The familiar, plush softness beneath you gave you all the information you needed to know. 

Dreams sure are strange, they really can take you anywhere. Nightmares too. 

The body needs sleep because it uses that time you’re resting to heal, the travelling physician had told you. He came first, the one who diagnosed the first few people with the plague. 

But… if sleeping was really supposed to heal you, then why did it make you dream of such horrible things? Like drowning?

You tried not to think about water unless it was to drink. The other times water was brought up, was when that wretched, horrible chair was brought out and installed by that man. It sent chills down your spine just to think about it. 

Surely there must be a more humane way to cleanse the world of Witches. Even if they weren’t innocent, being strapped to a chair and forced to sit underwater is a fate you wouldn’t wish on anyone… not even the one who installed it.

But the icy water and churning rapids were just a nightmare. Some nonsense made up by your brain. The villagers chasing you must have been part of the nightmare too. 

It had been a fear of yours for a while now. Thanks to the Witch Hunter, you’d seen one too many accused women die horrid deaths… even if there was no evidence of their ‘wickedness’ as the Witch Hunter called it.

“Oh, you’re finally awake.” 

The voice was not one you recognised, but then again, plenty of new people were coming to the village now - Doctors from all over wanted to come to ground zero of the outbreak, witness the illness first hand and study it while it’s in its early development stages. 

It didn’t surprise you that the plague had finally caught up to you. You tended to enough sick people for long enough and knew you, too, would become sick soon enough.

You were only responsible for feeding plague victims, cleaning their bedpans and other bodily fluids, rather than administering any kind of first aid. Ironic, that in trying to take care of them, you were exposed to the most amount of danger.

Nightmares were a symptom of the plague. It wasn’t uncommon for patients to have moments of delirium. A high fever would do that to you. 

This new voice had to be a Doctor taking care of you. 

Not wanting to be rude any longer, you slowly squinted your eyes open even further. 

The first thing you noticed were the thick, heavy maroon drapes that hung from the ceiling. Upon your vision clearing, you realised that they came down from the dark four poster bed that you laid in. Its varnished wood gleamed in the flickering candle light.

At the foot of the bed, sat a dressing table hosting a mirror, reflecting back your dishevelled appearance. A thick white bandage had been wrapped around your skull, blood blooming like a poppy on the left side of your head. 

Your bedsheets matched the velvet drapes, pressing down on your aching muscles.

The majority of the candle light guided you to the left side of the room, where you finally laid eyes on the owner of the voice.

The figure sat up straight, his shoulders slanted downward. Hair tumbled down to his shoulders, dark, so long it blended into his black blazer. The only indication that his hair had an end, were the two strands that framed his face and curled just below his chin.

Compared to the rest of his figure, his face stuck out like the moon against a black night sky, pasty and pale. His eyes stared, unblinking and glazed with dusky spheres for iris’. Thin lipped, the man spoke again, “how do you feel?” 

You furrowed your brows, “where… Am I?”

“My manor.” The man said, simply. “It’s a good thing you’re talking. It means there’s no serious damage. That works out well for me.” 

“Works out well?” You asked, stupidly. 

Blinking a few more times, your mind cleared further. The memories rush back to you as if the rapids were sweeping you away once again. 

You sat up, stomach tensing. Trying to remain strong, you force the words out of you. “Who are you?” 

It comes out shaky, weak. 

If the man noticed, he didn’t give any indication of it. Instead, he answered, his tone strong and unwavering. “My name is Lord Baal. I am the owner of this Manor and your saviour.” 

You snorted, “‘saviour’?” The superiority of his ending statement was so high and mighty. Like that made him some kind of omnipotent being.

“I found you at the river embankment at the back of my garden.” He continued, eyebrows knitting together. “And so I rescued you. How did you even end up there, anyway?”

So, that wasn’t a dream. The others really did chase you out of your home… How did they even know that you were going to try and leave? Ever since… him you’d been packing to leave as soon as possible. You had told no one - not that anyone would have listened anyway - of your plans and left at night. 

“Well?” 

“I fell off my horse and into the river.” Sure, it was bending the truth. But you wouldn’t give him any ammunition to manipulate you. Lords don’t just take in commoner women. Especially random ones they find washed up on river banks.

“Why did you save me?” You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Did you not want to be saved?” The Lord raised an eyebrow at your ludicrous question.

“I never said that,” you defended quickly. “There’s a plague going around. It doesn’t make any sense for you to bring me here.” 

At that, the Lord let out an airy laugh. He raised his hand, spidery and pasty pale to cover his thin mouth, like there was a joke you weren’t in on. “Any illness was probably washed away by the river. On top of that, I used medicine to ease the pain and kill off anything else unsavoury. If there were any obvious signs of plague, I wouldn’t have hesitated to have left you to die on the bank of the river.” 

“You don’t know me.” You countered. “I could be anyone.”

“Are you anyone?” The Lord’s snickering continued as if you were some kind of circus amusement, a monkey crashing symbols in an attempt to make pleasant music. 

Heat pooled just below your eyes. “W-Well, no,” you faltered. “But still-”

“I ask you again then,” the Lord lowered his hand slightly, exposing a grimace, lips stretched across his teeth. “Did you not want to be saved? What’s that expression… ‘don’t question a good thing?’” He asked, to no one in particular. 

You glared at him in defiance. What more could you say?

Once his mocking laughter died out, he leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair. “Now that we have that out of the way,” he wiped a tear from his lower lashes. “Let’s get down to business: You washed up on my river bank.” 

“Your river bank?” You scowled. His airy smugness itched at you like a mosquito bite. “I didn’t know someone could own a river bank.” 

“It’s part of my garden, thus my river bank.” He replied, looking down his straight pasty nose at you. “You also used up my medical supplies and have slept in my bed.” 

“So?” You asked, shortly.

“My hospitality, does not come for free.” The Lord gestured to you. 

“Say what you mean.” Enough of this toying, out with it. 

“At the risk of my own person, for bringing you in, letting you sleep in my home, using my own medicine on you to treat your wounds and warm you, you are now obligated to pay me back.”

You stared at him. “Sorry?” You deadpanned. “I didn’t ask you to help me!”

Lord Baal’s face fell, and returned your narrowed glare from earlier. “Oh, so you would have rather died on the bank then?” 

“No but-”

“So then, it shouldn’t be too much to ask for something in return, should it?”

One moment, he was stood by the chair and with a blink of an eye, he was inches away from your face. 

How did he get there so fast?

Your heart leapt into your throat as the Lord hissed at you.“Remember, there is a plague out there. There’s nothing to stop me from just tossing you out of my front door.”

His breath reeked of familiar iron, it banged on your tender temples.

Your eyes locked with his. Staring each other down, like it was some kind of childish staring contest. 

He’s right, there is a plague out there… and you’re already injured. Your susceptibility increases drastically because of that… And he’s still out there.

Sucking in a deep breath, you looked away, conceding. “Fine.” Crossing your arms, you fell back onto the plush pillows behind you. “What do you want in return?”

There wasn’t much you could offer. Before the plague hit, you’d been at home with your parents, helping them around the house. Even before the plague hit, they were fragile people. 

Lord Baal returned to his full height. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he looked you up and down, as if he was sizing you up. “I will decide that, when you are well. As of now, you’re no use to me.”

You could have screamed with frustration - he demands that you work in return for his ‘hospitality’ and he doesn’t even have an idea of what you might do?

Hair flying behind him, he turned his back on you. Stalking to the door of the room - dark and varnished, to match the bed frame - the Lord opened the door and looked over his shoulder at you. He stared for a moment. Then, “To start, a name would be helpful. I must know what I should call you when you start to return the favour.” 

“I’m (Y/n).” 

“(Y/n).” The Lord repeated. He stood for a moment, looking at you. 

“I will come by tomorrow to make sure that your injury is healing smoothly.”

Read 4 Chapters ahead on my Patreon!

Masterlist

[cannibal-witchh]

"I'm No Hero, Lady"

Reader(fem) x Carlos Oliveira

Written by cannibal_witchh

Contains: Violence, gore, vulgar language, some fluff

Notes: I previously wrote a fluff fanfic about Carlos snuggling the reader in bed during a storm. The reader had a nightmare about the past which was the incident in Racoon City. This is the scenario that occurred when the reader is saved by Carlos before the end up together.

The previous story:

The city was cast in flames, the fire resembled an angry ocean of embers, quickly devouring collapsing buildings and destroyed vehicles. The decaying humans once recognizable, slowly met the fate of existing as the undead, as putrefing skin consumed them. There were several minutes of sickening screams, gnashing of teeth, buildings crumbling, and the blazing of an angry sea of heat. And the following after that was stilled silence, painful, vacant, lifeless, and numbing. The air almost seemed heavy, ears desperate and clawing for a sound to be stirred.

Several hours had past since a violent rage of a deadly pandemic disturbed Racoon City. You had been locked away in your supervisor's office at the museum, alone and terrified. You possessed no expierence in defense, you were simply a staff member of the local museum. It wasn't until an unfamiliar face offered you help, it was an incredibly risky gamble to take, but it was either be supposedly 'saved' or stay under a desk in a poorly protected office for however long.

"Y/N, I'm gonna need you to stay close to me, there's too many of those freaks roaming around, and from the little knowledge disclosed they are very contagious. A bite, maybe a scratch, will cause a nasty infection.", Carlos informed as you nervously followed closely behind. He was leading you through the south wing of the museum where the dinosaur fossils were displayed. It was eerie, the entire large room completely in darkness, and Carlos' gun light being the only illumination you both had. " Relax, I took all these fuckers out already. You're safe, lady. " he looked over his shoulder at you and gave a warm grin. It was hard to find complete emotional relief but he certainly was charming. His shaggy dark hair brushing on his forehead and above his brown eyes, his olive muscular figure, and his scruffy beard. He definitely was handsome and unusually young to be working in this field. " How many of them were there?", you whispered, darting your eyes all around the room, examining for any movement or noise.

" Maybe twenty, there wasn't too many."

" What about how many survivors you and your team found?"

" Sadly, just fifteen. Either civilians refused help and barricaded themselves in. Or they were found too late and turned into one of those monsters."

" That's awful.", you felt the sting of reality flood through your body. Just fifteen. You continued pacing attentively behind him as he held his rifle close against his chest. "Walk carefully over here, this is where I had to clear a group of them out.", he muttered as you both managed to enter the corridor leaving the fossil room. There were adleast ten dead bodies scattered along the ground. Gore staining the white tiles, the stench of expiration filling the narrow hall, and decoral tarnished and destroyed everywhere. Discomposure deluged your body, you froze, standing idle, and quivering. It was an electric feeling of absolute fear that paralyzed you. You would have to maneuver around carcuses that could still possibly be alive, and you were not in proper attire to protect yourself at all from their attacks. You dressed in a tight grey houndstooth pencil skirt, and a silk mint collared blouse. Definitely not fit for an apocalypse. Carlos turned facing you, realizing you had stopped following him. His expression was serious for a few seconds, and a few times he would glance behind him confirming nothing was there. " C'mon, Y/N, we don't have much time." He beckoned

" I can't, I'm afraid."

"I cleared all this hallway, I promise. I won't let them hurt you.'

"I'm sorry Carlos. I'm too afraid...", you admitted with humiliation.

" Lady, ugh...don't hit me ok?", he playfully smiled and swung his rifle around his back. He plodded over to you and quietly scooped you up against his chest. He let out a awkward giggle and started to regain his balance with your weight. For someone who just witnessed this horrible pandemic, killed the undead, and did this independently he sure was calm. It was comforting, though. "Sorry, but I'm not leaving you behind nor am I wasting time.", he glanced over at you, making brief eye contact. His eyes were soft, it didn't display the slightest fear, and his hair swayed side to side above his gentle eyes. For someone roaming around in rubble, blood, and sweat, his aroma smelled wonderful. He smelled of spices and his own sweat. It was strange but he didn't smell too bad. Carlos coggled back ahead, carefully stepping over corpses, and just as he promised, they really were all dead. Occasionally, he would bounce you up to gain more security when holding you. You draped your arms tightly around his neck to stay supported. His breathing was slow and quiet against your face as he carried you closer and closer to the exit. " Do me a favor, please. Please watch my back.", he requested finally making it to the exit. The exit sign flickered red, static occasionally sparking from the sign, and shimmering down onto the ground. You looked over Carlos' shoulder and with your relief, nothing was there. No rustles and no movements. Carlos was struggling to open the door, he continued to press against the bar of the wide door a few times until he finally gave up. " Fuck!", he quietly shouted as he stepped back from the door. He took a few more steps back until he had a little space between the door and him. He lifted his foot up and kicked out the door. The door rattled loudly and swung wide open. " Thank God,", he sighed in relief as he transported you outside the museum.

"OK, ok, you can let me go. Sorry, for the trouble. ", you bashfully removed your arms from over his neck, and he slowly lowered you to your feet. "Didn't like being held, huh? I'm just kidding, let's keep going.", he teased as he began walking down the alongated museum alleyway. The two of you had finally made it out of the museum, and the alleyways seemed relatively tame. There wasn't too many corpses lurking down it. And the ones that did approach the two of you, Carlos would resolve with a knife to their skull and quickly they would collapse. He tried not to resolve issues with his gun unless it was when it was absolutely out of control. A few minutes of carefully walking down the backstreet, there was an abrupt crash of shattering glass behind you. It startled you and you immediately drew your eyes to the direction of the loud sound. " C-Carlos...", you stuttered backing away in terror. The virus effected animals too. A large dog had launched itself out of the window, snarling and foaming blood from between its teeth. He stood in an agressively pose, not removing its eyes on Carlos or you. " Try staying quiet, Y/N. We don't need to attract more attention."

"P-p....please shoot it..", your eyes watered on the verge of a break down.

The dog darted forward directly at you, something yanked at your wrist pulling you backwards. Carlos had grabbed you leading you both into a full on sprint. " I don't want to fire off in such a small space. I'm not sure if other freaks are around and they'll go towards the sound. We have to be careful." He quickly clarified, dragging you by the wrist to the very end of the alley. The dog continued racing towards the two of you, snarling and barking loudly. "Carlos!!!", the dog jumped forward at you, nearly biting your arm but a bullet dove forward directly into its skull. The dog flew backwards in a pained whimper. " Shit!", Carlos cursed in frustration, he moved his head around examining all directions. " Fuck, fuck, fuck...we gotta go!", he gripped your wrist and began to guide the both of you back towards the middle of the alley. The dead had be drawn to all the barking and the gun shot. Unfortunately, a group was forming on both ends of the alleyway, and blocking any escape. " Y/N, look! ", a broken fire escape ladder hung in the middle of the alley, it was the absolute only opportunity to escape. Carlos squated down, holding his hands together to give you a boost up to it. " Go, go, go, ", he chanted trying to sound as hopeful as he could. You hoped up and grabbed the ladder, with as much strength as you could gather, you began to pull yourself up. The swarm of creatures got closer and closer and you feared for Carlos' safety. Come on climb already! He jumped as high as he could, latching on to the ladder, and pulling himself quickly up. He let out multiple gasps of air in exhaustion and then gestured with his head to continue climbing all the way up. "Let's get all the way up, away from these fuck faces!", you both felt rattling from the fire escape with each step and climb you both took. You felt unsecure having your weight, Carlos', and his equipment. Within a few minutes of climbing up very high, you both managed to get to the roof of the building. Carlos immediately dropped his gun to the ground and laid on his back. For minutes, he laid there breathing heavily as if he ran a marathon. You walked a few feet away from him, dropping to the ground, and covering your face in your palms. So many emotions churned inside your mind, you were exhausted, terrified, confused, and livid. What was going on? Tears began collecting in your eyes, you failed to suppress the tense emotions clenching your chest, your body quivering in shock, and you began to fall apart in your own hands.

"What's wrong, Y/N? Are you hurt?", a large hand squeezed your shoulder.

" No..., I just, I dont know if I can take all this.", you sniffed continuing to conceal your face away from Carlos'. You felt his large arms wrap around you, pulling you close against him, and he rested his head against your's. " I get it. I'm scared shitless too. But you know what, we aren't doing so bad. We've survived this long."

" I only survived because you decided to be a hero and save me! I would've died on my own. I'm useless!", you cried, feeling tears escape between your finger tips. "Woah, no, you aren't useless. Its not like every other day a random pandemic hits and you get used to this stuff. I've never dealt with this shit before in my life. This is new. Everyone is just trying to survive, you made it on your own for hours with no help. Don't be so hard on yourself." Carlos brushed his large hands against your arms trying his best to calm you. He wasn't exactly great with words but you could tell he tried to make effort. You lowered your hands, revealing your tired red eyes, your face sticky and hot from crying. You felt embarrassed but it was just so difficult to keep it together. " We are almost out of here, chin up.", he grinned, squeezing you against him warmly. " T-Thank you, I'm so sorry you're putting up with my shit.", you glanced from the corner of your eyes at him, too embarrassed to completely turn over to show your reddened face. " Stop. Look at me.", you obeyed his request, although it was hard, you turned to face him. " This is what I'm here for. I want to help and I am happy to help you. Its a plus that you're a cute lady running around in a pencil skirt too. " He teased patting the top of your head, ruffling your hair and giving a light hearted giggle.

Unexpectedly, Carlos' walkie talkie beeped and static flooded through for a brief moment. " Carlos, where are you? Are you alive?"

"Tyrell, I'm alive, surprisingly. I'm up on a roof across Racoon City's museum with one survivor."

"Good! I hadn't heard from you for hours wanted to make sure you weren't having too much fun. So you only found one survivor?"

"Just one. I looked in several areas in the B territory but either the survivors were barricading themselves and uncooperative or turning."

" Shit, well, the boss man says we have to make this our last run. Things are getting bad and we are borderline at max capacity. Hurry up! I will stall."

There was a beep following static and it then it ended. " Looks, like we have to go. I have to take you to the exit we made. There will be a bus and they will take you far from this city to safety."

"What about you? You make it sound like you're not coming?"

"My commands remain. I have to stay."

You felt your cheeks buzz with heat, he was directed to remain?

****

Carlos and you had waited on the roof top for adleast half an hour. He had given Tyrell an update before the two of you finally climbed down the ladder. Luckily, all the zombies had migrated else where. The two of you quietly hurried, it took nearly another fourty minutes before you finally saw a buses gathered by an exit. It was filled with a civilians, and surrounded by military workers. You felt relief hit you, as you saw other evidence of survivors and humanity. You looked over at Carlos, he turned to face you completely, and he placed a hand on your shoulder. "It was a pleasure helping you.", he smiled, squeezing your shoulder as he walked you to the bus. A doctor on his team examined you for any signs of infections before you boarded, thankfully, you were ok. Thanks to Carlos. You entered the bus and turned around to properly depart from Racoon City, and to depart from your hero. " Thank you, Carlos. You really are a hero.", you smiled displaying truely appreciation. Carlos chuckled for a second and shook his head. " I'm no hero, lady. Hopefully, I see you around. Hopefully, still running around in a cute pencil skirt! ", he winked playfully, as blush scattered across his face and your's. Was he flirting with you? "Just try finding me at museum then. Well, thank you, Carlos. Really. Thank you.", you leaned forward and pecked his cheek.

