#hourglass-meadow

[zarla-s]

i noticed you like to use Radic a lot as a player character name. is there a reason behind that or do you just like it?

Haha I do like it! I first used it back when I was playing Chrono Trigger as a kid since Radical wouldn't fit, and I liked the sound of it so I kept using it, and eventually I just defaulted to using it in every game that gave me the option to name the character. :B It's great since its unisex and works in every situation! It predates Zarla actually, but I only ever used it for games. Me using that name in like every game I ever played made the whole ending monologue of the Murder run in Undertale have extra significance to me as a result.

[kafus]

i'm curious who's the One Other Person who makes scenecore art in a way that resonates with you. whenever i see others draw it it just feels so... forced and insincere. and that's why i hate modern scenecore

is this ask in response to a specific post by chance? i'm not sure which artist you're referring to but if i see the og post that inspired this question it might come back to mind lol

[soaricarus]

hey did you do the slugcat sheet yet

not yet there's like 50+ and i keep getting distracted (and the wiki was down when i needed it and had motivation). the adhd do be like that. i'll @ you when i do post it

[obsidiannebula]

but when I put my work out there no one gives a shit. even the AI gets more of a reaction out of others, even if its purely negative. admit it, people only started to pretend to care about smaller artists and writers to stick it to the AI techbros

You're experiencing something that every creative on the planet has been struggling with since forever: the crushing disappointment of "I worked really hard on this but nobody even seems to notice it."

We've all been there. It sucks. We tend to feel a need for recognition and validation when we do or make something. Just about every artist or writer on here has experienced that disappointment, and wondered in despair if it's even worth continuing to make and post the things they make. After all, why put in all that effort to make something and share it, when nobody seems to care? Why keep investing so much into something you love, only to share it and find that no one else appreciates it like you do?

Well, if you've been in creative circles for a while, you've actually probably seen some answers to this question. See, we HAVE cared about our fellow small creators since long before """AI""" was really a concern. For years we've been making and sharing posts to help and uplift each other. We've told each other, don't create with the hope of getting fame and adulation, or you'll almost certainly be disappointed. We've told each other, create for your friends, for the 3 people who are as deeply invested in your rarepair or niche fandom as you are, create for yourself, create for the joy of creation. We've spread posts reminding people that a like is nice, but if you really enjoy someone's art, it helps the creator much more to reblog it, because it increases the work's visibility and reach. We have encouraged people to commission artists- and we have actually done so! See my little icon in the corner there? I commissioned that from a friend, who is a small artist themself. (@oriathura here and on the website formerly known as Twitter, in case anyone would like to commission them!)

The creative community has been supporting each other for a long time, whether you were aware of it or not. I've been on Tumblr since 2017, and have been following artists and writers that whole time, and began posting my own art and writing soon after joining. I have seen thousands of posts of the sort I described, trying to help motivate, reassure and uplift other creators. I have seen friends and mutuals get discouraged by the lack of response to their art, and wonder if they should give up. I have seen them carry on anyway, and I have seen them grow and develop as artists. I have posted my own work and gotten silence in response, and I have persisted anyway and continued to improve my craft and make work that I am proud of, regardless of how many people saw it or validated me through praise.

Because I wanted something to exist, and I made it exist, and I deserve to be proud of that. No matter how many people saw it or liked it.

You didn't ask for advice, but I'm going to offer some, and you and any other creatives reading this can take it or leave it, as you like:

*Find community. Follow some creative people, maybe acquire some creative mutuals. Join a Discord server for artists and/or writers. Get involved with a small group of fellow creators and hype each other up!

*Learn how to tag your posts. Don't spam a bunch of unrelated tags, of course, but learn how to add plenty of relevant ones. Lots of people follow tags for characters, fandoms, and even the "my writing" and "fiction" tags- I know I do. That will put your post on the dash of some people who are following those tags. The more people who see it, the more likely it is to reach the people who will enjoy it- because no matter the subject or even quality of the work, there IS an audience for it. Following and posting in these tags may even help you find community!

*Make something with no intention of ever sharing it. If you love to create but find yourself discouraged and frustrated by a lack of positive response when you share your work, make something just for yourself and keep it to yourself. Learn to appreciate creation for creation's sake, for the joy you can bring yourself. If you're feeling really bold, make something and then destroy it. Rip it up, burn it, hit delete. Art is valuable even when it is fleeting.

*Create for an event. One of the best things that ever happened to my writing was participating in TAZ Pride Week 2018. I wrote a new fic every day for 8 days, pushing the limits of my creativity and writing skill. I tagged each work with the event tag, allowing others to find it and the organizer to reblog it to the event blog, which lots of people were following. Many people saw and enjoyed my work as a result. I saw the work of numerous others and was inspired. I even gained my first artsy mutual (aside from my irl friends) because of this event, so this can also help you with building community! People organize art and writing events all the time, especially for fandoms. Seek these out and see how you can get involved!

Sometimes, creating can feel like thankless work. But that doesn't mean it has no value. If it meant something to you, it was important. And it may become important to someone else one day. Some of my works that flopped hardest on publication are the ones that still get the occasional note or AO3 comment here and there months and years later, because they appealed to very few people, but those few people are very excited on the rare occasion they find something that scratches the particular itch they have!

When I was in 7th grade, we read Summer of My German Soldier. I don't know that I'd recommend the book to anyone else; in truth I don't remember much from it, aside from the main character getting a bad perm. But one quote from that book has stuck with me my whole life. It led to me the understanding of creation as a powerful, almost sacred act, regardless of how many people view it. For "there is more nobility in building a chicken coop than in destroying a cathedral."