"Until then."

The bus door closed, and you moved to your seat. You watched as the bus began to leave, your eyes fixed on Carlos, as your view grew smaller and smaller of the city and him. You hoped maybe one day you would see him again. You hoped your hero would survive this. You believed he would.

[kaitoujokerscans]

The Night the Silver Cape is Set Ablaze CH10 (END)

<10> The Night the Silver Cape is Set Ablaze

"How is it that you're all here!? I thought you were at Riviera!" Noir demanded to know.

Queen produced an item from her pocket as she answered him. "We used this."

"W-What is that...?" asked Noir dubiously.

"It's Grandpa's latest invention, the Image Card!" Queen held the card up. Once she did, the face of the card showed the three thieves talking amongst themselves. It was the same footage as what they had seen on the TV screen just earlier.

"Noir, you were watching what happened to us hours ago. We figured out what you were scheming. Queen used her sword to slice apart the shutters, and then we used this to leave behind a fabricated recording!" Joker shouted, pointing his finger.

"Grr... That's what you did!?"

"You lured the two of us into Riviera HQ under the premise that we'd be able to fight you. But you weren't there. Thus it was only natural to assume that you had laid a trap," explained Spade logically.

"Confound it... Silver, did you know about this!?" Noir turned around to see Silver Heart grinning wide.

"Of course I did. I realized as soon as I saw the screen that they were using my new Image Card. I only perfected it a few days ago — fresh out of the workshop. No matter how much you scouted out in advance, you wouldn't have known about it."

"Mmmrghh..." Noir disgruntledly clenched his fist and grit his teeth.

"Phantom Thief Noir! We've won!" Joker tossed an advance notice at Noir. "I'm taking the Lachla Crown!" he proclaimed.

But Spade and Queen begged to differ.

"That's not happening. I'll be the one to steal it."

"Excuse you, it's obviously going to be me."

"No way, the treasure's mine!"

"It's mine!"

"Mine!"

They had pulled off a brilliant strategy only moments before, yet now the three of them had started to quibble like idiots. That did it.

"Quiet, you nitwits!"

Noir's angry bellow brought the trio's attention back to him. "!!?"

"Silver! I will never give the treasure to you!" Noir picked up the crown.

"...!?" Suddenly everyone's eyes were on Noir. In his other hand, he was gripping a stick of dynamite.

"Noir, don't...!" Shocked, Silver Heart started towards him.

"Stay back, Silver!" Noir's harsh cry made Silver stop in his tracks. "This crown is the hidden treasure of Lachla. Long ago, we were ordered to get rid of it. If it's going to fall into your hands anyway, I'd rather destroy it by my own hand!"

"Ghh..."

"The treasure...!" Joker took a step forward.

"Joker!"

"That's dangerous!"

"Shut up! I can't forgive anyone who would just waste treasure like that!" Joker cast an angry glare at Noir.

"Heh heh heh. You've got some nerve, Phantom Thief Joker. This time you won't be granted a free minute!"

"I won't need it!" Joker promptly threw a card.

With a wave of his cape, Noir whacked the card down. "It's futile!"

"Grr..." Joker shot off a series of cards. "Shooting Star!" The cards shone brightly and flew straight towards Noir, but these too were knocked down in vain with a light wave of his cape.

"Heh heh heh, your attacks don't work on me."

"Joker!" Spade and Queen exclaimed.

"This is my last resort. Here goes!" Joker shouted, and fanned out cards from his pocket in front of him.

"Ha ha ha! I told you, it's useless!" Noir twisted the end piece of his spectacles and changed them into sunglasses.

"Straight Flash!"

That was the moment.

All of the playing cards strewn across the ground emitted blinding light. Joker had made it so every single card was part of his Straight Flash! The light from below wasn't blocked out by the sunglasses and hit Noir's eyes.

"Gwah!" Noir recoiled, and that very moment, Joker swiped the crown out of Noir's hands. "How...!"

"Heh hehn. Weren't you the one who said not to let down your guard, old man?"

"Mrrrgh... Curse you, disciples of Silver..."

"We've learned a bunch of things from Master. One of them is 'knowledge can't beat experience' — so even though I lost against you, it still gave me experience!" Joker boasted. Behind him, Silver Heart smiled.

"Well said, Joker. That's exactly right."

"Aha..." Noir got up gently and walked towards the fence around the deck.

"Noir...?"

"Silver, I've already quit being a spy. I have nothing more to lose..." said Noir, and slowly lifted up the dynamite he was holding. Silver Heart saw him take a lighter out of his pocket and shouted.

"Don't! Noir!"

Silver Heart bounded toward him, but he was a split second too late. Noir lit the dynamite fuse. Sparks sizzled from it.

"Holy crap!"

The three disciples grabbed onto Balloon Gum that Joker had inflated and floated up.

"Master, hurry up!"

But Silver Heart and Noir were still entangled and were rolling about on the ground, restrained by the deck fence.

"Silver, let me go!"

"I won't!"

"Rrrrgh...!"

Silver Heart twisted his arm up, and the dynamite fell out of Noir's hand.

"...!"

At the same time, Silver Heart pushed down Noir with all his might. The two of them lost their balance, and then—

BOOOOOOOOOOM! The deck exploded. A pillar of flame erupted, and the whole area was filled with a curtain of smoke.

"MAAASTEEEEEEEEER!"

"MASTEEERRRR!"

"GRANDPA!"

The wind blew the smoke away. The trio scanned the deck from the sky, but there was nobody to be seen.

"This can't be happening..." Joker was about to jump down, but Spade and Queen stopped him in alarm.

"Don't do it, Joker!"

"It's dangerous!"

"But Master is..." Joker's eyes blurred with tears.

Below them was a panorama of dark, nighttime ocean. White foam sprayed off it. The only sound was the billowing of the waves.

—But then, something happened.

"Look at that...!" Spotting something, Spade shouted.

"...!"

There was a small boat at the coast up ahead. They could see a dimunitive silhouette coming up over the side of it. Queen hurriedly took out a pair of binoculars and took a look. "It's Purple-san!"

Through the binocular scopes, she could see Purple in a diving suit lifting herself onto the boat. Purple pulled on a rope that extended out into the ocean, and up came a pink mass enveloped in Image Gum. It burst with a pop, and from within appeared Silver Heart and Noir, soaking wet.

"Master!" Joker and Spade shouted at the same time.

Purple dragged the two onto the boat and then waved a hand their way, as if to tell them not to worry.

"Sheesh, what were you thinking?" Purple asked the two reprovingly. Silver Heart and Noir coughed loudly, spitting out water before they choked on it. Then they exchanged glares at each other. Flames from the explosion must have caught Silver Heart's cape, because it was in tatters.

"Noir! My cape burned to a crisp! This is your fault!"

"Excuse me!? Who asked you to save me!? In the first place, this is your disciple's fault!"

"Come again!? I won't forgive you for this!"

"That's what I should be saying! I haven't gotten my revenge yet!"

"I don't care about your revenge! Once we reach land, fight me again!"

"Fine by me! I won't die until I bring you down!"

They had forgotten all about the explosion that just happened, and now the pair were quarreling and tugging on each other's faces. Any dignity they had as a legendary spy and legendary phantom thief had left them.

"...Well, I guess they're fine if they've got all that energy," sighed Purple, and started up the boat's engine.

Drifting in the air, the trio watched as Purple's boat putted away to shore. Queen commented.

"Looks like Grandpa is still conscious. I think I heard him yelling. I hope he's okay..."

"He's fine. There's no way Master would be done in so easily."

"Yeah, that goes without saying."

Joker and Spade smiled a little. Peaceful expressions crossed each of their faces.

"Though..." Joker started with a grin, "You were a real piece of work back there, Spade. You were shouting 'MASTER!' so desperately."

Then Spade scowled back at him. "You're one to talk! I saw you tearing up, you know."

"Huh? That wasn't nearly enough to make me cry!"

"Oh, I wonder about that. I seem to recall you crying and wailing 'sorry' after Master spanked you a hundred times back in the day."

"That happened because you snitched on me! I remember that!"

"Switching out Master's hair tonic with adhesive was way out of line!"

"I seem to recall that you were the one who suggested pulling the switch in the first place!"

The pair glared at each other. Above them hovered the Sky Joker and Twin Thunder Shark. Hachi and Dark Eye, who had come out to get them, watched as they argued. Beside them, Queen sighed.

"They never change. Let's go home, Roko!"

The two of them floated up to the biplane tethered to the Sky Joker. Meanwhile, Joker and Spade were still feuding.

"Joker-san, let's go!"

"Spade-sama, if you don't leave off, you'll get a fever..."

Once Hachi and Dark Eye called to them, Joker remembered something and addressed Hachi. "Oh, right! Hachi, did you make that?"

"Ah, yes... I made it as fast as I could..." Hachi produced a water bottle. Joker took it and held it up.

"Hey, Spade! This is Riviera made according to the recipe I just took! You like it, right?"

"Huh...? Yeah, I like it."

Then Joker chugged it down and smiled with satisfaction. "Ahh, that was delicious! Riviera is the best thing for after a caper! If you really want, I can let you have a sip!"

"H-Hmph! I'm fine!"

"Oh, really? Mmm, tasty! This is the best!"

"Enough already! I swear I'll take that recipe from you next time!"

"Heh heh, bring it on! I'll be ready for you!"

Glaring at each other, Joker and Spade exchanged fighting words. Hachi and Dark Eye sighed as their argument continued on endlessly in the background. Watching over the two rivals, the moon glowed quietly...

FIN

The Night the Silver Cape is Set Ablaz

Author: Naohiro Fukushima

Original Work: Hideyasu Takahashi

Thanks for reading!

[foulserpent]

The Palace of Kings was near unrecognizable from the last time Delphine had stepped foot within.

For a start, it no longer had doors. Its occupant was far too large for that.

The throne had been converted into one gigantic dais, lined with furs and pillows and white feathers. It was ringed by guards sporting a unique scaled armor, and a scattering of servants and attendants. They moved amongst a pile of offerings to the king that lined the platform. Furs, worn war axes, armor and gold collected into piles. Lain in reverence, or perhaps fear fear. Atop it lounged the reigning high king of skyrim. Ysmir, Dragon of the North. 

She was gigantic. She was barely recognizable as having ever been anything but a dragon, instead long necked and longer-tailed, and far too top-heavy to stand on two legs. Her feathers had lost their tan mottling, and now shone bone white in the firelight. She wore no crown but her horns, and a pillar of flame over her head that burned a royal blue. 

Delphine had known her by a different name, and different title. There was a time in her life where she was sworn to her, fought alongside her. There was a time that she even loved her.  This all had long since passed with the years, as the world around her transformed out of recognition, with this dragonborn emperor-pretender being the weight at the very center of it.

The Blades were dead. Esbern had been taken by age three years before. Sky Haven had been taken by some dragon as a roost, and may as well have been destroyed. He had smashed the outside relics of Akaviri architecture with his voice and his tail, and now his sheep grazed among the mountain scrub that grew in its place. 

Whether she lived or died, she was already merely a relic of a world that was long dead. And so she approached the throne. 

Ysmir turned to look at the visitor. 

Delphine froze under the weight of those fiery eyes. The gaze was hollow, mere pinpricks under the towering blue flame. No, not hollow. Far too full. 

She felt the same sensation she had experienced all those years ago, as the shadow of the World-Eater blocked out the sun over Kynesgrove. He had, ever so briefly, looked upon her- and in that moment she was tiny and naked and frail under the talons of his mere glance. He had seen her and acknowledged her, and in the same moment had written her off as something far too tiny and trifling to be bothered with.

This was much the same.

"Greetings, Ysmir." she said, and she cursed her wavering voice.

The dragon did not blink. Her tail- and by Talos, it was the size of an oak tree - twitched its tip in a feline languor. 

"I take it you did not just come to stare?" She said. This voice was familiar. Strangely soft, deep, and sporting the thick-tongued accent sported by only the northernmost Nords. This familiar voice now shook the stone with each flick of the tongue, more like the distant rumble of thunder than anything that would come out of a living creature. 

Delphine's grip on the sword tightened, and Ysmir seemed not to care. She steadied herself, and met her steady gaze.

"We have unfinished business, don't we? Solvej?"

Ysmir lifted her barbed chin in irritation. 

"I doubt it." She rumbled. "And it is quite presumptuous on your part to think I would be interested in resolving anything with your little group of spies.”

“It’s not about that.” Delphine said. “I just wanted to ask you something, before I lose my chance.”

Ysmir raised her head even higher than before, looming pillarlike above the woman. 

“Speak.”

"Could you just tell me why you've done this? All of it. Everything since we last spoke."

Ysmir gazed down unblinking for a moment, then leaned in until the tip of her snout was inches from Delphine’s face. Her hot breath singed the air between them.

"The gods are dead, or being killed as we speak, or turned to stone." She said softly. "Do you understand?" 

Delphine raised an eyebrow.

Ysmir lifted a massive hand. Its terminal digits had stretched and warped outwards into the bud of a wing, complete with the delicate barbs that were yet to be flight feathers. Delphine allowed herself a moment of amusement; it was naked and gray, not unlike a baby bird's wing. 

"Everything lies on a knife's-edge of destruction." She brought two hooked talons together, showing the tiny void between to the woman before her. "The Thalmor of course. You know the Empire has been too thoroughly declawed to stand a chance. But this is more than just the trifling wars of mortals. That will only be a means to an end.”

Ysmir now looked into the distance, ignoring Delphine entirely. “I can save us all. I have done it before, and now I will do it again. Is it so wrong that I try to hold balance in place?"

Delphine shook her head in disbelief. 

"What in the goddamn hell are you talking about?" She threw her arms out. "No- Do you realize how insane this all is? What you've done to yourself? How the fuck is this god-king nonsense helping anyone?!" 

There was passing moment where something resembling indignation breezed across Ysmir's face. It quickly passed, returning to a distant placidity. 

"Unfortunate." Ysmir said, pulling away from the woman to lay back on her throne. "I am not unaccustomed to mortals being ungrateful. And I suppose I should expect that much from you. But it's still quite unfortunate."

Delphine deflated. Her hand returned to her sword. She had lost her touch for subtlety with age, it seemed. 

"May I at least pay homage?" She asked through gritted teeth.

"Do as you will. I have nothing more to say to you." Ysmir huffed, and lay back down, baring her massive breast to the woman before her. 

Delphine approached the dais, white down feathers kicking up around her feet with each step. She had heard of those loyal to Ysmir doing as such. They would be allowed to approach, lay hands on their king, prove to themselves that she is as physical as she is divine. 

Delphine now did as such, lifting a lithe hand and placing it amid the feathers. She was as warm as she had ever been, skin a wrinkled velvet under the soft down. Delphine felt the heart beating between the ribs. It must have been the size of her torso, the way it thundered slowly against her palm. It made what was to come far easier.

Delphine swore a quiet oath on the grave of her order.

The dragon did not react as Delphine drew the sword. She thought she saw the slightest ruffling of brow-feathers, a raised eyebrow over eyes that had already long-since lost interest in what the little human had to say or do, but there was nothing more. 

The dragon did not react as Delphine took aim in one fluid motion, praying her age not betray her, that the strength in her now wiry arms would not fail her.  A guard shouted something.

The dragon did not even stir as the blade slid through her thick hide and slicked its way between her ribs. Several people around her cried out in shock. Delphine gritted her teeth, and pushed until the hilt met flesh and blood welled up to kiss her trembling hands. 

The chest heaved in a massive gasp. 

Ysmir let out a strangled roar. Delphine stumbled backwards, leaving her blade behind as the dragon began to thrash against the pain. Two braziers were snuffed with a swing of her tail. One attendant was crushed as the great dragon crashed off of the dais, and the rest scattered away from the dying king. 

Garbled words tore from her massive throat, and they begged fire and death into the uncaring air, then pleaded everlasting life and healing against a rapidly collapsing body. Delphine had stood transfixed for too long, and one of the Words caught the edge of her and sent her reeling against a stone brazier. Something in her body made an awful crunching noise, and she crumpled to the ground. 

Ysmir's flailing had now quieted, and now she lay sprawled across the hall. Her legs twitched pitifully. Heavy slabs of muscle were caught in spasm underneath feathers that seemed to bristle and flatten outside of her control. Her head flopped to the stone with a thud, bare of its flame. 

Her eyes fell towards Delphine, but they were distant, wide and so very Mortal with terror. Delphine held them where she lay, body broken against the hard stone and fighting with consciousness herself. The guards and attendants and stewards were now crowding in on their king, some fruitlessly casting healing magic, some just staring in awe. Delphine stared as well, face taut with pain and a grim satisfaction. Whether she was taken dead or alive, whether this was the right thing to do or not, this was the end. 

There was an irony to it all. The last of the Blades and the Last Dragonborn. Delphine was too tired to worry about what it all meant. Whatever would be, would be. 

Ysmir took in a shuddering gasp through a foaming mouth. She looked somewhere far away yet, eternally transfixed and small under something only she could see. It looked back at her across all that distance, and she was gone. 

Delphine took a breath, and let her own eyes slide shut.

[little-miss-dumpsterfire]

I think I made you up in my head - chapter two

Ah, yes, here it is. Part two of the total drama horror anthology no-one asked for. This chapter has already been posted on Wattpad (as have two others) but fuck it, I like it here. 

Fair warning, it does get pretty deep pretty quickly. So, let’s get into it. 

Chapter Two - I stared at my mirror; the mirror stared back

Trigger warning - eating disorders, self-harm (mentioned briefly) and blood/gore.

If you're not comfortable, please skip. 💛

******************************************

Axel's complexion lightened as his eyes bulged from his head. His head was spinning, and the confined basement he was in was not making the situation any better.

"Someone... someone else's turn? What are you going to do to me? Fuck, I didn't tell anyone I was coming out here. Oh god, oh god. No-one's gonna find me..." Axel panted, his body aflame with anxiety as he felt his heart pounding in his head. The slight weight of a dainty hand on his shoulder broke his haze and brought him back into reality. He shook her hand off, backing away from Izzy slowly with his hands held up in surrender.

"Don't touch me! Please... wha- what do you mean? What do you want from me?!" he pleaded, his earlier arrogant façade cracking to reveal a vulnerable, scared young man.

Izzy looked at him, the flicker of the flame reflected brightly in her dull green eyes. She sighed before backing up to the brick wall, sliding down before falling in a lump on the cold floor. Her thin index finger traced over the scars on her wrist she had hidden behind her jacket and whimpered.

Izzy spoke softly, barely audible to her frightened guest. "They never stop screaming. I try to close all the doors in my brain to silence them but they still haunt me. Slowly creeping... like a dense cloud blocking out the sun. Nothing will stop them, at least nothing I do will stop them."

She raised her head again, eyes obscured by dishevelled strands of copper hair. Axel stared at her quizzically as if he had wandered into the psych ward accidentally. Clearly, he was standing in the basement of a schizophrenic hoarder who couldn't let the past die, and he wasn't going to stand for it.