[sakkiichi]

FROM ME TO YOU.

Because good things take time and it’s not too late for happy birthdays.

ft. Albedo x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, birthday special, reader is an amateur painter.

this is just something spontaneous that I came up with… I just… kinda gave free reign to whatever flashed through my mind once I was before the blank document, parting from a very vague idea I had haha.

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

Autumn’s cold always arrived early in Dragonspine.

The faraway rays of a molten copper halo fuse with the peaks outlined on the horizon.

Magic is the word you’d use to describe such scenery; seconds that seemed to both be suspended in the helpless passage of time, and slip between your fingers; like golden sand inside an hourglass too small to savor every snapshot brought by the incandescence of crepuscular skies.

On instances like this, you wished your painting skills were better; if only to capture the glow of early dreams threaded through the asters of twilight.

For now, however, this will have to do.

Why did you wait until so late for this, you are unsure.

True, wishing a happy birthday to someone as the clock strikes twelve is not an uncommon occurrence.

And you’re kind of doing just that, more or less.

Except…

Well, it’s usually when the special day starts that calls are made, starlit whispers are uttered between lovers, and secret kisses are exchanged.

So you can’t help but wonder… is it too late?

For this? Or to back out now?

A sigh escapes your chapped lips, into the dimness of dusk, the stillness of frozen peaks, the stars.

Stars.

Your gaze is drawn to the easel you’ve set before you, fingertips delicately trailing over the four-point asteroids decorating a heaven made of brushstrokes.

Gold pinpricks, almost aglow beneath the darkening penombre of sundown, over a backdrop of ultramarines and indigoes, akin to sunlight over the depth of a frozen sea; a mirror image of the sky now hovering over snowy plains.

Looking up, you find a firmament of constellations. Stories, sketched in the silver flames of light years away suns, above an infinity of obscurity.

Those tales, however, had a tendency for lighting up paths that fell victim to the constant fluttering snowflakes.

“Hello, dearest.” A voice, smooth, liquid dawnlight over dewed cecilia petals, greets. “Am I late?”

The sound of crunching snow fills the fire-lit silence, the torches from his camp casting him in tepid hues.

“Albedo!” You call him, turning around.

And when you do, you swear he alone outshines every galaxy you could ever dream of rendering on canvas.

Tendrils of midnight sun and honeycomb seem to meld together in the blonde locks framing the alchemist’s porcelain-like face. Spotless, argent light from distant stars kisses his skin, fading into flecks of sparkling acacia blossoms to halo his gaze.

Summer skies.

That’s the image his eyes always evoked: clear skies, endlessly blue, over meadows to lie on, the low grass soft beneath your forms, as hands entwined and fingers pointed above, determining the shapes of the occasional cottony clouds.

What a paradox, how someone who spent his days surrounded by ice could make sparks ignite in your heart, cheeks heating up like the embers that remained after the coziness of a homey hearth.

“Is there anything you needed my help with, love?” He asks, gloved hand running its thumb over the back of yours.

Your gaze flits from your intertwined hands to his smiling lips, taking in his features in full.

“Not exactly your help.” You offer, your own lips a moon shaped brushstroke of vermillion. “I just… would like you to see something.” Your hand squeezes his, as you swing your linked hands between the both of you. “It’s your special day today, after all, isn’t it?”

Your rhetoric is met by the alchemist’s windened gaze, followed by one of his subtle smiles.

Tugging him along, you guide him to the candle lit spot where your easel is propped up.

Why are you feeling nervous all of a sudden? You internally chide yourself, biting the inside of your cheek.

Relaxing your shoulders, you turn to face your lover, gaze averted when you mumble:

“It’s not much but…” You scuff one of your boots on the dirtied snow. “I just… I remembered your painting, ‘You and I’ and… well… you know… I…” Your lids close, your nose scrunched up in that way he always found utterly endearing. “I wanted to make a painting for you too!” You finally sputter, stepping aside so he can see your masterpiece.

From that moment on, Albedo would forever believe no starry night could ever come close to capture the sheer magic of your art.

Gilded speckles abound in your make-believe heavens, each of them a shade slightly different than the previous one. They rest against a backdrop of cyans, accentuated in baby blue around your handmade constellations, the piece’s finale, a violet horizon. Outlined against it, two figures seem to dance, their happy ending created by them, rather than foretold by the celestial bodies staring in envy at a proximity that doesn’t burn, but warms and completes.

“I know it’s not the best but-“

“It’s perfect.” Is the kreideprinz’s awestruck answer, as his svelte hands hover over the frame. “You’re perfect, [Y/n].” He blurts, still staring at your work.

Then, he meets your eyes again. Your face is in his tender hold, a fleeting frosted kiss landing on your lips.

“I love it.” He assures. ‘I love you.’ His dilated pupils confess.

“‘From me to you’. Its title.” Your hand reaches up, resting on top of his. “You know… I hope you didn’t think I had forgotten about today… I just… kinda wanted this to be your last memory of your day.”

With that, both your gazes fuse in a watercolor of each other’s lips, of the anticipation of feeling them against your own.

“Happy birthday, Bedo.” You utter, before leaning in.

And then, the night, the snow, the starshine, all fade away, in a myriad of rose colored frenzied blazes. Your hands lost in the ash blonde strands at his nape; his, pulling you closer by the waist. Your kiss is a nebula of pulsating light, undimmed by even the most ruthless blizzards, lighting up the ebony of the pines obscuring the moonlight. Frozen air is exhausted in your lungs, but you don’t care right now, not when you’re kissing your prince charming under the lights of an aurora that’s still hours away.

A few moments pass, with the stars orbiting marking the approach of midnight.