"Listen, lady," he started, regaining his air of arrogance, "I've about had it up to here. I make a podcast about cursed movies and conspiracies to earn money, not to end up in a knock-off Warren's Occult Museum."

"You don't understand. You don't feel the darkness we felt," Izzy replied, staring over at the shelves. "The paranoia, the pain, the conviction that we lived in a sick man's simulation. But everything in here was bathed in the depravity of Total Drama, and like a cancerous tumour it infected us all."

Their eyes met - soulless against suspicious - and Axel took a step towards Izzy, crushing a fragment of broken glass in his wake. Kneeling to her level, he roughly took her chin in his hands and raised her face to look at him.

"You killed them," he accused Izzy, malice dripping from his voice.

Weakly, she responded, her voice getting caught in her throat. "N-no. I didn't. But I know what did."

She lifted her slim arm and gestured towards the shelves. "Those relics are tombstones. Go and pick your poison, if you really want to know what happened."

Axel stood up, wiping the glass fragments from his knees and cautiously wandered over to the winding labyrinth of shelves. His fingertips barely grazed the aged wood of the shelves, tracing the grooves and divots with his index finger. In the corner of his eye, a dark shadow passed him by, and he quickly whipped his head around to investigate. Turning to the shelf in front of him is when he saw the imposing dark figure: himself. Situated in his eye line was a sparkly pink hand mirror intricately embellished with golden sculpted roses. He leant in closer to the mirror; his reflection was a shell of himself, with black pits for eyes and a pitiful smile.

"You ought to be careful with that one, kid," Izzy warned him, rising to her feet and dusting the grime from her pants. "If you look too long, the darkness grows eyes. This I know all too well now."

Izzy walked up to Axel, slightly caressing the edge of the mirror. She sighed deeply.

"We all knew she was the prettiest from the moment she stepped onto that dock... But in a world of lions, you didn't want to be fresh meat."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was no secret to anyone that Chris didn't cast Lindsay for her personality. The shark had smelt blood when he saw her audition tape. Looking back on it now, her fate was sealed in those fleeting seconds.

Lindsay sat atop her bed cross-legged, her dog perched in her lap. Her hair had been brushed to be its silkiest, and the photos on her dresser cemented the point she was making.

"I have bikinis for every season, even the ones not listed on the calendar," she chirped, reflecting her archetype of the dumb blonde.

She was the dream girl for any man: honey blonde and curvy. Her 'assets' warranted attention from creeps shrouded in anonymity behind their computer screens and TV executives alike. Unsolicited strokes and caresses were handed to her regularly, and she lavished in the attention that her looks had bestowed onto her. The early bloomer with the IQ of a thumbtack was a thirst trap for the reality TV crowd, yet the elephant in the room was never addressed.

No one seemed to care that she was sixteen.

For those of us in her different teams, we witnessed these infidelities and stood idly by, our mouths wired shut by clauses, contracts and never-ending fine print. Lindsay may not have been the brightest bulb in the bunch, but the correlation between her body and the positive attention she was receiving was crystal clear to her. She felt the pressure of public scrutiny if she gained weight, had a pimple or even covered up her chest. It was during Action that the red flags appeared... I'd give anything to go back and change it all.

Half-empty bottles of lip gloss were scattered on the bunk bed as Lindsay struggled to find a colour that brought out the highlights in her hair. In her left hand, firmly grasped, was an antique hand mirror that she had repainted herself to match her personality. She applied a liberal layer of rosy-pink gloss onto her lips and puckered them together, staring at the shine in the mirror. A sharp gasp escaped from her lips as her blue eyes widened like saucers. Her gaze was transfixed on her mirror as she moved it around, attempting to shake what she saw away.

"Um, guys..." Lindsay started, a slight panic present in her voice. "There's someone in my mirror."

A bald girl scoffed and rolled her eyes, resettling her focus onto her nails. "No shit, Sherlock. It's supposed to be there. That's a reflection."

A faint, obnoxious voice could be heard from out the open window of the trailer.

"Actually, the presence of a reflection is due to photons coming off of an object to strike the smooth surface of the mirror, which subsequently causes them to bounce back at the same angle, ergo creating a person's reflection." Harold corrected from afar.

"Shut it, dweeb!" Heather called out, throwing a hairbrush at the boy.

"That hurt, GOSH!"

Lindsay became visibly more and more terrified by what she was seeing. Small tears began to pool in the outer corner of her eyes as her lips trembled fiercely. The mirror slipped between her fingers and landed with a muted thud on the orange carpeted floor as the blonde held onto her face protectively. A hairline fracture snaked its way across the glass, briefly eclipsing a dark smudge that quickly disappeared.

None of us girls took Lindsay's claims to heart. She always said that someone was looking at her through her mirror; hardly a surprise from the girl who couldn't remember her boyfriend's name. Something in Lindsay changed that day, and all of us were in the dark. She still fell victim to the paedophilic adoration of Chris McLean and his lackeys - submitting to every squeeze and fondle - but something in her eyes showed that her comfort in her own skin had dwindled.

The water tap squeaked as a thin stream of water dripped out, moistening her toothbrush. She brushed violently, minty foam spilling from her mouth as she desperately washed the taste away. It had consumed her waking thoughts; her mind constantly flashing back to what she had seen. Fear enveloped her in its heavy blackness, picking at her deepest insecurities. Her throat burned from the acid and the bitterness of the bile seemed to stain her tongue.

She stared at her mirror and shook her head, lightly tracing the crack on its surface.

"I can't become fat like Hannah. I'll never win my trip to Paris that way."

In the mirror, her reflection began to warp and distort, but Lindsay placed it back on the counter face down. Her hand wavered over the handle for what seemed like hours, and when she tentatively picked it up again, etched in what looked like blood spelt out an ominous message: EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

In the weeks following Action's conclusion, images of Lindsay in her Wonder Woman costume were plastered on every tabloid site, every fan page and in every pervert's special photo folder. Her next two seasons played out very much the same, with sideways glances from the production crew eye-raping her on every occasion and her appearance being flaunted for more ratings. Gone was the girl with the backbone of steel who had stood up against Heather in a passionate act of defiance. In her place was an airhead overcome with fear and self resentment.

The click-clacking of her boots against the pavement was all Lindsay could focus on as the world went by around her. Wolf-whistles and cat-calls plagued her at every corner she walked past. She would usually stare into every shop window she passed by, gazing dreamily at purses on sale or new makeup products, but nowadays she scarcely looked twice. Not because she wasn't still obsessed with fashion, as she would always be. She never looked at her reflection because 'it' would be there. Every mirror, every window stared back at her.

She sat anxiously in the waiting room, fiddling with the hem of her skirt as she avoided the stares from the man next to her who was blatantly looking down her top. Her chest, whilst still well endowed, had shrunk, as had the rest of her body and it was starting to become obvious to those closest to her.

"Lindsay Marriott?"

Lindsay rose from her chair silently and followed, being lead down a short hallway into a room. Posters of the food pyramid and anatomical models were plastered on the walls as the strong scent of sanitiser attacked her nostrils. She sat down lightly, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders and forehead. The usual small talk took place before the woman placed the cold diaphragm of the stethoscope onto Lindsay's back. Her vertebrae were prominent through her skin, sticking up tall like mountain peaks. The doctor breathed out a small sigh before sitting down across from her.

"Lindsay, would you mind standing on the scale for me?"

She timidly nodded her head, rising and walking towards the scale. Lindsay removed her shoes and stepped onto the scales, the doctor over her shoulder writing down the number. Settling back into their seats, the doctor stared into the eyes of her patient and how their bright blue hue was a stark contrast to her fatigued, gaunt face.

"Honey, you've lost five kilograms since your last visit. You're bordering on becoming dangerously underweight. I think it's time we seek psychological intervention. When was the last time you ate a proper meal without purging?" the doctor asked, an air of concern apparent in her voice.

Tears began to drip down Lindsay's cheeks as she spoke between sobs. "Months... I can't eat... it won't let me eat."

"Who won't let you eat?" the doctor looked quizzically at the young girl who was averting her eyes now.

"The person in my mirror," Lindsay answered matter-of-factly before lifting her head. Behind the doctor's head was a wall-mounted mirror, where she could visibly see herself and the back of the physician. A slow ripping sound filled Lindsay's head as the back of the doctor's shirt split into letters written by an unknown force.

"Lindsay, are you okay? You've gone quite pale. I'll take your blood pressure."

As the doctor turned around, red, pointed letters were emblazoned on the doctor's back.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

Lindsay jumped from her chair with a yelp and ran for the exit, bypassing the crowd of people in the waiting area.

That was the last anyone saw of Lindsay in public before... well... it's hard to put a word to what happened. Text messages to her phone went unread as she slowly slipped into her own self-imposed isolation. Her sister Paula would visit weekly and give us updates, but they were never anything to ignite our hopes or positive outlooks. On her last visit, she recalled that the stench of vomit would follow you around as plates of fly-blown, half-eaten meals were stacked up on the benches. Any mirrors in the apartment had been covered with blankets or covered with masking tape and the windows were blacked out with newspapers. Something had gotten its claws into Lindsay's head, and it was not going to let go.

The porcelain was cold against Lindsay's exposed thighs as she sat on the edge of her bathtub. Her pink mirror sat just within reach on the edge of the counter. The abyss. She had been holding in her hands the view into the abyss. Slowly, her skeletal fingers reached for the mirror, clumsily grabbing it before raising it to her face. Time seemingly stopped as she stared into the mirror, analysing her face; the sunken eyes and teeth slowly yellowing and corroding from the years she had spent purging. Before her eyes, the mirror once again warped until it showed what years ago her peers thought she had falsely identified as her own reflection.

Staring back at her was a decrepit woman with a face as bloated and waxy as a waterlogged corpse. Brown matted hair was plastered onto its face, slightly obscuring its eyes. Two large white orbs with pinpoint black pupils bore into Lindsay's soul as a grotesque smile crept upon its face, stretching its width from ear to ear. A silent scream left Lindsay's lips as black liquid began to seep from its eyes, nose and mouth, pooling at the base of its chin. In front of her was the shadow that had haunted her since she was sixteen, staring at her endlessly in every reflection, punctuating how ugly she perceived herself to be. Edging closer and closer towards the mirror, Lindsay couldn't tear her eyes away, paralysed in terror as faint whines wafted from under her bathroom door.

Paula found her three days later. The poor thing, I don't think the sight has ever left her, and in God's graces, I don't think it ever will. There's not enough therapy on this fucking planet that can erase that from the human psyche.

Paula walked into the apartment, distracted by a low buzzing sound. As she walked towards her sister's bedroom, calling out her name, the sound began to crescendo and a singular fly flew past her head. A distinct smell of rot and decomposition filled the air as she advanced slowly to the closed door of the bathroom. Her perfectly manicured hand gripped the knob strongly as she turned it, opening the door slightly. A swarm of flies buzzed through the open door, obscuring Paula's vision in a haze of black. As her eyes settled, they landed on what the flies had been inhabiting: Lindsay's corpse. Paula tried and failed to suppress gags as she saw her sister's dead body, eyes gouged out by her own hand in an attempt to stop what she had seen. A tacky layer of old blood surrounded Lindsay's head as hundreds of squirming bugs wriggled around in her empty eye sockets. Laying ornamentally atop the pink hand mirror were two eyeballs; their blue sparkle dulled and glazed over.

Scrawled in lipstick all over the walls of the room was one simple phrase.

EYE OF THE BEHOLDER. EYE OF THE BEHOLDER. EYE OF THE BEHOLDER.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"In my head, Lindsay didn't fall victim to herself," Izzy concluded, staring at her appalled guest, "she fell victim to the industry. The sharks in suits who groomed her and fed her insecurities until the societal norms of beauty ate her from the inside."

Axel stepped wearily away from the shelf, in way over his head now. What had started as a cash-grab to use as a clickbait-eqsue podcast had now escalated to a trip to hell... and once you're in hell, only the devil can help you out.

[lundiivith]

here is the first chapter/prologue of my skyrim fanfiction, “ahrk rul fin Lein dahmaan”, posted to tumblr! 

read it on ao3 here or under the cut!

summary:

An amnesiac Last Dragonborn decides to spare a gravely-wounded First, but doesn't prepare for the consequences. Ulfric Stormcloak dies at Miraak's hands, giving him a legitimate claim to kingship — and the excuse to make the Civil War run white-hot. And from the violent shadows, spirits dressed in flame watch, unseen but all too keenly felt.

prologue.

The wind whipped on the combatants’ skin. The sea of rolling, shuddering tentacles whispered behind them; in the distance, the eternal green clouds, thick with noxious knowledge. Apocrypha, as deadly as its lord.

The two figures ran at each other.

The Last Dragonborn’s sword clashed against the First’s, whistling. Dovahkiin hopped backwards. She lobbed a fireball at Miraak. He dodged it easily. He sent a bolt of lightning to her chest, and she fended it off with her sword — it still hit her shoulder. He lunged at her, sword raised high. Her grip was weakened. She parried a few thrusts before losing her weapon.

Her sword clattered as it fell to the floor. “Hermaeus Mora,” he told her between breaths, mockingly, “is probably laughing at us, you know.”

He raised his sword in a coup de grâce’s motion — ‘til Dovahkiin rammed his chest with her wounded shoulder. It pushed him back a few steps. Dovahkiin muttered a curse through gritted teeth. She ripped a dagger out from a sheath at her thigh and stabbed his thigh. Blood dripped around the glass blade as he staggered backwards. Miraak grunted — a puff of ice-magic at his fingertips, his spell diffused — and Shouted —

Wᴜʟᴅ Nᴀʜ Kᴇsᴛ!

— before reappearing easily a dozen feet behind the Dovahkiin. She turned around — there was already a healing spell between her palm and her injured shoulder — and she laughed, sudden and free. Miraak sent a bolt after her. Dovahkiin threw herself onto the ground, dodging it. She rolled to her sword. She picked it up and stabbed it into the ground. As the bolt caught her, the electricity coursed through her body harmlessly and into the ground. Dovahkiin panted.

“Mora? He definitely is,” she told him through a grin of sharp teeth. She ripped the sword off the ground. “Isn’t it fucked up?!”

She charged.

They’d been fighting for hours, now.

Dovahkiin’s off-hand glowed purple. Miraak tried to cast another lightning bolt on her; she used the flat of a Conjured sword to deflect it. She bounced to a standing point as the blade dissolved. Then, Dovahkiin ran. She dodged his magic and the tentacles whipping her legs from beyond the isle’s edge and jumped at Miraak, blade held high. He stepped back and blocked her swing. She wasn’t done landing — on her feet, like a cat — when Miraak punched her in the face with his free hand. The punch reversed her momentum. Dovahkiin flew back several feet. Her body hit the floor with a sick thud. She struggled to get back up, palms flat on the ground, and Shouted,

Yᴏʟ Tᴏᴏʀ Sʜᴜʟ!

A stream of fire erupted before her, enveloping her enemy. Miraak yelped and then scoffed, the fire burning out, and he patted off his robes. The flames dissolved, but he still moved with a jerkiness not unlike a burn victim.

Huh. “Hey, are those your only clothes?” the Dragonborn asked him. He didn’t reply. She didn’t give him the time to. She Sprinted back to him and kicked him in the stomach. Miraak stumbled back and Shouted,

Fᴜs Rᴏ Dᴀʜ!,

sending her careening near the oily black depths. Dovahkiin skid to a stop and slapped the moist Apocryphan rock, and she groaned.

“My ass hurts… and the sea smells gross,” she complained — and then she noticed Miraak’s glowing form.

"Sᴀʜʀᴏᴛᴀ��ʀ,” he spoke. “Zɪɪʟ ʟᴏs ᴅɪɪ ᴅᴜ!"

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” the dragonborn cursed under her breath. She crawled around him, behind his back, watching as his injuries healed. Miraak turned around, alerted by the noise; Dovahkiin blinked at him in surprise. She dodged an ice spike and shot a burst of flame his way, then another as she jumped — and landed on her hands. She cartwheeled back onto her feet. Miraak shot more lightning at her; Dovahkiin dodged them. She lunged around him, then Sprinted onto Miraak’s back, tackling him onto the floor.

Miraak struggled, tried to buck her off his back. He pushed himself up. Dovahkiin ran her sword through his hand, sending him back to the ground. Miraak felt a knee on his back and a sharp pain at his neck — a single drop of blood. He could barely raise his head. Somehow, a dagger had wormed its way far too close for comfort to his throat.

“Wuh … ghh, wuhld…”, he grunted, defiant.

Did you think you could escape me, Miraak?

“No,” a voice whispered. Miraak’s vision failed, flickering. It burnt, it burnt, it burnt it burnt it —

“NO!”, Dovahkiin screamed. Miraak fought not to lose consciousness. He could barely move. His eyes watered and he coughed again. Quick breathing in useless panic. He was going to die. He’d gone too far this time, he’d… there was something, warm? Touching his injury. He swallowed a scream.

…No?

His eyes closed. The last thing Miraak saw in Apocrypha was the Last Dragonborn thinking for a moment, then looking up at Hermaeus Mora — and —

“I could,”

— saying —

“make a deal with you, Hermaeus Mora,”

— saying —

“for Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ.”

The house had yellow walls, and no windows. The candles’ lighting flickered briefly, their flames puppeteering the furniture’s shadows into bizarre nonsense dances. A table had a slight burnt smudge, as if marked by a book-shaped iron. It was quiet. Quiet as could be, until a slight, pitched noise, like a kettle boiling, rose in pitch and volume until it was a downright shriek. The flames shook again.

Smoke burst, suddenly, bubbled over from thin air. A writhing mass of inky limbs exploded from the cloud, giving way to a brief, green tear — and as suddenly as it’d appeared, it was gone, leaving only two bodies.

The shorter figure held onto the taller one like a mercy, like a pity. She fell to her knees under the strain. Her blood and his blood were one and the same in drips and the puddles at their feet. She laid her head on his chest for a moment, half-mournful, half-listening.

He still lived.

With great effort, the Last Dovahkiin lifted the First’s agonizing body into the air. She stumbled her way into a spare bedroom before dropping him into a bed. She pushed him (better yet, nudged him) inside the covers, and pulled back his hood. Then, she ripped the mask off his face.

“…you certainly haven’t tanned,” she whispered, a bit incredulous. The face was tired, but — it was so young. She’d been expecting maybe a forty, fifty year old, not…

…he looked older than her, but by so… little.

She immediately turned to her own rucksack and her cabinets, rummaging through them all. She produced a number of healing potions, scribbled labels on reused bottles, and remembered her lessons from the College.

Concentrate.

Even out your breathing.

The golden light of a healing spell reflected on her face.

Focus on knitting the flesh and organs together.

She felt more than she saw the wound; she put both hands at the gap left behind on his clothes by the tentacle and ripped the cloth apart. She placed both hands on the wound and she healed, she healed, she healed.

She breathed in deeply, the worst already over — and the world suddenly moved.

Dovahkiin fell on her face, slapped Miraak’s ribs as she tried to pull herself up. The ground shook. Potions fell from the shelves, bathed both of them in magic. Dovahkiin caught one with a flick of her wrist, opened it with a snap of her fingers; she shoved the bottle’s open neck into Miraak’s mouth, holding on for dear life as the world tossed in its sleep.

(in his dreams, the earth rocked from side to side like a cradle. a wave rose high, echoing a curved moon, then fell upon him breathlessly. foam and salt curled into the air, the water tinted green by algae, and he struggled to resurface and taste the seawater winds. there was nothing but humid darkness. his skin unraveled from his limbs, or perhaps tendrils — ones that covered him for so long they’d become a second skin? nevertheless, the ink only devoured. what else could it ever do?)

The earth was shaking.

Miraak spluttered and coughed; Dovahkiin shook the last droplets of potion on his face, like salt, and went back to Healing. Please, please, please she begged. Hermaeus Mora could not be so cruel as to do this. He was not unfair. He was cold, and unknown, and retributive; but he was not petty, not like this. (Wasn’t he?)

The wound closed. The veins surrounding its area were still a dark green, but it was an improvement; the golden spell seemed to ease their darkness. Miraak looked stable, for now.

The earth was still shaking.

This… This wasn’t a normal earthquake.

Dovahkiin clung to the walls and furniture and flooring, dragging herself through the house, room by room, up the cream-colored stairs. The doors slammed open and close hysterically. She had a solution for that.

Fᴜs Rᴏ Dᴀʜ!

The doors were blown clean off their hinges, outwards. Dovahkiin forced herself out after them, nearly threw her own body to the ground. She crawled her way out of the house — and into Raven Rock.

“WHAT IN OBLIVION IS HAPPENING?!”, she shouted out. The sky was pitch-black and clouded over. People took refuge behind tables and on doorways, sticking to each other like their life depended on it. Screams came from all over town. A building toppled over; another collapsed on itself.

Dovahkiin watched, wide-eyed, as the impossible happened: Solstheim, precipitating — as if magnetized — towards the mainland.

“Sssshit,” she muttered.

She stumbled upwards and half-ran towards a few mer, trapped under the debris of a building, and fell to her knees before them. She dug into the bricks with her bare hands, leaving trails of red behind on whatever they touched; she didn’t care. She managed to push a few bricks off and gave the mer she’d just aided a solid hand-squeeze.

“Th— ha-ah, thank you, thank you,” he wheezed, broken. He was bleeding, as was the other man trapped with him.

Dovahkiin knelt. “HELP!,” she shouted. “HELP! ”

A few people crawled over to help; Dovahkiin saw the bright red of healing potions, the sunshine of Restoration. Good. Good. Alright. This could be dealt with. This could b—

“THE SEA!”

Dovahkiin turned around and watched as a giant wave formed before the docks, swelling taller and taller as the mainland approached.

She stood up, pushing herself off the half-broken home, and propelled herself towards the docks. She managed to climb her way to the very edge, almost touching the water, and as she looked the wave grew taller — taller than Dovahkiin, taller than the town’s walls.

She opened her mouth and breathed in deep the sea-mist, and she faced the wave’s arch fully, and she Shouted,

Yᴏʟ Tᴏᴏʀ Sʜᴜʟ!

And the tsunami was cut in half, a blade of golden flame splitting the wine-dark sea.

A giant plume of steam burst above the own, and it rained.

It stormed the night Solstheim came home.

Miraak woke up in even halves.

His groggy consciousness spent a moment disconnected from outside input, a background hum of nonsensical turns of phrase. He took out a sentence from some book he’d read in Apocrypha that had stuck, turned it around, felt its sloping sounds inside his mind. Something about unknowable motives. Then he slowly became aware of softness all around him, the softest thing outside Apocrypha. His throat felt raw and dry.

There was a noise like creaking wood. Miraak blearily opened his eyes, squinting momentarily in golden candlelight. Golden. He brought an arm up to rub an eye and stifled a wince. There was a burning pain running through him, placed somewhere in his torso. He recalled the fight. It felt like it’d gone on for far less than it’d actually had. Miraak swallowed and found it difficult, his strength sapped and his mouth — dry.

“Oh,” he heard. “You’re awake.”

He made an effort to turn around towards the voice. Miraak barely had the time to catch a pair of scrunched-together dark eyebrows on a tanned, freckled face before his mouth filled with acidic bile. He jerked upwards and off the bed and retched onto the floor, then gasped for breath for a moment.

“Hey!”, the voice complained. “No need to ruin my boots.”

With a white-knuckled death grip on the nightstand, Miraak forced himself up, heaving on thin air. “Y… you,” he managed.

“Me!”, the Dovahkiin replied, cheerful. She was standing by his bed in more casual clothes, her hair pulled back into a shitty little ponytail. He frowned momentarily, and —

“My mask,” he said. He looked at Dovahkiin.

“It’s safe,” she replied. None of her smartassery right now, it seemed. “You were pretty badly wounded! I… did my best.”

“Give my back my mask.”

“Easy there,” she replied, amused. “I’ll give it to you later, I promise. Ooh, I also sewed your robes back together…”, and she trailed off there.

There was a silent pause. Then she sat by his side on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He looked at her, then turned around.

“…Why?” he asked.

“That’s for me to know and you to wonder!,” she replied, almost in sing-song. The Dovahkiin tapped her fingers rhythmically against her leg, then sighed. “You should come with me.”

“Why would I?”

“I dunno. I don’t think you’ve got anywhere to go, do you?”

Miraak paused, surprised. Thoughtful. “…Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you…” He struggled to breathe for a moment. Miraak touched his chest, his pulse flaring up, then slowly traced down— oh. Oh, fuck. There was, bandages — that gave in—

“Don’t! …touch that,” Dovahkiin warned. “It’ll get infected. I think. I did my best, but I’m no medic. I thought to call a professional, but I had no time — and from where? This town’s tiny.”

“…where am I?”, and his voice was a whisper.

“The town of Raven Rock. In Solstheim. Or, I guess was used to be Solstheim.”

“What?” Solstheim?

“I mean, I assume it was called Solstheim before it ever became an island, if only because you recognize it, but everyone alive today — well, everyone alive but you, anyway — knew Solstheim as an island.”

“Yes, that’s… that’s what it became, after.” After the duel. Miraak felt heat on his brow, struggled to follow. What was she—? “Has… Solstheim…?”

Dovahkiin was silent for a moment. “When I brought you back,” she said, “there was an earthquake. The waters damn near parted, I’ve been told — I wasn’t there. I was here, trying to keep you alive.” She looked away from him. She was lying. “The world shook, then stopped. I only left this room after… I don’t know, some nine hours?” She was lying, she was lying, Miraak could tell. “When I went out, well,” she grimaced, “…there wasn’t a coast anymore. Solstheim had rejoined the mainland.”

He thought for a moment. Couldn’t find words, really. “Why?”

“Why’d I save you?” Dovahkiin smiled, grinned wide. “I told you! That’s for me to know and you to guess at.” She raised both her hands and waved her fingers. Her mannerisms sprung to life, filled with energy. She scooted back on the bed, raised a leg to sit cross-legged on the bed, bounced her knee a few times. “Call me Dove,” she told him. “That’s what all my friends call me.” Miraak squinted, vision already fading. He was about to fall asleep, but —

— why did she think they were friends?

Miraak found himself conscious again.

It was late. He’d woken up suddenly , for seemingly no reason — maybe his brain had been tricked by the furniture’s creaking. The blankets slid off his shoulders. His feet hit the floor; a sudden burst of ice cold on his toes. He’d sat up straight. Cool air ghosted his shoulders, and he suppressed a shiver. Silly Miraak, forgetting his clothes had been taken off for the first time in millennia.

Another creak. ...So. He wasn’t imagining things, then.

“Who’s there?”, he called out. The darkness was near-absolute, but a single candle’d been left on a side table. Miraak remained still. He felt sparks at his fingertips. He wondered for a moment where the Last had left his sword, and felt his stomach swirl — twist, curl and burn. He filed away the pain for later, when the threat had been dealt with.

A hooded silhouette appeared from the shadows. They were armored , wearing leather. For a single, giant moment, them and Miraak simply stared at each other, and were silent.

“And who are you?”, the figure spoke up, curious. “Why are you in the Dragonborn’s house?”

“Who are you? Why do you know her?”

“Know her? I knew her, once. We used to hunt dragons together.”

“You did?” Huh. “You are not that… Lydia… she spoke of, are you?”

The woman — yes, a woman, an older woman perhaps , by the sound of the voice — chuckled. “No, no, I’m not. Who are you?”

“Why do you care?”

“Mysterious reports of cults. A note from some strangely-dressed assassins. The Dragonborn meant to investigate them a long time ago, but never did — not until now, it seems. Next thing we know? An entire island’s crashed into the mainland.”

“I’ve heard of these things, but I have not seen them directly .” Evasive.

“Then I suppose you’ve at least seen the dragons.”

Dragons? “What dragons?”

“Oh, tell me you’ve heard of the two dozen dragons that descended upon this town a few days ago.”

Miraak’s eyes went wide. ...He was suddenly thankful for the lack of light; surely his features were obscured . “No, I have not.”

A sharpened glare from under the hood. “You’re joking.”

“I swear, I am not. Tell me now.”

“I told you what I know. A few days ago, the island of Solstheim rejoined the mainland. It took the island a few hours to somehow move from its previous position to the coast south of Windhelm. A few hours later, after everything had stopped moving, two dozen or so dragons appeared in the sky. Most perched on nearby terrain, some distance away from Raven Rock, or in the snow of the mainland. However , a lucky few got to walk into the wreckage of town and scare a few fishermen back into their homes. According to my sources, the Dragonborn was seen debating with them in their language for a while. Then they left — simple as that.”

Miraak had assumed the Last Dragonborn had killed all dragons on Skyrim. He'd thought the few souls he still felt simply … exiles, perhaps . But this tale said otherwise. It seemed increasingly likely she’d considered an alliance with them. ...Incautious of her.

“So,” the woman added, “who are you?”

“Why should I tell you?” Miraak asked her.

“Because if you matter to the dragons, then you are either a valuable asset — or a target.”

“At least tell me your name,” Miraak deadpanned. The icy burn of the Voice settled on his throat; he could Shout her into the wall at any moment. Break her spine. Alert the Last, surely .

“...Alright,” the woman said. “I’m Delphine. Your turn now.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. You clearly were capable of tracking the Dragonborn to her home and breaking in without a sound. Why would I tell you anything about me? I am not interested in being wrapped up in your smooth-brained intrigues. I let myself do that, once. I will not make that mistake again.”

“I don’t need your name to track you,” Delphine replied curtly . “I’ve got sources everywhere. You’re tall and speak strangely . That, coupled with how you’re residing in the Dragonborn’s house���”

“Not exactly willfully,” Miraak muttered.

“—is enough for me to find you.” There was a pleased tone to her voice. Miraak wasn’t that easily intimidated. “And in fact, Dovahkiin’s not home.”

“Truly?” Well, if that didn’t open up interesting possibilities.

“Yes. So I doubt she’ll be around to help y—”

Fᴜs Rᴏ Dᴀʜ!

Miraak half-knelt on the bed, compensating for the Shout’s backwards momentum. He scanned the room; Delphine had managed to avoid the worst of the impact and had just skidded off, on her knees.

There was silence for a moment.

Delphine panted. “You… You know the Voice.”

“Of course I do.”

“...you are Dragonborn?”

“And you are used to fighting foes with the Tʜᴜ'ᴜᴍ. Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought.” Never let it be said two couldn’t play at the trash-talking game.

“Huh.” She stood up, holding himself against the wall. “Well, well, well. Maybe the war is not over yet, then. ...Tell me,” she said. “How do you feel about dragons?”

“I find the ᴅᴏᴠ horrid and despotic.” Every word charged with twenty-five years of venom.

“Funny, that. I think the same.” Miraak froze when he heard that. What? Delphine turned around. “If you ever tire of the Dovahkiin’s sunshine and rainbows attitude... well, the Sleeping Giant Inn in the town of Riverwood has a room for you. That is, as long as you maintain that opinion and are willing to do something about it.”

Delphine faded back into the darkness, and Miraak looked away, perhaps out of courtesy. When he looked back, she was gone.

Good. The threat had been dealt with

Pain stabbed his lower ribs. Miraak clamped a hand over the wound and gritted his teeth. He laid back down. The Shout had loosened his bandages. Whatever painkillers the Last had given him were starting to wear off. A drop of black blood hit the covers, then another. His underwear was ruined with the stuff, too — he should change. Change, find his clothes, a shirt and new underwear and pants, and… and he should probably sleep, too.

The candle’s shaky, golden glow illuminated a wide, pale shoulder. The glow delineated the following torso in the darkness. Miraak had other thoughts besides revenge.

The underground home and the constant short fits of sleep were wrecking Miraak’s sense of night and day. Well, they would've, if he hadn’t lost that sense already. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to tell between night and day ever again, not without seeing the sky.

This is to say, Miraak was — for the third time — awake.

At least it wasn’t green. (Were candles in the dark any better?)

It was claustrophobic inside this tiny room. Would the Last let him go his own way? Certainly not, with how they’d met. And he was done betraying masters who thought highly of him. It never led to anything good.

The bed’s covers were green; he looked away from them and his gaze fell on a distant bookshelf. ...He sat up straight.

Miraak stood up with some difficulty, and stepped out of the bed. He padded through the room in silence, holding his midsection tight. His bandages had been fixed up while he slept, but they were the same ones as before. His mind felt a little fuzzy. He reached the door. On the doorknob, there was a cotton robe; it was red . He glanced at it, then picked it up and slipped it on, the light material foreign-feeling. He breathed in deeply and opened the door.

...More empty house. Still yellow, still underground. He walked for a bit. A large central area led to a wide staircase, carved in stone. Its bannister was cold, and Miraak’s footsteps echoed faintly on his way up. At the top, a door, wooden, solid-looking. Miraak pushed it open and walked out.

It was early in the morning, and the sky was not green. The sky was a warm, washed-out gray, the sun rising behind thick clouds. Miraak took a step, and then another, and felt a cold breeze dance around him. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. The sky. Oh, gods, the sky. And the wind, and the horizon — there was a town, there was a town some distance away, and — and mountains! Mountains, and he could see no ocean, just snow in the distance, and a thin river, and a lake. Oh, mountains. Oh, gods. He smiled.

Miraak was tempted to just sit down on the ground and drink it all in, when —

“Oh!”, a familiar voice called. “You’re awake!”

The Last Dragonborn appeared from behind a bend in the path. He sighed as she bounded towards him. Guess that was it for now.

“Enjoying the view?” she asked, cheerful.

“Well, yes,” Miraak admitted. Last grinned.

“You were pretty hard to get out of there, you know! And the island moved, too! Luckily no one at sea was injured , since the Windhelm docks go a different way, but the quake that moved the island caused lots of debris and several injuries and I haven’t even checked on the other village yet and Ulfric Stormcloak keeps refusing my attempts at aid, and, and this architecture is fine for quakes because it’s sturdy but on the Skaal village they don’t—”

Please fucking slow down, Miraak begged her internally . “Ulfric Stormcloak…”

“Yeah, he’s the jarl of Windhelm and he hates me ‘cause I said if his claim to the throne was valid I could take it away from him with a fistfight, and he’s an asshole to dunmer too, and his soldiers are always stinky, and anyway didn’t the Nords descend from Atmoran, what heritage are ya gonna find in Skyrim that wouldn’t be way easier to find in Atmora, am I right ? Like why are you claiming land for yourselves when you hate the Reachmen and won some kind of war a while back against the Falmer that I don’t really understand but—”

Miraak looked at her, completely dumbfounded. “...Have you always spoken like this?”

“...No,” the Last admitted, “ I think I’m just excited today… You’re finally here.” She scratched the back of her head. Her grayish-white hair looked like an old woman’s. It reflected blonde undertones in the faint sunlight. “I’ve always wanted to know another Dragonborn… I think you’ll do just fine,” and she smiled.

Miraak didn't smile back. “I’ve read of Ulfric Stormcloak in Apocrypha.” Contrary to popular belief, books constantly trickled into the great library. And finding the newer ones was easy; they weren’t stained yet. “I know vaguely of his claims. You do not need to tell me who he is.”

“Ah, you’re caught up? That’s great.”

There was a little bit of silence before Miraak adjusted his robe and spoke again.

“What will you do next, then?”

The Last frowned, confused. “...I don’t know?”, she admitted. “I was thinking of going back to the mainland — well, what used to be the mainland — you know what I’m talking about — and then just … talking to you for a while. I don’t… I thought you could move in with me, and my friend Lydia, while you sort of… decide what to do next? There’s a lot of things to do in Skyrim nowadays. We could raid some Dwemer ruins? Investigate that Dawnguard group I’ve heard about? You could go to the College and see if you like it? I dunno…”, and she looks down.

Miraak looked at her, head slightly tilted. “You aren’t letting me leave freely?”, he asked, knowing the answer.

“Uhh… maybe? Yes? No? Uhm, if you promise to not conquer anything, or hypnotize any more people, sure?”

“...I do owe you,” Miraak said, but not admitting it magnanimously; simply stating a fact.

“Yeah, see? If — in return for freeing you, if you wanna do it like that, you can come with me for a bit and be my friend, maybe , and we can sort of — compare?”, the Last stuttered out.

Miraak looked at her, frowning.

“...I am going back inside,” he said.

“Oh, uhm—okay! I’ll be gone for awhile,” she said. “I need to help some people here on Raven Rock. When you’re rested enough to leave we can go check on the Skaal, though maybe don’t show them who you are, they don’t really like you? And I think they think you’re kind of dead? Sorry, I didn’t tell them. But I’m sure it’ll be fine!”

Miraak didn’t hear her, already locking the door to the honey-walled house.

It was the late afternoon, and the Last Dragonborn was doing her last rounds for the day.

“First Councilor?” Dovahkiin knocked at the manor’s door. She coughed. Her throat still hurt; too many shouts, too little time. She held a small bag with shaking hands, which were tied to shaking shoulders, attached to a shaking body. She was underdressed for the weather. Something in the climate had shifted since… well, since the earth had shaken. She waited.

The door opened a sliver with a slight squeak. No-one oiled their doors in Skyrim; same principle held true for Solstheim. “I’ve got the potions,” she added. The door finished opening, and she walked in.

The First Councilor’s home had been one of the buildings most affected. It’d shaken like jelly. If the wave had crashed down, it would’ve been destroyed . Dovahkiin entered silently . A guard tapped her shoulder, she nodded and walked on, followed shortly by them. She climbed the stairs, then waited by the door; the guard took out a bunch of keys and flicked through them.

“This one,” she pointed out. The guard nodded before sharply turning around to look at her. Then they shrugged and unlocked the bedroom door.

In bed sat First Councilor Lleril Morvayn, bandaged. A dark-haired dunmer sat on the bed, checking on the split on his arm.

“Oh,” Dovahkiin said. “You’re new. Did Ulfric change his mind about helping Raven Rock?”

They turned around to look at her. For a moment, they looked surprised — then they composed themself and smiled. “Ah, no. I mean, I am from Windhelm, but I didn’t come on anyone’s orders.” They turned around and finished checking the splint, then shook their head slowly . “My apologies, First Councilor. I think you’ll need a cast for this, too.”