A snow-kissed breeze caresses both your faces when you part, causing a shiver to rake through your body.

Your prince’s arms wrap around you.

When you look at him, matching chuckles fill the night air.

Moments like this were worth waiting all day for.

[where-is-tom-scott-today]

I am here at the hourglass meadows

[fallenclan]

In another life, it was Goldenflare who was made medicine cat apprentice after Wildfang's death. Sunwish continued her training as a warrior.

...

When Sunwish felt Scorchstar's claws sink into her shoulders, a strange sense of clarity washed over her. Even as her back was slammed against the harsh stone terrain of the mountain FallenClan called home, Sunwish knew, in her heart, that this confrontation was inevitable.

"Nettlestem was wrong to have chosen you as her successor," Scorchstar hissed, claws digging deeper into Sunwish's flesh. "It should have been--" Sunwish's claws flashed, slicing across Scorchstar's throat before either molly had time to think. Scorchstar's word trailed off with a strangled noise and in a few moments she slid off Sunwish, collapsing beside her.

Sunwish tensed, slowing rolling back to her paws. She stared. What had she done? Surely, Scorchstar hadn't actually been meaning to kill her. No, Sunwish growled, glaring at the wheezing leader whose remaining two lives were draining like sand from an hourglass. I did what I had to. I was defending myself.

That's what Sunwish continued to tell herself even as she went back for help. Even as she lied, claiming she and Scorchstar had been attacked by rogues.

...

Sunwish isn't sure what she was expecting StarClan to look like. Perhaps a bustling crowd of cats, kits merrily chasing each other and elders lounging beside clear pools of water. What was presented to her was an eerily quiet meadow. Dread flooded her chest. Was this StarClan's way of rejecting her?

"Sunwish," a voice called, causing Sunwish's gaze to snap to a previously unseen figure. Wildfang. Wildfang's gaze was narrowed, stern but not quite cold. "I'm surprised you came."

"I was FallenClan's deputy at the time of Scorchstar's death. I'm here to receive my nine lives," Sunwish replied frigidly.

"You know what I mean," Wildfang snapped, growing agitated. "You were never meant to be a warrior, let alone deputy."

"And who decided that?" Sunwish retorted. "I never wanted to be a medicine cat!"

"It doesn't matter what you want. StarClan decided you would be my successor, yet you willfully ignored my message, allowing Goldenflare to step forward in your stead."

Sunwish scoffed. "Then why didn't you send the message to Scorchstar? I'm sure she would have been happy to force me into the role."

"I considered it," Wildfang admitted. "But I believed, wrongfully, that you would have the integrity to do what it takes. Perhaps if you had, Morningbloom wouldn't have perished."

Sunwish recoiled, incredulous. "Goldenflare did everything he could. There's no proof that I would have been able to save her." Still, a sliver of doubt hung in her mind. Was Morningbloom's death her fault?

"There's still time to-"

"No." Sunwish shook her head. "Either give me one of my lives or leave. I won't sit here while you chastise me like a wayward kit."

Wildfang sighed, disappointment glistening in her gaze. "Very well." She padded forward, resting her nose on Sunwish's head. "I give you this life for compassion. Don't let bitterness cloud your judgement. Some things will always be out of your control."

When the sharp pain from receiving her first life had faded, Sunwish opened her eyes to see Wildfang gone. In her place stood Nettlestem. Nettlestem's gaze was weary, a frown etched onto her face. She had been the cat to find Sunwish, bringing her into the clan with promises of adventure and comradery, the life of a warrior.

Sunwish opened and closed her mouth a few times before finally setting on: "I'll look after Otterslip." The tom had been crushed by his grief, losing not only his mothers but also Ivyleaf (who Sunwish had always suspected to be Otterslip's birth mother) in the span of just a few moons.

Nettlestem nodded solemnly, stepping forward. "I give you this life for judgement. Use yours well." As Nettlestem padded away, Sunwish was tempted to call out to her, but held back.

When Morningbloom stepped forward, Sunwish felt her breath catch in her throat. Morningbloom's gaze held a deep sadness, but also empathy. "Sunwish. I am sorry for everything that has been thrust upon your shoulders. I appreciate the kindness and friendship you've shown Goldenflare." Morningbloom purred softly, her gaze growing wet. "With the way Honeykit follows you around, I'd assume he's hoping to follow in your footsteps one day."

Sunwish lowered her gaze. It was true. She had been spending a lot of time helping out Goldenflare, as the tom was torn between his grief and his duties as medicine cat. There were many days when Sunwish, to her dismay, had a gaggle of kits following her around everywhere, demanding for early battle training and exciting stories. She had a fondness for each of Goldenflare and Morningbloom's kits, as well as Toro's two. Sunwish was especially close with Honeykit, not missing the way the kit watched her with open admiration. "I'm planning on mentoring Honeykit myself," Sunwish murmured.

Morningbloom smiled gently, padding forward. "I give you this life for new beginnings. Don't let the past haunt your every pawstep. I know you will do great things."

A few moments after Morningbloom had slunk back into the meadow, Ivyleaf appeared, seeming in a hurry. "I give you this life for forgiveness--for yourself, and for others." Rather than feel intense pain, as expected, Sunwish only felt a sensation akin to a light breeze ruffling her fur. When she opened her mouth to say something, Ivyleaf interrupted. "Tell Otterslip he is loved."

Sunwish's remaining lives were given in a blur, a rush of cats Sunwish didn't recognize either congratulating her or granting her a life only begrudgingly, until at last only one life remained.

Sunwish's ears immediately pinned at the sight of Scorchstar, who regarded Sunwish coldly. "It appears StarClan has deemed you worthy of nine lives, then."