“I understand.” The councilor peered behind their shoulder. “Oh, Outlander. The potions?”

“Here.” She handed the bottle over to the dunmer attending him. They picked one of the bottles out of the bag and examined them with a critical eye.

“These are really good,” they said. “Who made them?”

“Ah— a local alchemist, Milore Ienth,” Dovahkiin said, a bit surprised. The dunmer gave the bag to the Councilor.

“Tell Ienth I’ll pay her when I’m back on my feet,” the Councilor ordered.

“I already paid her, it’s on my tab,” Dovahkiin replied, “don’t worry.”

“Thank you.” The Councilor placed the potions near the bed, minus one. He proceeded to drink it.

“You know,” the dunmer said, “you look familiar… You’ll have to forgive me, my memory isn’t the greatest. Have we met before?”

Dovahkiin hesitated for a moment. “No.”

“Oh. Well, then,” and they extended a hand. “I’m Iril.”

Dovahkiin’s black eyes flickered briefly on the Councilor. He’d fallen asleep; drowsiness was common with these kinds of healing potions. They were strong, but they overworked the body. “Dove,” the Dovahkiin offhandedly offered. “Nice to meet you, Iril. I should leave, though — I’ve got guests at home.”

“Yes, I saw — he had bandages on his chest, right? Is he in need of further help?”

“Yes! And no, not anymore, happily , but thank you for the offer.” Dovahkiin gave them a short nod.

“Well, if you ever need help, I’m here.” Iril smiled at her.

“I will, thank you!” Dovahkiin squinted at them. Have I seen them before?, she wondered. “...See you later!”

As she left, she missed Iril watching her curiously , the door swinging closed with a squeak behind her.

The day, impossibly, passed by.

Dovahkiin kept being as bizarre to Miraak all day as she’d been that morning. Miraak slept through most of the day, letting his wounds rest. They healed fast. They always did, nowadays. When he’d woken up in Apocrypha, after his — after — the duel, he’d woken up healed. His bruises were gone, his wounds sealed. A gash across his stomach, now only a scar. Three claw-marks across his cheek, from a blue dragon who’d proved troublesome. The fifteenth one to fall, maybe ? He hadn’t been keeping count.

He still coughed up ink, every so often. There was a wound in his abdomen that infected everything around it with darkness. But skin had began to grow over it, aided by the Last Dovahkiin’s seemingly endless supply of health potions.

As Miraak slept, and woke up, and fell back asleep, though — like always — he planned.

There was no one guarding the door. It was not locked at night. Last had said she’d broken the lock and she hadn’t had the time to fix it. She’d also told him where she’d stored his clothes, his — his mask. His identity, taken from him, and even if he’d had no other reason to leave, this one was enough. Not even Mora had taken the mask off him. He’d done so only because he didn’t care, but — the point stood. And Raven Rock, at night… Miraak had felt it, while pulling strings from beyond. There came a point no one remained awake. All had, once, come to his embrace.

Just to the next town, Miraak had thought half-asleep, then he could find his next step.

And so, in the middle of the night, the plan sprung into action. The blankets in his room, left empty and cold and unmade. The room plundered, the kitchen emptied, and from another room, a chest’s lock broken, the chest emptied. Bare but for a note. He was not impolite, after all. Then a shape in the darkness, through the hallways and up the stairs. A creak from the door and then — suddenly — Skyrim’s auroras, oh, how he’d missed this. He’d stood still for a moment still and watched them, bright and burning. And then he’d hurried even more. To compensate. Footsteps, in the night, on the ash that grounded Solstheim. They went around the rubble, around the ruined buildings. Where the ash suddenly turned to mud, they deepened. Then they blended into sludge, far into the horizon. Though... the wind blew and animals skittered over them and the track, eventually, was lost.

Miraak was gone.

[erekiosuncreativeideas]

The Part-Time Puppeteer - Chapter 02

<= Chapter 1

Summary : Lukas meets some new people and discovers that almost no one is this studio has manners. Also available on AO3 : https://archiveofourown.org/works/23828971/chapters/57463666#workskin

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YOOOO NEW CHAPTER I had started it a while ago and left it to rot until I posted the first chapter. And... I ended up writing 90% of this chapter in less than 48 hours. My old self would be so, so impressed with my current productivity.

Also.... You cannot IMAGINE how eager I was to post this chapter, mainly because of one character I fell in love with. You'll probably guess who it is by the end of this chapter. The drawing is mine, like usual. Mike's (awesome) design belongs to @levshany​.

If you like this story, don't hesitate to leave a comment or a kudo, it helps me so much !! I get so inspired and happy when I read your reaction, I'm so thankful for everyone reading my stories ! (after my 2 years long writing and art block, it feels absolutely wonderful)

Happy reading !!

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Chapter 2 - “Excuse me?”

Lukas’s family wasn’t exactly poor. His father worked in an office and his mother was a junior high school teacher, and both gained enough money to maintain the household and guarantee a higher education for Lukas. However, when the young man had announced to his parents his wish to study law in a famous university, uncertainty fell on his family. They could afford to send him to a less renowned university, though Lukas had always been a very good and serious student. The more his parents thought about it, the more they felt like they would waste their son’s potential if they refused him the future he wished for. Compromises had to be made and all the household began to think about ways to finance Lukas’s studies. Eventually, Lukas decided to take a part-time job in order to help his parents to deal with the financial situation he put them in.

Lukas was a perfectionist, even if that lead him to stay awake a few nights just to be absolutely ready for a usual test or a more important exam. Sleep was an issue for the young man: it was always in the way of his revising sessions! More often than not, he found himself falling asleep quite often during his less important lectures.

That’s why, at the present moment, Lukas couldn’t help but wonder if he was dreaming or truly awake.

All around him, people were moving very quickly, carrying extinguishers and buckets full of water. The young man didn’t have to think more as his arm was grabbed by an older stagehand, pulling him towards the huge fire in the centre of the room.

-“What are you waiting for? Use your goddamn extinguisher!” pushed the man while pointing to the flames. It seemed enough to pull Lukas back to reality and he obeyed. He joined the other stagehands trying to put the fire out and brandished his own extinguisher. He had to fiddle with it a little bit until he was able to disable the lock. Once it was done, he started spraying the flames with the extinguishing foam. The heat was almost unbearable and the proximity and movement of people around him made him even more nervous. A deafening fire alarm rang in the room, making his head hurt. He couldn’t believe that his first task as a stagehand would be to put a fire out! It wasn’t one of Lukas’s phobias, thank goodness, though it was still a very stressful experience to him. As if his student life wasn’t stressful already!

Fortunately, the flames soon disappeared under the foam, to Lukas’s great relief. He put the fire extinguisher on the ground, his arms sore for holding such a heavy object for so long. He was sweating a lot, both from the effort and from the heat. He dried his forehead with his sleeve, not caring if he was putting sweat on it. That was the least of his problems at the moment.

The student’s inner monologue was cut short as a voice was raised despite the commotion in the room:

-“Alright, people! Five-minute break, you deserved it!” The words came from an imposing dark-haired man, whose expression looked severe. He was wearing a beige shirt as well as black pants with braces. The man had a broad face, just like his shoulders.

Lukas let out another sigh of relief. No more than an hour had passed since his conversation with both of the directors and he was already glad to have a break‌. He couldn’t help but wonder if this job really was a good idea, after all… Yet, he pushed this idea out of his head: he needed the money, so until he found a better job, he would have to deal with this one. This was only temporary.

The man from before waved at him, asking him to come closer. The student was a little surprised but supposed that this person was the one in charge of all the stagehands. Lukas hadn’t been properly introduced to any of his superiors or to his job at all, in the end. It made sense that it would only happen after the huge fire. The young man obeyed and approached the other, trying to avoid bumping into the other stagehands walking all around him. He would never get used to crowded places.

-“Hell-”

Lukas didn’t get the time to introduce himself as his first word was cut short by his interlocutor:

-“Yeah, good morning,” said the man, not even looking at Lukas, his eyes scanning a document he had in his hands instead: “You’re a new stagehand, aren’t you?”

The student was frustrated at the manager’s lack of manners but decided to put his pride aside. This was only his first working day, nothing was going to be perfect, obviously. He extended his hand, forcing a polite smile on his face as he tried to answer:

-“Yes, my-”

-“Your name?” demanded the man, cutting him short once again.

Lukas could feel his annoyance start to appear on his face, though he did his best to hide it nonetheless. He certainly didn’t want to lose his job after all the trouble he went through to get it! He took a deep breath and replied, with the calmest tone he could manage:

-“I’m Lukas, Lukas Pryce.”

He didn’t see the need of saying anything else, as his interlocutor was likely going to stop him in the middle of a sentence. He took his hand back, well aware that the man wasn’t going to shake it. It apparently was the right thing to do, since said man finally looked up from his document to stare at him, examining him from top to bottom. The student didn’t like being scrutinized this way, though he did his best to stay silent and unmoving, waiting for the other man to talk again.

-“Yeah, okay. I’m Kaleb, I’m the one in charge of everything that’s happening in the backstage. I’m also your boss, but I guess you pretty much figured that out.”

Lukas only nodded, not wanting to be interrupted again. The manager rummaged through the papers he was holding and handed one of them to the student, who examined the first sentences written on it. It was a job contract.

-“You were hired on the spot, weren’t you?” questioned the man, though his tone showed it wasn’t really a question. Maybe it happened a lot more than Lukas first thought.

-“Yeah,” he replied while reading the paper he had now in his hands.

-“Well, okay, so… Technically, you’re not hired yet, so go fill that while the others and I clean this mess. Once you’re done, come back and give me your contract. Then I’ll give you some things to do until we figure out what particular position you’re going to get. Got it?”

Lukas nodded again and walked away. He spotted a white and blue folding table and chairs in a corner of the room, probably for staff breaks. Most of the seats were occupied, though some of them were still free. Thus, the student joined the seated members of the studio and put the paper down. He took a pen from his shoulder bag and started filling the document. Well, finally a calm activity! At least, minus the hubbub all around him.

However, as he was about to fill one of the last section, someone nudged him with their elbow. Surprised from the sudden contact, Lukas lifted his head, looking for the person who tried to catch his attention. His eyes fell on a young man who seemed to have the same age as him. He had black and white hair and was wearing a red turtleneck, as well as black glasses. He had a kind expression on his face. Was he a stagehand just like him? He didn’t seem to help the others, so probably not. Maybe an actor, then? His face was familiar to the student, so it could be the case.

-“You’re a new stagehand?” asked the mystery person, smiling warmly at him. Lukas couldn’t help but feel reassured at the nice expression: finally something good in this unbelievable day!

Lukas smiled back and pointed to the form he was filling:

-“Yep. Just got hired an hour ago,” he laughed, thinking back at the improbable interaction with the two movie directors. Lukas then extended his hands, not wanting to be impolite just like his new manager: “I’m Lukas.”

His interlocutor took his hand -finally, someone who had manners!- and shook it, still smiling.

-“I’m Mike. I’m the lead designer for puppets and costumes. Well, more puppets than costume these last few days…”

The mention of puppets caught the student’s attention. So, he wasn’t an actor, then. So, that still didn’t explain why his face seemed so familiar to Lukas. Why did he feel like he had seen this person somewhere before?

-“Puppets?” he repeated, amused.

-“Yeah. The team I’m in is working on a kids’ TV show, featuring puppets and stuff,” explained Mike: “But it’s only the beginning for now, they’re still looking for actors for the main cast.”

-“I had no idea this studio was making kids’ shows,” replied Lukas, amazed: “I only heard of it through the Conductor’s and DJ Grooves’s movies.”

The puppet maker laughed at his enthusiasm and shook his head:

-“Actually, that’s a first. You know how they have a hard time working together, right?” Lukas nodded and Mike continued his explanations: “Well, this time, instead of fighting over the direction, they’re trying to see if they can each focus on different aspects of the projects. The Conductor will lead the action scenes while DJ‌ Grooves will write and compose most of the songs and soundtrack. I mean, it’s already supposed to be the case usually, but they can’t help but focus on the other’s job anyway. This show is another chance of them minding their own part of the work and see how it turns out.”

The student rose his brows, surprised. Well, from what he knew about the subject, each one of their collaborations ended up having direction problems. It was quite a shame since they always had very good ideas, at least, probably before one sabotaged the other’s work.

-“Why a kids’ show, though?” questioned Lukas with a voice full of curiosity.

-“I guess it’s just a precaution process. Better to fail on a kids’ show rather than on an eagerly-awaited blockbuster, isn’t it?” supposed the costume designer.

-“Yeah, you’re right, it makes sense.”

The student looked around him, watching the stagehands cleaning the remains of the scene. He had no idea what they had been filming, but most of the props had been destroyed in the incident. They likely lost any footage in the fire which certainly wasn’t going to improve the tensions in the studio. The young man turned back to his new friend and finally asked the question he was scared to voice:

-“Uh, is it… Always like that?” he wondered, gesturing to all the people working behind them, wincing at the idea of having to deal with such problems on a daily basis. Mike laughed and gave him a sympathetic smile before replying:

-“Pretty much, yeah, sorry.”

Lukas felt the usual pain in his stomach appear from the sudden rise of stress. Not only did he have serious and important studies to deal with, but he would also need to do the same in his free time? Now, working here didn’t seem like such a good idea after all… His nervousness must have been quite visible because the other man put a hand on his shoulder to try to reassure him:

-“Hey, hey, it’s going to be okay, it’s not so bad!”

“Yeah, right,” thought Lukas sarcastically, probably showing a bit of this emotion unconsciously.

The costume designer stared into space as if he was trying to find something to say before lifting his head again, smiling at him widely:

-“Hey, wait, maybe you could work with us!” offered Mike, suddenly very inspired and motivated: “We haven’t started filming yet but we’ll definitely need stagehands soon! Plus, it’ll probably be way less wild than working on the Conductor’s action movies or DJ Grooves’s musicals. Not that I’ll have a lot to say in the matter, but I can still recommend you.”

Lukas opened his eyes wide at the suggestion. Wait, could it really be that easy?

-“You… You’d do that? Really‌?” The young man couldn’t believe it: how lucky was he being today? It was too good to be true! Karma was soon going to collect his debt at this pace…

-“Yeah!” exclaimed Mike, almost happier than Lukas himself: “You seem nice, plus you don’t have a lot of experience. It would be better for you to start working in a smaller and calmer team.”

Lukas was about to thank him for the offer when he was interrupted -again- by a loud noise coming from behind his back. The student turned around, curious about what could have caused such a loud sound. He was surprised to see a man entering the room, having slammed the door as an entrance. His hair was black and white and he was wearing a long green coat as well as black pants. The man was wearing converse shoes and round glasses. However, Lukas’s eyes widened not because of the man’s appearance or entrance but because he knew who it was. This guy was a very famous actor, one that Lukas knew very well because he had seen him in several movies by now. MJ, that was his acting name. Just like The Conductor, MJ had done his best to keep his real name a secret, for reasons most people didn’t know yet.

And suddenly, Lukas understood why Mike’s face had seemed so familiar to him: they both had the exact same face!

The student turned back to his friend with a confused expression. There was no doubt about it, he hadn’t imagined it: apart from their haircut and clothes, they looked absolutely the same. Lukas was about to ask about it but Mike forestalled his question:

-“Yeah, we’re twins,” he explained, though it was possible to see some weariness on his face. This was surely not the first time someone had asked about it. The student felt a little guilty, though it was a bit too late for that.

-“I had no idea MJ had a brother, let alone a twin,” admitted the young man, quite embarrassed.

-“We agreed to keep it a secret. I'm not a fan of the celebrity life like my brother is. I feel ill-at-ease in crowded spaces.”

Lukas rose his eyebrows, taken aback, and threw a glance at their surroundings. Welp, apparently, they didn’t have the same definition of “crowded spaces”, if all of this wasn’t bothering him. Maybe Lukas was just shier than most introverts? It was strange because he didn’t think he was much of an introvert until now. Yeah, sure, he spent a lot of time studying in his room, but it wasn’t because he didn’t like people or anything. Or so he thought. Now that he was actually in a place like this, he wasn’t so sure of it now. It did make him uncomfortable‌.

Even more, now that he knew that there were famous actors near him.

-“Hey,” greeted a voice behind him, very similar to Mike’s one. Lukas turned to the origin of the said voice and felt his heart sink in his chest when he realized that MJ had come to them. Fortunately, the actor wasn’t looking at him but at his brother. Lukas didn’t know how he would have reacted otherwise. He knew celebrities were people like everyone else, yet he couldn’t deny the sensation of stress he had at the idea of meeting one.

-“Hey,” replied Mike, with a softer tone, smiling at his twin. If they looked the same, their attitude seemed to be different. From the way MJ stood and dressed, he looked like a very assertive extrovert. Mike, on the contrary, seemed to be the complete opposite: with his red turtleneck and his very straight posture, he was the perfect image of the introvert concept.

It was like two sides of a coin: both looked like the other, yet they were not the same on many aspects.

MJ noticed the student’s stare and glanced down at him, absolutely unimpressed.

-“And who are you again?”

The actor’s tone was everything but nice or curious. The other sounded like he just asked that question because Lukas was in the way. No need to say that the young man’s frustration grew again: apparently, people had some problems with manners here. He still put his pride aside, deciding that replying to the provocative introduction wasn’t worth it. Instead, he extended his hand for what seemed like the tenth time that day:

-“My name’s Lukas,” he answered in the nicest way he could manage, then decided to be polite, for both of them at least: “I really like your movies, they’re amazing!”

His interlocutor smiled back while, in the corner of his vision, Mike looked away in embarrassment. What for? Lukas’s confusion intensified as he heard MJ’s answer:

-“Why, thank you!” replied the other, though it sounded too exaggerated to feel sincere. The latter didn’t shake his hand back either. Then, he looked above Lukas’s shoulder to read his soon-to-be-filled job contract: “Oh, are you a new stagehand?”

The question was asked in a particular way that made the student ill-at-ease. He couldn’t help but suspect the other’s niceness was completely faked. Though, he tried not to think about it and continued the conversation:

-“Yeah, I got hired a bit earlier. I helped to put out the fire.”

MJ looked around him as if he was only noticing the remains of the incident just now. His face immediately changed from cordiality to utter disgust. The sudden change unsettled the student, who didn’t know how to react. Next to them, Mike looked even more ill-at-ease than before. Why, did they have a bad relationship? Lukas couldn’t help but wonder, until MJ spoke again, making him come back to reality:

-“Okay, so this is all very interesting but-”

-“MJ, please don’t,” warned Mike, now frowning at him. Lukas had the impression that he was in the middle of a battlefield. This was extremely uncomfortable for him, who had no idea what to do with himself in the meantime.

-“What, I’m just socializing, as you told me to! Isn’t it what you want?” nagged the celebrity mischievously. Mike only glared in response. Well, this was officially more than awkward.

-“So, as I was saying…” continued the actor innocently, as if nothing just happened: “I need a coffee, two sugar lumps, no milk, and take it to my dressing room. And quick. Thanks!”

Lukas stared at the other with bewilderment.

“What?” The student was just astounded and didn’t know how to react at first. Did he hear that right?

MJ waved hypocritically at him, his true personality finally exposed. That’s why everything coming from his mouth had seemed so insincere! Just as he was about to turn away to leave, Lukas stopped him, full of mixed emotions such as confusion, surprise, but mostly irritation:

-“Uh, excuse me?” retorted the young man, absolutely offended.

MJ faked not hearing him, leaving the student and his bottled emotions seated at the table. Who did that guy take himself for?

Next to him, Mike sighed, rolling his eyes. He shook his head at Lukas in a tired way:

-“Don’t mind him, he’s like that with everyone. Except me I guess. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the coffee.” The other stood up and gestured to the forgotten paper on the table: “you should complete that and give it back to Kaleb. I’ll speak to him as soon as I can. For now, just do as he says.”

Lukas agreed, still astonished by the interaction he just had with this so-called actor. Welp, guess he knew who was the evil twin between the two, now.

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Welp. Guess who ABSOLUTELY LOVED writing MJ ? You can read more about him here (warning : SPOILERS)

Chapter 3 =>

[gumnut-logic]

Shooting Star (Part Four & Epilogue)

I finished it! This bit includes what I posted this morning, plus the rest of the fic. Apologies, I would have saved it for one post, but I didn’t expect to finish it today! Yay! I hope you enjoy it.

From here - Chapters One, Two & Three

-o-o-o-

The whole room froze for a moment.

Then everyone moved.

Scott stepped towards the controls only to have Virgil intercept him yet again. John came up behind, but Virgil held him off with a hand and caught Scott’s eyes with his own.

“Scott, no.”

“You heard her. It’s the only option.”

Virgil placed his hand on Scott’s chest, ever so gently, but with steel. “No.”

Scott’s eyes widened.

“You have to give her a chance.”

“You heard her. She admitted she could not protect John. She could accidentally kill him.”

“And so could I! I could accidentally injure any of you and vice versa. We work in a dangerous environment, but you trust and I trust and you have to give her a chance to earn our trust.”

“Why? Why do I have to risk any of you?! She’s a computer program!”

Virgil straightened. “She.”

Scott stared at him.

“If you can murder an intelligent lifeform in cold blood, then you are not the man I thought you were.”

Virgil clung to those blue eyes with his own. C’mon Scott, please.

Thought flickered across Scott’s face in the barest movements of muscle. His eyes darted to the silent hovering hologram, and the still flashing controls. Virgil readied himself to block his brother again.

But instead Scott turned to John.

“You can control her?”

Their younger brother stood taller to face the eldest. “I wouldn’t say control, exactly. That would be slavery.”

Oh, for Christ’s sake, Johnny.

Scott’s lips thinned. “She can follow rules?”

“Yes, she can.”

“Can you deny her access to life support? To other essential systems that could endanger you or others.”

“I-I can.”

Virgil eyed John.

“Do it.” Scott stepped back and directed his younger brother to the desk. “Cut her off from killing you or anyone else.”

John stared at Scott for a moment, his eyes darting to Virgil for a split second before turning to the holograms, his fingers lifting to play the harmonies of code like Virgil played his piano. “Eos, do I have your permission?”

Scott flared. “You do not need her permission to access your own ‘bird.”

“I will be altering her access. To do so without acknowledgement of the issue-“

It was Virgil’s turn to flare. “John, just do it.” Now was not the time for subtleties.

Turquoise flickered at him with a frown, but those hands darted in and did what had been asked.

“Thank you, John. Commander, thank you for this opportunity.”

“I haven’t decided yet, Eos.” Scott’s eyes were flame. “You are on probation. One step out of order and I will terminate your program.”

“Yes, Commander.”

John’s reaction to that exchange was a silent nuclear explosion. Shut up, John. Take it for what it is and build on it later.

Virgil still kept his position between Scott and Eos. It was a sign of exactly how much damage this night had done to their relationship. Part of him wilted inside and mourned for the loss of trust.

As if to emphasise that thought, Scott’s gaze then pinned Virgil where he stood. “This is on you. Against my better judgment.” Thin lips and anger that told Virgil this was far from over. A cast off glance in John’s direction. “I hope time proves you are right, because if you’re not...” He flicked his eyes at the still hovering hologram. His finger reached out and poked Virgil in the chest. “This...this is on you.”

Scott spun on his heel and stalked out of the comms room.

The moment Scott was out of earshot, John sighed wilted against the desk. “Oh, thank god.”

Virgil stayed where he stood, thoughts spinning in his head. His heart was beating a mile a minute.

“Thank you, Virgil.”

Honest turquoise was staring at him wide-eyed in gratitude. Virgil swallowed, still not sure what he felt other than cornered. Parched voice. “Make it worth it.”

He turned his back on his brother and headed out towards the kitchen. He needed some time alone to think and process. To work out whether he had aided and abetted something good.

Or something he would regret for the rest of his life.

-o-o-o-

Epilogue

It was hours later when Virgil finally made it back to the villa. He had wandered down to the beach, revelling in the darkness and the quiet. It wasn’t his favourite beach, but another, further away, hopefully where he wouldn’t be interrupted.

His wish had been respected and he had ended up walking up and down the sand just thinking. He threw off his boots and let his toes sink into the sand and eventually into the foaming surf.

His thoughts had drifted from John to Eos to the nature of life and intelligence, to his parents and what they would have thought, the implications if everything went bad. He worried and he worked through it.

Ultimately, despite the fear of what might happen, he did feel that Scott had made the right decision. It just wasn’t an easy decision to live with at the moment.

God, he hoped, he begged, Eos was worth the chance they were giving her. If she was, this could become a beautiful thing.

If she wasn’t, it could become hell.

His head was such a mess, he lost track of time and it was well into the early hours of the morning when he hit the stairs to the residential levels. A shower and bed were foremost on his agenda and he couldn’t get to his rooms fast enough.

So it was with mild annoyance that when he stumbled past John’s rooms, he found his brother’s door agape. Not that it was a major issue and for a split second he thought to just leave it open. John was atrocious at remembering certain things worked certain ways on terra firma that they did not in space. Automatically closing doors was one of them. So just like the occasional broken glass that did not float in midair, John left doors open behind himself all the time. In a couple of hours, both Scott and Gordon would be up making noise and John’s relatively fragile sleep would be disturbed, leading to an out-of-sorts spaceman who would be more unpredictable that usual.

After tonight, that was the last thing they needed.

So, Virgil reached in to close the door.

Only to find the light in John’s bedroom was on anyway, the door to that room also open and his brother speaking to someone.

Eos.

The conversation caught him before he could retreat.

“You’re safe now, Eos. I promise. You don’t need to worry.”

“But he still wants to kill me.” Eos’ voice was trembling with worry. How could an AI do that? Why would an AI do that? “What if he doesn’t believe me? What if he does it when you’re not looking?”

“You are backed up. We made sure of it, you know that.”

“Doesn’t make it easy to trust.”

“Then perhaps you can see Scott’s side of the equation.”

“It is frightening. Honestly, I would have killed me if I was him.”

“Eos!”

“It’s true! The risk is too much.”

“The fact you understand that proves I am right and we did the right thing.”

“Did you like my performance?”

“It was very good, but don’t make a habit of it. Lying is in poor taste.”

“But you said I had to convince the Commander that he could kill me. And you lied, too!”

Virgil’s breath caught in his throat.

“I lied because I had to save you. It was the only way. You had to convince Virgil or we would never have persuaded Scott.”

“The Commander is mean. Virgil doesn’t like me either.”

“Scott does what he has to do. You must respect him for that. Virgil is trying. He’s as afraid as Scott is, but he is more likely to see reason and Scott values his opinion more than anyone else’s.”

“Why? You’re his brother, too.”

Silence for a moment. “It’s just the way it’s always been.”

Somewhere under the lump in his throat, Virgil’s heart clenched.

“Thank you for helping me stay in Thunderbird Five.”

“You are welcome, Eos.”

Virgil blinked several times and pressed his lips together before pulling the door quietly shut and walking away.

-o-o-o-

FIN.

[fuwafuwamedb]

The Princess in the Palace (Gilgamesh, Hakuno)

Through the burning gates, around the lava puddles in the courtyard; she could see the great ziggurat laying ahead of her. She could feel her sword in her belt, her eyes scanning the scene around her.

Bring me the princess hiding in the palace.

Hakuno leaped back as the great beast rose out from the depths of the palace. A roar pierced through the air, bringing down the birds in the air and a foam of lava and burning fire escaping its mouth. The lion head looked nothing like the rest of its body.

Great wings covered the night skies. Golden and crimson feathers seemed to all but glow under the light of the flames below it as it beat those wings to take flight over her head.

Your mission is to defeat the beast hoarding the princess and bring them back to me.

The knights whom had come before her were strewn about the grounds before her. She could see bones sticking up in places. The ruins around her providing cover that wouldn’t last.

Her focus was to get to the wall nearby.

Once there, she glanced back, noting the fool that had come behind her.

“BEAST!”

The man raised his weapon, pointing the sword at the monstrosity of a creature and hollering at the top of his lungs.

“SURRENDER NOW-“

The words were not even finished.

The attack didn’t come from the front.

This was no ordinary beast, after all. This was a creation from the depths of Tiamat’s dreams. The beast with the head of a lion and the body of a great bird: an anzu bird.

They were legendary creatures, capable of bestowing great or terrible fates upon those that they set before their sights. She could see the way it let its babies roam forth, feet tapping around the fires to the fool that had raised a weapon at their mother.

They caught him from the sides, unhinging their jaws and taking a fearsome bite.

Screams filled the air.

The smell of smoke blocked out most of the sensory signs of the death, all but the smell of iron, which mingled with the smell of burning land around her.

Failure is not an option.

Hakuno turned, moving to go behind the wall she was pressed again when she found the anzu slipping underneath the awning she was attempting to hide beneath.

Golden eyes glinted her way.

The head tilted, the body lowering as it bobbed lightly.

First- she dropped her weapon.

Her body moved to the ground, carefully moving into the depths of the courtyard and pressing her face itself to the very ground.

She could feel the bird coming closer. She could see the metal that she’d abandoned nearby, glinting with the promise of slicing the beast in two if she would simply reach forth.

No…

That was what Shinji had attempted.

Her eyes closed, the burning goo from the beast’s mouth falling near her eyes.

“…None may come here,” the beast’s great voice thundered.

“I see the royal who lies within, great anzu.”

“None shall come here,” they repeated.

“Had I the lack of knowledge of your babies, I would have brought a drink so fine that Ninkasi herself would blush,” Hakuno told the beast. “Had I the funds and the proclivity for lacy words, I would have prepared a series of bards to speak forth of your greatness, so that the younglings themselves could remember your feats-“

“You speak as though I shall spare you.”

She needed to keep calm. She needed to keep her head.

“Flowery One, will you not plead further?”

“I ask not to plead, but to provide for the one who lies in wait within the palace.”

“You have no funds,” the beast grumbled, its muzzle coming closer to her face. She could feel more coming. They were around her body now, the whole group. The smell of iron was harder now, but she wouldn’t open her eyes.

Her eyes would give sign of the fear that was building in her spirit.

Better the determined stiffness of her body than the quiver that her heart stuttered in her ears.

“You ask for one whom you have confessed you cannot provide funds for.”

“I am determined.”

“As were those who lay around you in this courtyard now.”

A little closer…

“They were all determined, perhaps moreso than you,” the beast continued.

A little more…

“Have you nothing to say?”

Hakuno opened her eyes, slamming her fist against the ground as she imagined the attack in her mind’s eye. The chains from her magic wrapped around their taloned feet, tripping half of the babies as Hakuno leaped out of the circle and grabbed her weapon.

A great series of roars echoed around her, but the chains tightened.

“There are those around us now that are stronger than me,” Hakuno told the bird. “There are those who spoke words that dripped with more honey than the great trees within the realm of the gods. There may have even been those who were as close to the gods as one could get. Yet you will never find a single soul in this courtyard or in his universe who can claim to have the determination that I have. No challenge is too great. No foe too deadly. At least, not yet.”

Hakuno moved back to the entrance, grabbing her bag and pulling the food that she’d brought with her. She lay it before the beasts, careful not to get too close.

“You will die if you don’t free us,” the beast warned, ignoring the food that its babies rushed for.

“I can’t die when I hardly live.”

She didn’t turn her back to the beast until she was up the stairs. The depths of the palace came to life at the snap of her fingers. Her golden armor gleamed with all the glory of a great kingdom’s knight.

Deeper she went, following the tracer she’d cast with her magic.

The princess was lying in her bed. She was buried in the blankets, her face even covered as Hakuno moved forth and took a deep breath.

Only a virgin can bring the princess life again.

“Forgive me, princess,” Hakuno told the slumbering royal. “I’m going to be kissing you like the great god, Enki, commanded me to.”

She lifted the veil enough to press her lips to the slumbering one’s own.

The taste of sweet fruits and a hint of spice met her lips. She found herself humming softly, climbing onto the bed a little more and deepening the embrace.

So many apologies would be given after this.

So very many…

“W-what is this?” a very masculine voice murmured.

Hakuno felt herself freeze, her eyes widening as the figure pulled the veil from his face and looked up at her.

She stumbled, unable to help herself. Her armor clanged as she fell onto her ass, staring up at the figure now sitting up in bed.

A very male figure…

Where the hell was the princess hidden away in the ancient Uruk ruins, guarded and trapped by the anzu birds?

“Well? Are you going to remove your turban, knight?” The golden haired figure on the bed licked his lips a bit, leaning back slightly and eyeing her with interest. “I had not considered the pleasures found in a man’s lips in a long time.”

“I’m…”

She shut up, watching those red eyes widen a moment before the smirk only grew.

“Well, lady soldier? I do believe the great ruler of Uruk has demanded for your turban to be removed.”

She pulled off the fabrics, feeling her hair fall around her shoulders as she stared at the man.

“Where’s the princess of Uruk?”

“Princess? There’s only me.”

Fuck.

This had been a suicide job.

[conseille]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water. cats. taboo desires. tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence.  isolation. golden age hollywood.  sign language.  scales.  egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes.  smog. dance routines.  slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars. gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism. bloody handprints.  routines.  record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD  :  a doll in a gilded birdcage.  butter to bread. the death of a mother. cycles. hidden messages.  a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music.  restrained anger. spinning out of control.  artist and muse. dark love. pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself. rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound.  being ambushed. ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place. defiance.  ink to paper.  an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities. peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk. spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers.  tense climates.  distrust of authority. internal battles.  a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups.  defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption.  behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays.  war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle.  a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices. exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia.  orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations. facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR  : never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras.  beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers.  radio broadcasts. going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.  allies. shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms.  chandeliers.  dust floating in air. righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope. cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity. rescue missions. refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk.  suicide missions.  drums of war.  tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations. enveloped by fog.  changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI  :   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect. facing threats.  skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse. bashing in windows.  the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time.  rundown old houses. grey morality.  dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses. cruel laughs. the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red. not understanding another’s feelings.  a mother and child.  the pain of others.  a quest of justice. abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze.  driving to nowhere.  small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK  : burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes. a race against time.  a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home.  taken prisoner. shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash. sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain.  toast with jam.  suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma.  blank spaces.  sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness.  bullet holes. obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome. planes overhead.  the sounds of a ticking clock.  bullets ricocheting off metal.  people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction. rising tides.  head injuries. target practice.  compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.   blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

GET OUT  : deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places. something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical. bingo cards. smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will.  overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis.  a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea.  nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body.  black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance.  uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors.  apologizing.  boorish sex. prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities. the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era. rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands.  teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships.  menial jobs.  red hair. self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm. excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes.  smudged eye makeup. strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

tagged: @decepteur​ ( thank you ! loved this ) tagging: @rousseure​ @sunplagued​ @yenure​ @tigertempered​ @rakkirrrowch​ @thornvows​ @astralsung​ @florensflos​ @courtscaptor​ @xmenageriie​ @evokered​ @ravyndae​ @sakuraari​ @sampatii​ @favdream​ @xonismsx​ @rainatsu​ @daemonry​ @theycallmekaibara​ @raiiju​ @xking​ @fukenzena​ @esluthe​ @lcgcrity​ @turquoisedays​ @tcndrcssc​ @astrumstilla​ @bcbybats​ @midoriimu​ @monstheart​ @ukubi​ & you

[vemodalarna]

The Glacier House

Characters: Fire Spirit Cookie & Sea Fairy Cookie (mentioned: Moonlight Cookie, Angel Cookie, Devil Cookie and Peppermint Cookie) Ships: none Word count: 1892 Description: Fire Spirit visits his sister.

wow! this blog has been seriously inactive, huh! here’s a fanfic i found on my phone and finished at 2 AM the day before the last day of school this year. not really edited but i love FS + SF content so it was just a matter of time that i posted this anyway. cross-posted on AO3!

-----

Magic was an odd concept, even for deities like himself. How air could be filled with its properties, morphing and affecting everyone within its range was a mystery. Simply using a spell took a large toll on the sorcerer that cast it. It would drain one both physically and mentally, to the point where they would turn delirious. Only a few prodigies and masters could use spells safely. 

Fire Spirit, even though he was made from a spell so powerful it could take down an army, felt these limitations too. The fire underneath his skin would bubble aggressively and he'd feel the ground spiral beneath him.

It made Sea Fairy's final creation all the more impressive.

His fingers ached and each time he moved them they groaned and cracked. Despite being made from ashes, forged by fire and nursed in its flames, Fire Spirit could feel the creeping cold crawling up his back.

The more he thought about how much turmoil Sea Fairy must've felt and how the magic must have started to seep out of her cold, fragile skin, the more bitter he became.

Sea Fairy was barely younger than him. When he started terrorizing the lands under the orders of the Witch, the silent woods and crashing ocean grew anxious. After many moonlit nights, the sea emerged and the forest joined shortly after.

Wind Archer never paid him much attention. The guardian was busy tending to the small villages of the first civilisations of cookies. The destruction Fire Spirit had caused was tremendous; almost no cookies had survived.

The guardian made of sand and water, however, was quick to join Moonlight's side to defeat Fire Spirit and his realm. She had no emotions in her eyes when she first struck at him, her mind was somewhere else when she had him pinned to the grass under him.

He remembered the sharp pointed edge of her crystal sword and the fear he felt when she stared into his eyes. His arms felt scratchy when he remembered the water of her hair hitting his skin, his burning arms turning solid and dark.

Sea Fairy was a deity filled with justice and wisdom. When they first met, she had only existed for a year or so, but her posture and speech made her seem like she was a millennia old.

She was the only reason the fire legend even betrayed the witch. Her hidden kindness and passive interest in his well-being made Fire Spirit realise how pathetic and unhealthy his intentions were.

Their relationship kept on blossoming afterwards. Sea Fairy taught him justice and peace, while Fire Spirit taught her how to let herself feel and disconnect herself from her duties and destiny.

She eventually started falling apart. Fire Spirit could do nothing as he watched his friend- no, sister- desperately long for something else. Being a woman of few words, she never told him what bothered her so.