"Brilliant observation," Sunwish snapped in reply, temper flaring. Why couldn't some other leader from some other clan give her her final life?

When Scorchstar took a step forward, Sunwish instinctively backed up, causing Scorchstar to let out a scoff. "I can't very well give you a life from five fox-lengths away, can I?"

Gaze baleful, Sunwish stalked forward instead, stopping only when her nose was practically touching Scorchstar's own. Satisfied, Scorchstar began: "I give you this life for wisdom, which in your youth you have not yet achieved." Sunwish bristled, nearly toppling over from the jagged spike of pain the life caused her. "With that," Scorchstar drawled. "I name you Sunstar and grant you guardianship of FallenClan."

Sunstar fought the wave of dizzyness that threatened to consume her as droves of StarClan cats drifted out of the meadow, all chanting her new name. When Scorchstar turned to pad off, Sunstar called out, "Scorchstar, wait!" The former leader turned back towards Sunstar, expression unreadable. "I--" Sunstar cleared her throat. "I'll be thrice the leader you ever were. Under my leadership, FallenClan will prosper. No one will ever have to wonder if they belong or if they are loved." If Scorchstar heard the note of pain in Sunstar's voice, she made no indication of it. "I will spend every last one of my new lives defending FallenClan. And I will honor your memory. We have never seen eye to eye, but that doesn't mean I will tarnish your name. The clan will continue to believe you died a hero at the claws of some rogue."

When Sunstar finished, Scorchstar only wrinkled her nose in distaste, unimpressed. "You mean the clan will never know that you murdered me?"

"I killed you in self defense. If I hadn't acted, you would have killed me," Sunstar spat, tail lashing.

"Spare me the theatrics. You aren't half so noble as you pretend you are. It's your own legacy you don't want tarnished."

Sunstar could feel StarClan fading as she began to wake up. Still, she pressed on. "I have done only what I've thought to be right. Can you say the same?"

Sunstar was awake before she could hear Scorchstar's reply. Goldenflare was watching her with wide eyes. Sunstar gave the tom a reassuring smile. Later, she would tell him about Morningbloom and all the other lost friends she had seen. For now, they would begin the journey back to camp. Whatever Scorchstar says, Sunstar was determined to do her best for FallenClan. Any lingering doubt she had was buried deep down, somewhere she'd only look in her darkest moments.

-🐉 (there may be some inaccuracies, as i wrote this from memory! i imagine in this universe, otterslip would eventually kill--or attempt to kill--sunwish to avenge scorchstar after he learns the truth)

OH FUCK THIS IS SO FUCKING GOOD AHHHHHHHH IM GOING INSANE

the fucking. oughhhhh god words arent working this is so good. the duel moral grayness of Sunstar and Scorchstar... the way Scorchstar tried to pin it on Sunstar even though she WAS GOING TO MURDER HER. AUGHHH this is so good

and I LOVE the idea of Otterslip going after Sunstar in this au you are giving me so many brain worms

[soldier-poet-king]

Fran's Winter 2024 Reads

January

The Tithenai Chronicles #2: All the Hidden Paths - Foz Meadows

The Tarot Sequence Bonus Stories: Scenes from the Holidays & The Great Atlantean Battle Royalchemy - KD Edwards

The Tarot Sequence #3: The Hourglass Throne - KD Edwards

Fullmetal Alchemist vol. 1-3 - Hiromu Arakawa

February

Under Jurisdiction #1: An Exchange of Hostages - Susan R Matthews

Cemeteries of Amalo #1: The Witness for the Dead - Katherine Addison [reread via audiobook]

The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor

Fullmetal Alchemist vol. 4 - Hiromu Arakawa

Notes of a Native Son - James Baldwin

Simon Snow #2: Wayward Son - Rainbow Rowell

March

My Bright Abyss: Meditation of a Modern Believer - Christian Wiman

Tian Guan Ci Fu: Heaven Official's Blessing vol. 1&2 - Mò Xiāng Tóng Xiù

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead - Tom Stoppard

[Non-fiction academic history that is SUPER specific to my current research and the collections I'm responsible for & I like to pretend I have *some* degree of anonymity here still]

Cemeteries of Amalo #2: The Grief of Stones - Katherine Addison [reread via audiobook]

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Tithe 2/2

Part One

Summary: Younger Gods AU - don't need to read the original fic to enjoy. (But you do need to read part one.)

18+ NSFW

Warnings: Neglect/abuse/manipulation, unhealthy relationship dynamics, SMUT (artisanal?), the whole-ass angst train, needlessly verbose prose for the "aesthetic," potential (minor) S2/comics spoilers

My master list for further reading

Recommended listening: Son Lux "Let Me Follow," and Ghostly Kisses "Blackbirds"

Next on the one shot list is a Hob x reader x Morpheus inspired by a prompt. And Younger Gods, of course. And the new, super-long mystery project.

Any of you lovely fucks want an AU of this AU? Like, with the Tom Ellis Lucifer? Same premise, wildly different story. I kinda want to write it, but I can't promise when it will appear. Let me know if there's an audience or if I should leave it on the back burner until it boils down to sludge.

Part Two

The bread runs out, and then the waterskin goes dry.

Her life becomes an hourglass, slowly draining as she waits to be remembered.

The Morningstar likes her best when she’s weakened, desperate, when there’s nothing but frantic hope left in her eyes, and it all belongs to the ruler of Hell. She hasn’t reached that point yet, but each day brings her a step closer, and if the Morningstar does not come, does not bring light to her cell, she’ll eventually fall beyond even that.

The last drop of water rolls over her parched tongue, leaving a damp trail that sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her cracked lips aren’t bleeding – yet. She’d rather be asleep before they do. This time, she won’t crawl back towards consciousness without a light to follow. Until the door opens, she’s determined to dream. Of all the things she may lose, her misery, her life in Hell is not at risk. But damned souls cannot enter the Dream Lord’s realm.

If she remains forgotten, she’ll lose her meadow and the storms that rush to greet her like old friends she never knew.

Dreams have become a finite resource, and she wants as many as she can hold before they disappear forever. The Dream Lord said he would not take them from her, but death might.

She curls into the dark, face tucked against cold stone, listening to the hollow shadows that keep her company. Until she drifts.

She escapes.

It’s so easy; it never fails to surprise her how quickly and far she goes in the space between breaths. Hell, she’s always been told, is the one place in the universe impossible to escape, but that just isn’t true.

One moment, she waits in the cold. The next, she rests in soft grass with rain washing her clean of cares.

The meadow bursts with life – slow-growing things and skies rolling thick with heavy clouds – all very busy existing. Peacefully thrumming with a green pulse removed from time. Each beat of the space’s verdant heart lasts a moment. An eternity.

She loves every inch of it, and the possibility of losing this home breaks her heart.

For a day, she stays in the grass. Unmoving. Bathing in the rain and the beams from the sun and moon that peek between thunderheads.

Although she imagines his eyes on her, suspects his touch in the rain and his attention in nodding daisies, the Dream Lord only returns on the third day. He did not visit – openly at least – as her rations slowly drained away. She can only guess why, but she sees the question unspoken, the unwanted answer that brought their last meeting to an end.

Maybe he senses the change, the deeper melancholy infecting her place of peace, and it’s called him back like an open wound left to fester.

He still cannot save her.

She knows.

She was the one to tell him, after all.

But when she looks up, knee-deep in the stream with the rain peppering kisses along her neck, she’s glad.

What can he take she isn’t already doomed to lose?

He’s a familiar face now, and she doesn’t have many of those. He stands in her sanctuary, and no bad thing can happen here. She refuses to believe otherwise. She needs faith in something. Her hope in the Morningstar fades in the dark with her half-mortal body, and her grey-sky meadow fills a flaking hollow in her chest.

There’s room in that hollow for him, too.

Her meadow is already a part of the Dreaming, and thus a part of its Lord. She found rest and safety in him before he waited at the edge of the woods, and if he wants to visit the stormy plain while she sleeps, who is she to deny him?

He doesn’t approach, and neither does she. He’s content to watch, studying her leisurely play like her wet ankles will tease out some great mystery, or the grass she weaves into a plait holds terrible riddles. But she only wants to feel flowing water over her skin. She only wants to make something green and fresh into a pretty wreath to set in the rushing stream.

When the sun catches the clouds on fire, and sunset burns hot pink and gold, she settles in a cluster of colorful weeds to wait for the stars. Yellow flowered sour grass, little wild violets, and bristling white clover peep up between her fingers, cushion her head as she lies back.

She feels the Dream King approach more than she hears him. It’s like the wind stops to bow, and his presence fills the little pause in the meadow’s pulse. Sitting beside her, he watches the sky clear. The clouds never hide the constellations when she dreams. They’re too wonderful to hide, even for the most liberating storm.

His eyes mirror the cosmos as he turns to her, enchanting. They should make him distant. Unreachable. But she swears she could name the constellations twinkling there.

“What brought you here?” she asks.

“A part of me has always been here. I am the Dreaming.”

She isn’t sure if he’s being obtuse on purpose, but she can’t remember the last time she felt free enough to ask questions, so she presses it, building a history between the two of them, growing their encounter into a connection.

“The first time I saw you. When you waited by the trees.”

Galaxies comb over her as she rests, looking up at him from the bed of weeds and wildflowers.

“Curiosity.” Honest and simple. It isn’t exactly a vulnerable confession, but he doesn’t have anything to prove to her, and she likes the honesty.

She wonders if it will stretch to the present.

“And this time?”

The light in his eyes sharpens as they narrow. He looks at her like he’s the one who asked the question, hunting for answers behind her eyes.

“Curiosity unsated. And –” He hesitates long enough she thinks he won’t continue, but when he does, his voice has something beyond a ruler’s curiosity, a trace of the stories buried in his gaze during their last encounter softening the words to a rumbling whisper. “Perhaps, concern for a dreamer.”

The last rind of orange sun dips under the horizon, and the stars jump to life, ignoring the twilight. They’re all eager to burn.

She rolls fully onto her back, smiling as she takes his gaze with her, and looks up. How many more nights of dreaming does she have left? How many stars can she count, and if she tallies them all, can she keep them when she goes?

He waits for her answer patiently, as sure and still as the dark he wears so well.

Since he didn’t lie to her, she can’t bring herself to lie to him, either.

“This may be my longest dream yet. And my last.”

She thought he was still a moment ago. But now the dream goes still with him, and he’s a black hole locking the world in his gravity. It’s only suspense. Not suffocation. It draws her without either having to move.

When he breathes again, the stars remember how to twinkle. The stream dares to run.

“Has the Morningstar forgotten you?”

“Yes.” She’s resigned to her death, but she already yearns for all these beautiful things she can’t keep. “I wish this were real.” So she could tuck a flower in her pocket to smell when she wakes. So she could cradle a star in her palms during the coldest nights of her pitch dark cell.

More than anything, she wants the storms to follow her home like a stray dog.

“Your life here is as real as what you feel in the waking world.” He pauses. Corrects himself. “In Hell.”