It only made the sour feeling Fire Spirit had in his stomach worse.

Could he have prevented this? It had been so long since he heard her voice. Where did his morals that she taught him so lovingly go?

Fire Spirit was a prankster. Nobody trusted him; not even his own people. They'd sacrifice things- belongings, money, food, or even other cookies- to keep him 'entertained'. He was a seducer, a gainer. Not someone to trust.

He had pushed away Moonlight when she came to console him. Fire Spirit was a shell of his former self and when he saw Moonlight's concerned eyes, he couldn't feel any pity. Just anger and sadness towards his lost family.

Shaking his head, he dragged his hand against the cold wall of her tower. The frozen bricks sizzled under his hand, but it didn't melt or deform. The enchanted ice was unbreakable, and he wondered how she managed. Just moving a simple flame for a longer period exhausted him- how had this spell not been broken yet? It had been centuries. Her power must surely have run out.

His heels clicked as he briskly walked upwards in the frozen columns. When she first froze all those hundreds of years ago, the tower wasn't a tower. It was merely a swirling wave, connecting at her waist. He vaguely remembers Moonlight making plans in Sea Fairy's honor, to make her final statement to this world a beautiful one. Fire Spirit just thought it was rude.

Grumbling, he grew impatient. Tapping his staff twice, he blasted up the halls, not wanting the lingering guilt to grow any larger.

He landed roughly on the glass surface at the top. Staring down at his reflection, Fire Spirit braced himself.

All around him was an even circle of sea foamed colored blue ice, mirroring the night sky above him. It was barren, nothing misplaced because there was nothing, except her and the small gifts placed around her from cookies brave enough to climb the tower. Enchanted flowers, potions and vials, and conchs and shells.

Frozen and destroyed she stood in the middle, her anguish and exhaustion written as clear as day. For anyone else, Sea Fairy would look longing and mysterious, but Fire Spirit knew her too well.

Her hands were reaching up, her back arched and her long pointed ears pulled downward. The moon shone bright, its light bouncing off her in waves. Sea Fairy seemed almost translucent in the soft light.

The edge of her sword was burrowed into the glass. It stood tilted, as if it froze mid throw. There were no cracks or unevenness around it; the plane stood untouched.

Fire Spirit had many times tried to pull it out- to feel it's comforting weight in his hands and give his beloved friend her life-line back. No matter how hard he pulled or how much he tried to melt the ground around it, the sword would not budge.

Tears were molded into her cheeks, a permanent sign on the aching in her heart. Despite the rumble of grief seeping into the air, her face was gentle and accepting. As if she had no regrets about giving up her life for the moon whom she loved, as if she knew this was the end of her pain.

Fire Spirit swallowed the clump growing in his throat as he looked at the familiar scene in front of him. "You... You idiot," he muttered, no malice evident in his voice. "You really went and did it this time, huh?" The fire deity chuckled, his mouth tasting like ash.

Sea Fairy did not respond. Obviously. Nothing but the waves could be heard, and Fire Spirit peered at his hands to avoid staring at the unmoving face of the individual he considered a sister. The fire under his skin bubbled in shame, and he could feel the weight on his shoulders pressing him down.

"... Actually, I'm the idiot here, right?" Fire Spirit squinted. "I haven't visited in so long, at least a couple of decades. Time flies by so fast when you're busy protecting the world, I guess. Yeah, if anyone's a fool, it's me.

"So much has happened since I last spoke to you- uh, Moonlight rebuilt her tower! Y'know the one... I knocked down- accidentally! But you probably know that," He could hear the sheepishness in his own voice and he cringed. "I have kids now- twins, actually. Devil and Angel cookie. They just showed up and slotted themselves into my life, which is saying a lot- I never was the father type," He smiled despite himself. "You'd like them. I know you always had a soft spot for kids. Even though my kids might both be tiny demons in disguise."

The moon shone quietly above them, luminating her face. Fire Spirit bounced impatiently on his feet as he looked anywhere but her almost closed, melancholic eyes. He hated this. Hated seeing her like this. He knew there was nothing he could do, not really, but the pain latched onto his core and would not let go.

"There's a new kid on the block, too. Pep- Peppermint? I believe? They're a good kid, very quiet," he chuckled, looking at the small blue conch at the bottom of her dress. "They hang around Moonlight a lot. Barely looks at me, but once they looked me straight in the eye and, uh... They have this conch, right? Pretty blue thing, they play tunes on it when they think nobody is around, and- yeah. Anyway, once they looked at me and took our their conch, and said that- ..."

Fire Spirit looked out at the horizon, watching the shores move softly. The moon shone and dispersed among them, and the fire deity couldn't help but feel nostalgic for something long, long ago. Sniffing, he forced himself to look back at the very cookie he considered family and look at her soft, clear eyes.

"... they got it from the sea," he smiled softly, feeling gushy. Stressed, he scratched his pointy ear. "Guess you don't have anything to do with that, huh? Of course you don't."

His feet clinked on the ice below him as he carefully strode closer to the statue. "But, if you do," he mumbled, stopping right in front of the statue. Hesitantly he wrapped his arms around her, nuzzling his face into her cold shoulders. It wasn't very comfortable, but his eyes stung anyway. "Can you at least give me a sign? Don't tell anyone, but by Moonlight, I miss you so much, Sea Fairy. I really do."

And so he cried. Warm drops of lava flowed down his cheeks, and slid down to the icy body he held. Despite his destructive tears, Sea Fairy's shoulder remained as still and as cold as ever. Fire Spirit still felt bad though, the twisting warmth of guilt pooling in his stomach. He could feel the orb at his very center cooling down, shifting uncomfortably.

He had no idea how long he stood there, weeping. He did not know whether he was weeping for her, her faith, or what she could have been, or if he was weeping for himself. For what he is, or what he could have done, or what he should have known. He swore he could feel her breath, feel her tears on his back, feel her cool presence drilling into his very soul.

When the sun was rising, he decided it was time to leave, before his surrogate children woke up to find an empty house. But he found as he tried to pull away, that he was locked in a close embrace. His swollen eyes glanced down at the shoulder he was resting on. It was no longer clear or shining by the sun, but rather warm and freckled like the beach. With a shaky inhale, he felt hands grabbing his arms gently, pulling him back.

And there she was. Her blue eyes alive, golden spots reflecting the yellow hue from the rising sun. Her freckled cheeks were peachy, her smile was small and her tears flowing. And before Fire Spirit could try to shake himself awake from this cruel dream, only to find himself alone in his home far away from his family, she spoke. She spoke in that voice he never could replicate in his mind, the voice that was the first thing to get lost to memory.

"Hello, brother."

[classlesstulip]

All I ask for is some fluff about Tiberius, I need more of this man being a big softy please.

Monday's are Chicken Days. It is Very Important that Ty ensures the chicken treats are refilled, otherwise the dogs will be mad.

(Yes, Ty has full conversations with his dogs. Doesn't every pet owner?)

"Alright, alright, I get it: YOU'RE HUNGRY. Just, lemme get to the damn kitchen!" Trying to walk around a pack of excited dogs, Tiberius nearly tripped as Mania's frantically wiggling backside nearly swept him off his feet. "FUCK! Hey! Do you want the chi-kan!? THEN COOL IT!" Rolling his eyes with a sigh as all five dogs started whining and whimpering at the word 'chicken', Ty eventually was able to thump his way into the kitchen. Dodging vigorously wagging tails, he made his way over to the coldchest. Opening it up revealed a most disappointing sight: NO CHICKEN.

"Ohhhh NOOOOO! We have no more chicken! What'r we gonna do, girls!? Your Papa has failed to keep the chicken box full!" He snickered as the dogs started barking and whining, a few of them slumping in disappointment, with Morphea just flat out collapsing onto her side with a groan.

Laughing at the weekly ritual, Ty reached into the coldchest and pulled out a few large roasting chickens, gizzards and all. "A-HA! Look, girls, we're saved! Papa can make you your boiled chicken treats! We're saved!"

Hopping over and around happily dancing dogs, he brought the three chickens over to his butchers block. Peeling off the silk sacks they come in, he let them rest for a few minutes as he got his supplies together. Filling up and placing three large stockpots on the stove, he set them to gently simmer before sharpening his cleaver and paring knives. By the time he had washed up properly, the girls were settled in their customary corner, wedged against each other in front of the pantry.

With a thick thump, Ty started quartering his chickens. Splitting the breast, he then jointed the thighs and wings. Pulling out the livers and giblets, he set them into a large bowl to fry up later, after he's got the meat boiling.

*whiinnnne*

"Yes, Morea, Papa is making the chicken." *THUMP!*

*whimper*

"No, Murcia, I will NOT be hand feeding you. Quit being so lazy!" *THUMP!*

Once the first chicken had been quartered, Ty turned up the heat on the stove. Peeling off the skin, he then dumped the chicken piece by piece into a pot. Once finished, he moved onto the next chicken.

Once all the chickens were quietly boiling away, a large cast iron skillet was brought out. Plopping a large pat of butter inside, he quickly fried up the chicken skins to be nice and crispy. Pulling them out, he then tumbled in the livers and giblets. Behind him, he could hear hard claws dancing and thick tails thumping as the dogs food cooked.

Little piggies!

Crunching on a piece of chicken skin, Ty placed a fine mesh strainer over a large bowl. Dumping the skillet out over it, he left the livers to cool as the rich juices drained out. He REALLY needs to save those juices; it will be important for several sauces and roux's he makes on the regular.

"A-woowoowooooo..."

"Mab? What have I told you about being a brat?" A loud *boof!*. "That's right. Don't be one. And just what were you doing?" Another, quieter *boof*. "That's what I thought."

Once the chicken offal had cooled, Ty divied it up into five equal portions. Plopping the bowls onto the dog mat near the back door, it was only a matter of seconds before snorts and licks filled the room as each dog dove into her food.

Finishing up his snack of skins, Ty then returned to his skillet. Adding more butter, he mixed it with a splash of wine and the drippings. Whisking it, he deglazed the skillet, mixing until everything was well combined and smooth.

Leaving his pan sauce to reduce a little bit, he checked on his chicken. Already, a fine layer of fat had started foaming. Skimming it off of one pot, he then quickly turned off the flame under his skillet and transfered the sauce into a glass jar to cool. Returning to his pots, his ears picked-up a VERY familiar sound:

*ring**ring**ring*

Looking over his shoulder, Ty's suspicions were confirmed; Murcia is food motivated, and was currently trying to lick her bowl out of existance, snorting as her muzzle pushed the thick clay dish across the floor.

"Murci! You piggy! Stop it!" Getting a derisive snort in return, Ty again rolled his eyes as the girls lazily settled down in their corner.

Finishing skimming off the chicken, he then fished out the finished quarters, knowing that by the time he's done shredding them, everything else will be done.

His timing, as always, was perfect: once the legs and wings were separated from their bones and shredded with two forks, the rest of the carcasses needed attention. Putting the clean bones into his 'stock sack' in the coldchest, he then got to shredding the rest of the meat.

Once he was finished, the girls had perked up a bit. Interest chuffs sounded out from furry faces, with Mania letting out a loud, excited, rolling *boof!*

"Hey!"

As she settled back down, Ty quickly finshed what little was left. Leaving the chicken out to cool before storing, he quickly set-up what he calls a 'No Doggie!' ward. He's learned the hard way that chicken is like a drug to Standing Hounds. He has lost uncounted chickens to the little heathens!

*****

"Darling, I'm home! Did you miss me!?" The door slamming behind him, Julian had just enough time to set his shopping bags down before he got greeted by the Furry Welcome Wagon. "Oh, whosa my good girls!? Are you my good girls!? Yes, yes you are!"

As each dog stood on her hind legs to leave kisses all over a blushing face, Julian could hear puttering in the kitchen. Gently shooing the girls aside, he quickly removed his shoes, hung up his coat and workbag, and brought the small bit of grocery shopping with him.

"Hey, Sweetheart. Had a hankering for chicken and corn chowder. You got home just in time."

Setting the bags down on the counter, Julian watched as Ty pulled out a baking tray full of butter rolls, breathing deep the warm, rich scent. "I'm not going to lie, that sounds wonderful!" Quickly putting away the odds and ends he had picked up, the last things to be stored were the weekly roasting chickens.

By the time he had finished, Ty had already served up two bowls of chowder over torn-up rolls. Ty must have used his famous pan sauce to make the roux; Julian swears that just a tablespoon of that liquid gold can turn any meal from 'good' to 'amazing'.

Mouth watering, Julian quickly washed up. Plopping down into his seat, he placed a napkin in his lap before scooping up his spoon. Nearly vibrating in anticipation, he dipped his spoon, scooped up some creamy chicken goodness, and leaned forward-

"MURCIA! What have I told you about begging at the table!?"

[wishfell]

best picture nominees (2018) aesthetics.

the shape of water.  early mornings.  art on an easel.  being trapped.  flashy cars.  self-righteous intolerance.  speaking volumes without a word.  being submerged.  learning and adapting.  raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water.  cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia.  kissing underwater.  silence.  isolation.  golden age hollywood.   sign language.   scales.  egg shells.  jell-o.  the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features.  the space race.  red coats.  monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats.  lunches in brown bags.  the click of shoes.  smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie.  toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets.  seeing past flaws.  floating aimlessly.  needles.  greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars.  gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism.  bloody handprints.  routines.  record players.  old movies.  love in unexpected places.

phantom thread.  a doll in a gilded birdcage.   butter to bread.  the death of a mother.  cycles.  hidden messages.  a disruptive presence.  longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control.  post-war.  brightly colored socks.  inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations.  family dysfunction.  rich fabrics.  curses.  soft piano music.   restrained anger.  spinning out of control.  artist and muse.  dark love.  pastels.  peace in the countryside.  clockwork dynamics.  perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself.  rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread.  fine dining.  hearing every sound.  being ambushed.  ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place.  defiance.  ink to paper.  an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities.  peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk.  spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds.  high society.

the post.  typewriters.  newspapers.  tense climates.  distrust of authority.  internal battles.   a legacy at stake.  secrets.  cover-ups.  defending what you believe.  peering through windows.  melodrama.  political corruption.  behind closed doors.  sniffing a scoop.  ringing phones.  lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays.  war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle.   a weight on your shoulders.  fresh coffee.  thousands of deaths.  burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices.  exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches.  hierarchy.  a bed strewn with papers and books.  paranoia.  orders.  clicking keys.  redacted files.  desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations.  facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

darkest hour.  never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras.  beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation.  utter catastrophe.  bunkers.  radio broadcasts.  going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.  allies.  shouting matches.  small square windows.  selfishness.  walking with a cane.  war rooms.  chandeliers.   dust floating in air.  righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope.  cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam.  monarchy.  vanity.  rescue missions.  refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms.  taking a stand.  common folk.   suicide missions.  drums of war.  tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations.  enveloped by fog.  changing history.  blood, toil, tears and sweat.

three billboards outside ebbing, missouri.   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens.  the calmness of a deer.  strumming guitars.  grieving.  horrifying memories.  sucker punches.  a lack of respect.  facing threats.  skin under fingernails.  flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse.  bashing in windows.  the midwest.  provoking a fight.  pointing fingers.  being pressed for time.  rundown old houses.  grey morality.  dark undercurrents.  insurmountable losses.  cruel laughs.  the american flag.  dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames.  ambulances.  coughing up blood.  spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red.  not understanding another’s feelings.   a mother and child.  the pain of others. a quest of justice.  abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze.  driving to nowhere.  small towns.  last letters.  absurd violence.

dunkirk.  burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes.  a race against time.  a small boat.  all hope lost.  being unable to come home.  taken prisoner.  shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else.  setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash.  sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind.  dropping to take cover.  land, sea, and air.  entangled in chain.  toast with jam.   suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men.  lying in the sand.  trauma.   blank spaces.   sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun.  swallowed by darkness.  bullet holes.  obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome.  planes overhead.   the sounds of a ticking clock.   bullets ricocheting off metal.  people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction.  rising tides.  head injuries.  target practice.  compressed time and space.  the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.  blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

get out.   deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares.  tears and a smile.  deception.  fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor.  watching but powerless.  strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places.  something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical.  bingo cards.  smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good.  a hint of a smile.  a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them.  waiting for someone to come when they never will.   overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder.  silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis.  a battle of wills.  layers being peeled back.  a cup of tea. nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body.  black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies.  surgery.  blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection.  unable to sleep.  loyal friends.

lady bird.  california landscapes.  budding romance.  uniforms.  consolation.  plain and luscious colors.  apologizing.   boorish sex.  prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities.  the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere.  partying.  signatures on a cast.  living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era.  rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets.  monotonous hometowns.  shitty bands.  teenage anarchy.  drifting in and out of friendships.   menial jobs.  red hair.  self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm.  excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes.  smudged eye makeup.  strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters.  standing out.  decorated bedroom walls.  having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

TAGGED BY: @conseille ( tysm!! tfw i don’t know more than half of these movies...... orz ) TAGGING: @rousseure​, @megane-samurai​, @ikiruwill​, @pasttorn​, @benosuke​, @eiikyuu

[alexandriteobscuraarchive]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS Repost don’t Reblog

Muse: Howard Silk (Prime)**

**Howard Silk (Alpha) will be under the cut at the bottom!

THE SHAPE OF WATER

early mornings. art on an easel.  being trapped.  flashy cars. self-righteous. intolerance.  speaking volumes without a word.  being submerged.  learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water.  cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia.  kissing underwater.  silence. isolation.  golden age hollywood.  sign language.  scales.  egg shells.  jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race.  red coats.   monstrous fairy tales. lab coats.  lunches in brown bags.  the click of shoes. smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie.   toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets.   seeing past flaws.   floating aimlessly.  needles.  greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars.  gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism.  bloody handprints.  routines.  record players.  old movies.   love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD

a doll in a gilded birdcage.  butter to bread. the death of a mother.  cycles. hidden messages.   a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control.  post-war. brightly colored socks . inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction.  rich fabrics.  curses.   soft piano music.  restrained anger.   spinning out of control. artist and muse.  dark love.   pastels.  peace in the countryside.   clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.   giving up every piece of yourself.   rags to riches.  ghosts. new year’s.   lingering gazes.   needle and thread.   fine dining. hearing every sound.   being ambushed.  ego.   flowing dresses.   a person out of place.  defiance.  ink to paper.   an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities.   peepholes.   soothing elegance.   silk. spiral staircases.   driving at high speeds.    high society.