Her view fogs over, and she blinks quickly, before any tears leak down her face. She doesn’t try to hide the misery in her voice. “That just makes it worse, though.”

A shooting star arcs overhead. Instead of a wish, she pins her fears and regrets to it, hoping it will take them far, far away, leaving her to enjoy however many dreams she has left in peace.

----------------------------------------------

He leaves less and less.

For the first week, he comes every other night. Then he appears with the stars. Eventually, he arrives early enough to see the sun set and lingers long enough to watch it rise again. A growing pattern spreads like a bright stain: the weaker she becomes, the closer he sits. The longer he stays.

Rain still falls, thunder grumbles, and lightning flashes quick as thought. It’s all still her, all still her dream and her place, but she’s dying, and they both know it.

Eventually, it becomes a matter of leaving when he must rather than visiting when he can.

She isn’t sure why he cares. He oversees all dreamers, and the Dreaming expands beyond even those countless billions. She waits for the right opportunity to pose the question – a bright afternoon when the then clouds glow with the sun and dim rainbows hover over the trees. Everything tastes possible.

“I am the Dreaming, but I believe this corner of my realm would crumble away without you.” He buries his long fingers in the grass, tilts his head back to study the gathering clouds. “The meadow is mine, but the storms are yours, and their energy feeds everything that grows here. I could create a facsimile without your rain, but…”

His endless eyes turn to illuminate her, expressing all the dangerous things hanging like forbidden fruit between his words.

It would not be the same.

It would not feel like her.

It would lack the smells and shades of her untrained, demi-god soul.

And he would miss it.

He would miss her.

How should she tell him she will miss him, too?

“Dream Lord –”

He interrupts her. “You’ve given of yourself, and I enjoy your company. Please.” His chin drops so he can eye her through his lashes, and she isn’t sure if it’s an invitation or a dare. “Call me Morpheus.”

Her mouth feels strangely dry as she meets those eyes – dark in spite of the stars they hold. “Morpheus.”

“Yes.” His deep voice drops even lower, pushing her thoughts aside like a puff of dandelion seeds. “What name do you wish me to use?”

The dandelion seeds fly back to the stem and turn to stone. She looks away, humiliated, wondering if he’ll just forget he asked and tell her something new instead. But, patient as ever, he waits, though he seems aware the question wasn’t taken as intended.

She lets the silence sit until it’s awkward, until the shame and horror burn in her throat, begging for some kind of release. The answer chokes its way free.

“People call me things, but I don’t have my name. The fae didn’t think I needed it. The Morningstar calls me Rain. But that isn’t my name.” It all tastes like vomit. Ugly and undeserving of the quiet meadow. He’s given her permission to call him by name, and it’s a wonderful gift, but she can only show her scars to excuse her failure to offer the same. “I have no name to give you.”

That strikes him. When she dares to look him in the face, she sees the empathy. His slackened expression holds no judgement. He doesn’t mock her or take back what he’s shared. Frustration lies in the way his eyebrows pinch, though, and she’s seen it there before.

He’s found a limit to his power, and he doesn’t like it.

This time, instead of placing her alone in the field and leaving, he folds the narrow space between them so she presses into his side, under an arm that brings her even closer.

It’s a denial on his part. Who would dare pluck a dreamer from the defense of the Dream King’s arms?

She chooses to accept his embrace regardless. It’s the first she’s enjoyed in quite some time. The best by far, even if he’s claiming something she hasn’t expressly given permission to take.

With his chin resting on her head, he murmurs, “We shall find it for you, and you will have any name you wish until that day.”

Like she has time to wait. Time and opportunity to search the waking world for the name her mother gifted her.

She doesn’t have the strength to argue. She wonders if he says these things because he knows, too.

----------------------------------------------

The storm rages through the meadow. She feels herself slipping fast, but she irrationally hopes if she pushes more of herself into the dream, some fragment will live on. Morpheus can keep it. He can keep the meadow and the chaotic weather. Her afterlife will keep her away, but she doesn’t want to leave him lonely in a dusty field.

They stand together by the stream because she’s sick of lying down and waiting for the end, even if she feels it biting her heels. She’ll meet death on her own two feet. His arms keep her upright, pulled close to his chest.

Only days left now. Maybe hours. She fights to stay in her dreams, aware of the throbbing headache and spiking pain in her physical belly. It all washes through the link to flesh and bone, echoes that manifest in her dream. She’s lucid enough to recognize them for what they are, and she’s lucid enough to ignore them. She chooses the dream. Considering Morpheus holds her fast, the dream has chosen her, too.

Even in the circle of his arms, remaining takes focus. The discomfort of her living body leaches through and jerks on her tether to wakefulness, demanding she return and suffer in full.

As the Dream Lord holds her, she holds him. Her arms loop around his narrow waist like he’s a tree in the storm that will anchor her against the pull from sleep. Lovers would carve their names into the trunk. Instead, she whispers, “Will you stay? Just a little longer.”

It is all she has left.

He breathes into her hair, and the gust is pleasantly warm compared to the wind. Only a little longer. She imagines his arms cinch just a bit tighter in defiance.

When he speaks, his voice is haggard, the smooth darkness roughed by an unspeakable emotion that has dared touch the Endless. “I will stay.”

He’ll stay until she can’t.

Until the end.

They stay together, breathing in time, pretending the end isn’t galloping towards them. Playing at eternity in cherished silence.

And then –

The door creaks, and she jerks awake. Dim light – still blinding – pours into her cell, framing the winged ruler like the sun.

“My sweet Rain. Did you think I had forgotten you?”