THE POST

typewriters.   newspapers.   tense climates.   distrust of authority.   internal battles.   a legacy at stake.   secrets.   cover-ups.   defending what you believe.   peering through windows.  melodrama.   political corruption.  behind closed doors.   sniffing a scoop.  ringing phones.  lying for over a decade.   cramming and crowding.   cold grays.   war.   fluorescent lights.   treason.   shuffled papers.   the jungle.   a weight on your shoulders.   fresh coffee. thousands of deaths.   burglary.   finding your voice.   risking everything.  propaganda.   tough choices.   exposure.   type being set by hand.   workplace rivalries.   abusing power.  security breaches.   hierarchy.   a bed strewn with papers and books.   paranoia.   orders.   clicking keys.   redacted files.   desk clutter.   cigarette smoke.   precious cargo.   vanished technologies.   suspenseful conversations.   facing charges.   courtroom battles.   suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR

never surrendering.  duty.   countless negotiations.   the flash of cameras.   beaches.   historic buildings.   guzzling booze.   resignation.   utter catastrophe.  bunkers.   radio broadcasts.  going against the odds.   bathed in red light.   a sense of humor.   allies.   shouting matches.    small square windows.   selfishness.   walking with a cane.   war rooms.   chandeliers.   dust floating in air.   righteousness.   a poor reputation.   an elevator surrounded by darkness.   a world at war.   needing a miracle.   interruptions.   a last hope.  cigar smoke.   quoting poetry.   photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam.   monarchy.   vanity. rescue missions.   refusing peace.   allied chambers.  military uniforms.   taking a stand.   common folk.   suicide missions.   drums of war.   tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance. complete collapse.   evacuations.   enveloped by fog.   changing history.   blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI

severe burns.   police uniforms.   sirens.   the calmness of a deer.    strumming guitars.  grieving.   horrifying memories.   sucker punches.   a lack of respect.   facing threats.  skin under fingernails.   flicking cigarettes.   awkward dates.  nasty rumors.   claustrophobia.   lush green pastures.   molotov cocktails.   the fire of anger and revenge.   strangers.  no remorse.   bashing in windows.   the midwest.  provoking a fight.  pointing fingers.   being pressed for time.   rundown old houses.   grey morality.   dark undercurrents.   insurmountable losses.   cruel laughs.   the american flag.   dive bars.   guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames.   ambulances.   coughing up blood.   spitting.   chewing on fingernails.   one versus many.   black and red.  not understanding another’s feelings.   a mother and child.   the pain of others.   a quest of justice.   abandoned billboards.   a hardened gaze.    driving to nowhere.   small towns.   last letters.   absurd violence.

DUNKIRK

burying a body.   warm cider.   narrow escapes.   a race against time.   a small boat.   all hope lost.   being unable to come home.   taken prisoner.   shipwrecks.   assuming the identity of someone else.   setting fire to it all.   smoke rising from a crash .  sea foam.   seaports.   rendered blind.   dropping to take cover.   land, sea, and air.    entangled in chain.   toast with jam.    suspense.   waiting for escape.   wounded men. lying in the sand.   trauma.   blank spaces.   sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun.   swallowed by darkness.   bullet holes.   obstacles and delays.   a hero’s welcome.   planes overhead.   the sounds of a ticking clock.   bullets ricocheting off metal.   people by the thousands.   shell-shocked.   the explosions of shells on shores.    the sound of destruction.  rising tides. head injuries.   target practice.   compressed time and space.   the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.   blocking out the noise.   primal dangers.   taking command.    sole survivor.

GET OUT

deer antlers.   suburbs.   hypnosis.   strange behavior.  familial tension.   chopping wood. uneasy stares.   tears and a smile.   deception.   fight or flight.   blindness.   survival.   sinking into the floor.  watching but powerless.   strapped to a chair.   plugged ears.   a failed handshake.  car accidents.   sunken places.   something out of a nightmare.   going hysterical.   bingo cards.   smoking cigarettes.   static on a television set.   doing more harm than good.   a hint of a smile.   a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them.  waiting for someone to come when they never will.   overturned candles.   wealthy garden parties.   constantly looking over your shoulder.   silence no matter how hard you scream.   trances.   catharsis.    a battle of wills.   layers being peeled back.   a cup of tea.  nosebleeds.   addiction.   last bits of life leaving a body.   black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds.   conspiracies.   surgery.   blankly polite speech.   noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.  a deer in headlights.   staring at your own reflection.   unable to sleep.   loyal friends.

LADY BIRD

california landscapes.   budding romance.   uniforms.   consolation.   plain and luscious colors.   apologizing.   boorish sex.   prom dresses.   secondhand dresses.   strong personalities.   the ups and downs of adolescence.   the theatre.   being simultaneously warm and scary.    battling depression.   90’s fashion.   dreaming of elsewhere.   partying.  signatures on a cast.   living on the wrong side of the tracks.   not being bound by any era.   rejection.   sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.   going behind backs.   disappointed parents.   catholicism.   poverty.   busy new york city streets.   monotonous hometowns.   shitty bands.   anarchy.   drifting in and out of friendships.   menial jobs.   red hair.   self-given names.   coming-of-age.   a broken arm. excessive drinking.   first kisses.   cupcakes.   smudged eye makeup. bruises gained unknowingly.   strained relationships.   screaming in the middle of the street.   thoughtful letters.   standing out.   decorated bedroom walls.   having a change of heart.   expressing individuality.

Muse: Howard Silk (Alpha)

THE SHAPE OF WATER

early mornings.  art on an easel.  being trapped.  flashy cars. self-righteous. intolerance.  speaking volumes without a word.  being submerged.  learning and adapting.  raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water.  cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia.  kissing underwater.  silence. isolation.  golden age hollywood.  sign language.  scales.  egg shells.  jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies. creature features. the space race.  red coats.   monstrous fairy tales. lab coats.  lunches in brown bags.  the click of shoes.  smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie.   toxic masculinity.  chains.  government secrets.   seeing past flaws.   floating aimlessly.  needles.  greens and blues. deep, inexorable scars.  gills.  music from the 30′s.  retro-futurism.  bloody handprints.  routines.  record players.  old movies.   love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD

a doll in a gilded birdcage.  butter to bread. the death of a mother.  cycles. hidden messages.   a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control.  post-war. brightly colored socks . inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction.  rich fabrics.  curses.   soft piano music.  restrained anger.   spinning out of control. artist and muse.  dark love.   pastels.  peace in the countryside.   clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.   giving up every piece of yourself.   rags to riches.  ghosts. new year’s.   lingering gazes.   needle and thread.   fine dining. hearing every sound.   being ambushed.  ego.   flowing dresses.   a person out of place.  defiance.  ink to paper.   an artist tortured by their art.  obsessive personalities.   peepholes.   soothing elegance.   silk. spiral staircases.   driving at high speeds.    high society.

THE POST

typewriters.   newspapers.   tense climates.   distrust of authority.   internal battles.   a legacy at stake.   secrets.   cover-ups.   defending what you believe.   peering through windows.  melodrama.   political corruption.  behind closed doors.   sniffing a scoop.  ringing phones.  lying for over a decade.   cramming and crowding.   cold grays.   war.   fluorescent lights.   treason.   shuffled papers.   the jungle.   a weight on your shoulders.   fresh coffee. thousands of deaths.   burglary.   finding your voice.   risking everything.  propaganda.   tough choices.   exposure.   type being set by hand.   workplace rivalries.   abusing power.  security breaches.   hierarchy.   a bed strewn with papers and books.   paranoia.   orders.   clicking keys.   redacted files.   desk clutter.   cigarette smoke.   precious cargo.   vanished technologies.   suspenseful conversations.   facing charges.   courtroom battles.   suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR

never surrendering.  duty.   countless negotiations.   the flash of cameras.   beaches.   historic buildings.   guzzling booze.   resignation.   utter catastrophe.   bunkers.   radio broadcasts.  going against the odds.   bathed in red light.   a sense of humor.   allies.   shouting matches.    small square windows.   selfishness.   walking with a cane.   war rooms.   chandeliers.   dust floating in air.   righteousness.   a poor reputation.   an elevator surrounded by darkness.   a world at war.   needing a miracle.   interruptions.   a last hope.   cigar smoke.   quoting poetry.   photos of a loved one.   a single sunbeam.   monarchy.   vanity. rescue missions.   refusing peace.   allied chambers.  military uniforms.   taking a stand.   common folk.   suicide missions.   drums of war.   tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance. complete collapse.   evacuations.   enveloped by fog.   changing history.   blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI

severe burns.   police uniforms.   sirens.   the calmness of a deer.    strumming guitars.  grieving.   horrifying memories.   sucker punches.   a lack of respect.   facing threats.  skin under fingernails.   flicking cigarettes.   awkward dates.  nasty rumors.   claustrophobia.   lush green pastures.   molotov cocktails.   the fire of anger and revenge.   strangers.  no remorse.   bashing in windows.   the midwest.  provoking a fight.  pointing fingers.   being pressed for time.   rundown old houses.   grey morality.   dark undercurrents.    insurmountable losses.   cruel laughs.   the american flag.   dive bars.   guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames.   ambulances.   coughing up blood.   spitting.   chewing on fingernails.   one versus many.   black and red.  not understanding another’s feelings.   a mother and child.   the pain of others.   a quest of justice.   abandoned billboards.   a hardened gaze.    driving to nowhere.   small towns.   last letters.   absurd violence.

DUNKIRK

burying a body.    warm cider.   narrow escapes.   a race against time.   a small boat.   all hope lost.   being unable to come home.   taken prisoner.   shipwrecks.   assuming the identity of someone else.   setting fire to it all.   smoke rising from a crash .  sea foam.   seaports.   rendered blind.   dropping to take cover.   land, sea, and air.    entangled in chain.   toast with jam.    suspense.   waiting for escape.   wounded men. lying in the sand.   trauma.   blank spaces.   sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun.   swallowed by darkness.   bullet holes.   obstacles and delays.   a hero’s welcome.   planes overhead.   the sounds of a ticking clock.   bullets ricocheting off metal.   people by the thousands.   shell-shocked.   the explosions of shells on shores.    the sound of destruction.   rising tides.  head injuries.   target practice.   compressed time and space.   the perennial threat of death.  oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good.   blocking out the noise.   primal dangers.   taking command.    sole survivor.

GET OUT

deer antlers.   suburbs.   hypnosis.   strange behavior.  familial tension.   chopping wood. uneasy stares.   tears and a smile.   deception.   fight or flight.   blindness.   survival.   sinking into the floor.  watching but powerless.   strapped to a chair.   plugged ears.   a failed handshake.  car accidents.   sunken places.   something out of a nightmare.   going hysterical.   bingo cards.   smoking cigarettes.   static on a television set.   doing more harm than good.   a hint of a smile.   a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them.  waiting for someone to come when they never will.   overturned candles.   wealthy garden parties.   constantly looking over your shoulder.   silence no matter how hard you scream.   trances.   catharsis.    a battle of wills.   layers being peeled back.   a cup of tea.   nosebleeds.   addiction.   last bits of life leaving a body.   black and white photography.   sprinting at high speeds.   conspiracies.   surgery.   blankly polite speech.   noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.  a deer in headlights.   staring at your own reflection.   unable to sleep.   loyal friends.

LADY BIRD

california landscapes.   budding romance.   uniforms.   consolation.   plain and luscious colors.   apologizing.   boorish sex.   prom dresses.   secondhand dresses.   strong personalities.   the ups and downs of adolescence.   the theatre.   being simultaneously warm and scary.    battling depression.   90’s fashion.   dreaming of elsewhere.   partying.  signatures on a cast.   living on the wrong side of the tracks.   not being bound by any era.   rejection.   sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis.  a place that looks like a memory.   going behind backs.   disappointed parents.   catholicism.   poverty.   busy new york city streets.   monotonous hometowns.   shitty bands.   anarchy.   drifting in and out of friendships.   menial jobs.   red hair.   self-given names.   coming-of-age.   a broken arm. excessive drinking.   first kisses.   cupcakes.   smudged eye makeup. bruises gained unknowingly.   strained relationships.   screaming in the middle of the street.   thoughtful letters.   standing out.   decorated bedroom walls.   having a change of heart.   expressing individuality.

[reincarneth-moved]

BEST PICTURE NOMINEES (2018) AESTHETICS.   repost, don’t reblog. bold whatever applies. tag whoever you want and feel free to add to the categories.

THE SHAPE OF WATER : early mornings. art on an easel. being trapped. flashy cars. self-righteous intolerance. speaking volumes without a word. being submerged. learning and adapting. raindrops on windows.  bubbles rising in water. cats.  taboo desires.  tanks of water.  kitschy nostalgia. kissing underwater. silence.  isolation. golden age hollywood. sign language. scales.  egg shells. jell-o. the smell of cleaning supplies.  creature features. the space race. red coats. monstrous fairy tales.  lab coats. lunches in brown bags. the click of shoes.  smog.  dance routines.  slices of pie. toxic masculinity. chains. government secrets. seeing past flaws. floating aimlessly. needles. greens and blues.  deep, inexorable scars. gills.  music from the 30′s. retro-futurism. bloody handprints.  routines.  record players. old movies. love in unexpected places.

PHANTOM THREAD  :  a doll in a gilded birdcage. butter to bread. the death of a mother father. cycles. hidden messages.  a disruptive presence. longing.  wedding gowns.  posh control. post-war. brightly colored socks. inner turmoil.  poison.  an air of quiet death.  hallucinations. family dysfunction. rich fabrics. curses. soft piano music. restrained anger. spinning out of control.  artist and muse.  dark love.  pastels. peace in the countryside. clockwork dynamics. perfection.  wild mushrooms.  giving up every piece of yourself.  rags to riches.  ghosts.  new year’s.  lingering gazes.  needle and thread. fine dining. hearing every sound.  being ambushed. ego.  flowing dresses.  a person out of place. defiance.  ink to paper. an artist tortured by their art. obsessive personalities.  peepholes.  soothing elegance.  silk. spiral staircases.  driving at high speeds. high society.

THE POST : typewriters. newspapers. tense climates.  distrust of authority. internal battles. a legacy at stake. secrets. cover-ups.  defending what you believe. peering through windows. melodrama. political corruption. behind closed doors. sniffing a scoop. ringing phones. lying for over a decade.  cramming and crowding.  cold grays. war.  fluorescent lights.  treason.  shuffled papers.  the jungle. a weight on your shoulders. fresh coffee. thousands of deaths. burglary.  finding your voice.  risking everything.  propaganda. tough choices. exposure.  type being set by hand.  workplace rivalries.  abuses of power.  security breaches. hierarchy. a bed strewn with papers and books. paranoia.  orders. clicking keys. redacted files. desk clutter.  cigarette smoke.  precious cargo.  vanished technologies.  suspenseful conversations. facing charges.  courtroom battles.  suits and ties.

DARKEST HOUR  : never surrendering.  duty.  countless negotiations.  the flash of cameras. beaches. historic buildings.  guzzling booze.  resignation. utter catastrophe. bunkers.  radio broadcasts. going against the odds.  bathed in red light.  a sense of humor.   allies. shouting matches.  small square windows. selfishness. walking with a cane. war rooms. chandeliers. dust floating in air. righteousness.  a poor reputation.  an elevator surrounded by darkness.  a world at war.  needing a miracle.  interruptions.  a last hope. cigar smoke.  quoting poetry.  photos of a loved one.  a single sunbeam. monarchy. vanity.  rescue missions. refusing peace.  pallid chambers.  military uniforms. taking a stand. common folk. suicide missions.  drums of war. tears down sullen cheeks.  reluctance.  complete collapse.  evacuations. enveloped by fog.  changing history. blood, toil, tears and sweat.

THREE BILLBOARDS OUTSIDE EBBING, MISSOURI  :   severe burns.  police uniforms.  sirens. the calmness of a deer. strumming guitars. grieving. horrifying memories. sucker punches. a lack of respect.  facing threats.  skin under fingernails. flicking cigarettes.  awkward dates.  nasty rumors. claustrophobia.  lush green pastures.  molotov cocktails.  the fire of anger and revenge.  strangers.  no remorse. bashing in windows.  the midwest. provoking a fight. pointing fingers. being pressed for time.  rundown old houses. grey morality.  dark undercurrents. insurmountable losses.  cruel laughs.   the american flag. dive bars. guilty no matter what.   buildings in flames. ambulances. coughing up blood. spitting.  chewing on fingernails.  one versus many.  black and red. not understanding another’s feelings. a mother and child.  the pain of others. a quest of justice. abandoned billboards.  a hardened gaze. driving to nowhere.  small towns. last letters. absurd violence.

DUNKIRK  : burying a body.  warm cider.  narrow escapes. a race against time. a small boat. all hope lost. being unable to come home.  taken prisoner. shipwrecks.  assuming the identity of someone else. setting fire to it all.  smoke rising from a crash. sea foam.  seaports.  rendered blind. dropping to take cover. land, sea, and air. entangled in chain.  toast with jam. suspense.  waiting for escape.  wounded men. lying in the sand. trauma. blank spaces. sinking ships.  commended a hero.  cocking a gun. swallowed by darkness. bullet holes. obstacles and delays.  a hero’s welcome. planes overhead. the sounds of a ticking clock. bullets ricocheting off metal. people by the thousands.  shell-shocked.  the explosions of shells on shores.  the sound of destruction. rising tides.  head injuries. target practice.  compressed time and space. the perennial threat of death. oil ignited into flames.  lying for the greater good. blocking out the noise.  primal dangers.  taking command.  sole survivor.

GET OUT  : deer antlers.  suburbs.  hypnosis.  strange behavior.  familial tension.  chopping wood.  uneasy stares. tears and a smile. deception. fight or flight.  blindness.  survival.  sinking into the floor. watching but powerless. strapped to a chair.  plugged ears.  a failed handshake.  car accidents.  sunken places. something out of a nightmare.  going hysterical.  bingo cards. smoking cigarettes.  static on a television set.  doing more harm than good. a hint of a smile. a stranger in any environment that is foreign to them. waiting for someone to come when they never will. overturned candles.  wealthy garden parties.  constantly looking over your shoulder. silence no matter how hard you scream.  trances.  catharsis. a battle of wills. layers being peeled back. a cup of tea. nosebleeds.  addiction.  last bits of life leaving a body. black and white photography.  sprinting at high speeds. conspiracies. surgery. blankly polite speech.  noise of a spoon scraping across a teacup.   a deer in headlights. staring at your own reflection. unable to sleep. loyal friends.

LADY BIRD : california landscapes. budding romance.  uniforms. consolation. plain and luscious colors.  apologizing. boorish sex. prom dresses.  secondhand dresses.  strong personalities. the theatre.  being simultaneously warm and scary.  battling depression.  90’s fashion.  dreaming of elsewhere. partying. signatures on a cast. living on the wrong side of the tracks.  not being bound by any era. rejection.  sparklers.  thrift stores.  high school.  identity crisis. a place that looks like a memory.  going behind backs.  disappointed parents.  catholicism.  poverty.  busy new york city streets. monotonous hometowns. shitty bands. teenage anarchy. drifting in and out of friendships. menial jobs.  red hair. self-given names.  coming-of-age.  a broken arm. excessive drinking.  first kisses.  cupcakes. smudged eye makeup. strained relationships.  screaming in the middle of the street.  thoughtful letters. standing out. decorated bedroom walls. having a change of heart. expressing individuality.

tagged: @bojoukken​ tagging: @kaerux​ @fmthefm​ @nostomannia​ @fxtelism​ @precure-memory​ @batoushoujo​ @sukiban​ and whoever else wants to do this-