She looks to the light with hope, but it isn’t for the Morningstar. It isn’t for the fire’s warmth or the bland food that will fill her shriveled belly. She hopes to live so she may dream again, bring rain to Morpheus’s lonely meadow.

The months have taken their toll. The Morningstar holds out a hand, calling her to rise and return to her monarch’s side, but her knees fold the moment she tries to stand. And she does try. The igneous rock scrapes her palms as they catch her full weight, and she gasps for breath at the effort.

Even if there is light, she’s still dying. She needs water. Food. It isn’t too late to perish.

The Morningstar sweeps down, not to lift her off the floor, but to hold her chin and force her eyes from the floor. Lucifer’s eyes are hungry on her face. They demand her helpless adoration. Her wild hope.

“You are unwell.” The ruler of Hell says it like someone else left her in her cell for the better part of a year. No responsibility. No guilt. Only feigned concern tender and light as a feather. “We must remedy that.”

Mazikeen helps her up, half-carries her as the Morningstar moves to a table full of food and a tall pitcher full of what she desperately hopes is water. Little chimes ring through the marble hall with each shuffling step. The demon helps her sink to the floor their ruler’s side, her head resting against a knee. Easily within the Morningstar’s reach, angled so her desperation is on display.

As ever, she’s at the Lightbringer’s mercy. Her tormentor is her savior. But that’s only true because she must live to keep her dreams, and there’s a cup of water in Lucifer’s hands.

A ringed hand holds her jaw steady as the goblet nears. “Here. Drink and be well, Rain.” As she swallows, a hand runs over her hair. Torn chunks of bread and grey vegetables follow, taken from the Morningstar’s fingers. She knows how to behave, how to appear thankful and glad when she’s screaming inside. Her dignity died a long time ago. It doesn’t chafe her. But she has someone else’s hands in mind now.

She is still something the Morningstar fears to lose, and the Morningstar has no idea she’s given her hope to another king.

----------------------------------------------

She enters the dream in his arms.

He holds her like he’s been waiting, unmoving since the light of the open door woke her.

They stand in the meadow with the threat of rain carrying across the sky in rolling thunder, and as she finds herself, discovers her balance, his hands rise to her face.

He studies her as he had from the edge of the woods, but it isn’t her actions he marks. Inquisitive stars peer deep to draw out new pain, searching for hurts, asking without words if she is well.

Her hands trace the back of his fingers, wandering to his wrists, over his sleeves and up to his elbows. Then back to his wrists in a soothing stroke.

“I will dream again,” she assures him.

The Morningstar has remembered her. She will live, and she’ll return to this green place in his Dreaming.

His hands shift so his thumbs press on her jaw, tilting her face up to meet him. She expects a word or some nebulous expression she’ll spend her waking hours puzzling over, but he banishes all her expectations effortlessly.

With a kiss.

Silken lips press to hers. A touch. An introduction.

Her heart stalls in her chest as her hands cling to forearms. Holding him close in confusion.

“I thought you lost.” His mouth barely leaves hers, and each word is practically a kiss of its own. “I thought this meadow would languish without the rain.”

Apparently, the grass wasn’t the only thing to grow thirsty in her absence. He barely finishes before he kisses her again. An invitation this time, a call to dance as their lips glide together. Careful touches grow warmer, firmer, and she dares to answer in kind. She’s never been invited to play this game before, but she feels like she’s glowing, like there are no bones or muscle left in her body, only the hazy idea of lightning before a bolt gathers itself.

His hands slip along her jaw so the tips of his fingers can curl into her hair. She has his full attention, the weight of a billion dreams, and she wonders if this will consume her. She entertains a fantasy that he can tear her away from her mortal body, keep her in his soft hands like this forever.

Their lips break apart so he can press his forehead to hers, noses brushing together as he puts together the questions he must ask before he takes more.

“Will you spend this dream with me?” He pauses his thought for the next kiss. It’s quick, but no less sweet. When he pulls away, he leaves enough space to look, to hold her gaze. She sees his need, his hunger, and she hopes he’ll swallow her whole, let her never be lonely again.

“May I show you what it is to be worshipped, little storm god?”

There’s a touch of a growl in his voice, and it carries through her in a delicious shiver. He isn’t the only one who wants, who needs, who hungers. Her hands wander to his chest. Two curious, brazen fingers creep higher to ghost over his lips, trying to discover the secrets behind the blinding power of his kiss. When his eyes flutter shut, bolder hands brush along his eyebrows, down his nose, until he shudders and catches them up in a grip like silken iron.

With more kisses to her fingers, her knuckles, the inside of her wrists, he says, “Please. Give me your words, little storm god.”

Here, in his realm, he’s asking permission. Has anyone ever asked for it before? No. Never. She swells with something painfully bright, and she feels drunk on power. She smells ozone from her lightning.

The feeling burns, fierce and lovely, as she stares into the stars he calls eyes. She doesn’t recognize it. It’s nameless as she is. But she wants more, and if she has to give him every word she’s ever spoken and ever will, she’ll gladly surrender them.

“Yes.”

He slips closer, nuzzling with soft kisses under her ear as he presses her hands against his chest again.

She tries to think of more words – the right words. Breathless, she says, “I’ll spend this dream with you. Please. Morpheus.”

Before she can descend into frantic babbling, he seals her agreement with another kiss. He asks with gentle touches for her to open for him, and she gladly gives leaves for him to take as he wishes, because she’s falling into the sky, and one of his stars burns in her heart.

----------------------------------------------

He pulls night around them like a curtain.

Even the stars disappear behind a thick scrim of cloud cover.

The trees rustle with the breath of a rising storm, and for the moment, their psithurism is the only song in the dream, the only sound as he lowers her into the grass, its emerald flush gone silver in the night.

When he first reclaimed his tools and began the laborious process of remaking his realm, the green meadow had dazzled him. He’d stumbled upon it by chance. Great swaths of ruin and decay gave way to a peaceful storm, and as he’d stepped into her space at the edge of the Dreaming, the rain melted the weight on his shoulders. His power mingled with hers across the landscape, and though he knew all dreamers without stopping to speak with them, he found himself wanting to understand. He wanted the little storm god to look at him and answer his questions.

How could a prisoner of Hell have so much life to share with the world of sleep? Did she know what boon her rains granted the desolate corner of his kingdom?

He approaches her with all his questions, and he finds a lonely demi-god who hardly knows what she is. Her divinity is fact, but it has no influence on her waking hours. It is a gift unconsciously offered, poured into his world to sustain life and passion where all else cracks and decays.

The longing in the dream touches him, a lonesome song of a trapped thing, so he gives her warm sun between the clouds, lets the long grass embrace her and the stream kiss her feet. When he returns, when he struggles to leave, he soothes her with contact she’ll recognize as his embrace. Hands, and arms, and his chin on the crown of her head.

It’s a quiet thing. A balm for a heart that has never been any way but broken. He basks in her relief as she faces an end he unwittingly inspired, and it soothes aches of his own. It goes this way until he craves the little storm god in her meadow – her respite from Hell.

The craving grows in quiet hours and misting rain, fed by the threat of imminent loss. He thinks he has lost her when she fades from her dream, only for an instant, but it’s more than enough. When she returns to his arms, he is decided.

He pours that reverence into every soft touch, each stroke of his lips.

She gives him the words he most wants to hear, and he begins his worship.

When she looks up from her bed of grass and flowers, her expression suggests she’s the one eager to praise, that he is the god deserving offerings. He must show her differently.

He sets a hand on her chest, splayed fingers just reaching her collar bones. His palm drags down as he leans in to claim her lips, splitting her attention as his palm travels between her breasts, down her belly. As his hand returns, he banishes her clothing. His hand rests over her heart, flesh to flesh, and he listens to her waking pleasure through the dream. It’s only an inexperienced whisper, but he will teach it to sing.

Prayers drip from his tongue as he tastes her neck. Her confused, eager hands roam his hair, his neck, the collar of his coat with little noises of joy and frustration. When he smiles, charmed but determined to keep his slow pace, he moves his hand from over her heart to cover a breast. Patience has its rewards, but he will not leave her cold and wanting.

He fills his mouth with her other breast instead of words, and he tastes her heartbeat through the tender skin as he teases her peak into a bud. She gasps and arches, so his free hand slips around to support her back, keeping her near as he begins his feast.

The first sprinkles of rain patter over them, but the storm god panting under him hardly seems to mind, and neither does he. He loves her rain, her kindly chaos.

“Morpheus.”

He answers the summons, returning to her lips as his thumb circles a stiff nipple. Pushing her thighs apart with a knee, he reclines between her legs, giving her time to adjust to the position without feeling exposed. She fills his senses. Petrichor and crushed grass. Moving water and electricity.

There is more of her to have, and he thinks he may combust if he can’t have it all. He breaks their kiss with praises as he works his way down the path his hand took in the beginning. Words feel hollow, beautiful, and good, and perfect – his mouth does a better job expressing his passion when it’s full of her skin.

His hands paint her body with affection. They explore each dip and curve, spread over her back, cradle the dip of her waist, return to her breasts and curl around her hips. He doesn’t give her space or time to grow shy, but he enjoys her yelp of surprise when he swoops low and pulls her knees over his shoulders. A kiss to the inside of her knee reassures her of his intentions, and he moves to her core.

He licks her entrance, and a broken moan rewards him. How sweet. He must discover what other sounds she makes when she isn’t guarding her words and asking careful questions. As free as she believes herself to be, she does not know how to be unrestrained, even in her dreams. That is alright. He will help her.

Every flick of his tongue triggers a gasp. When he takes her clit she whines. Her hips try to dance against him, chasing pressure and release, but he has complete control, which he uses to build a slow pleasure that will shatter her. He wants her to fall apart on his tongue, and Dream of the endless is nothing if not determined.

She comes with a cry that sounds almost hurt, but the dream practically glows with her passion, and the clouds echo her calls with thunder.

He isn’t satisfied, and he pulls another from her, this time beckoning her to the edge of madness with curling fingers in partnership with his tongue. He allows no pain, free to banish any possible discomfort from this encounter. If he ever has her half-mortal body in the Dreaming, he will drag her through hours of bliss until she cannot recognize any pain in their coupling. But that is a concern for another day.

For the time being, he’s happy to grow drunk on her taste.

After she catches her breath for the second time, she reaches for him, and he takes her outstretched hand, pondering how lovely their fingers look laced together as she tugs him back up to cover her so she can rain chaste kisses over his face and down his neck. He’s burning for her, and the ache crawls from his belly into his chest as she puts her lips to his eyes, his nose, his chin.

His clothes melt away, and she explores every inch she can reach with fresh enthusiasm. He kisses her back into the grass, savoring the warm fingertips tracing the lines of his chest, dipping over his stomach.

He gathers her leg to rest over his hip, maintaining the kiss as he presses inside. A groan reverberates through the entire Dreaming, and he bites down on a name he doesn’t know. It has never bothered him so much as it does in that moment.

But her hands are on his face, and her whole form writhes to welcome him.

As he moves within her, he aches to fill her with stars and wishes, to let her breathe her dreams through the desperate gasps billowing over his ear. She clings to him, and he reaches for her heart. Though they are too close for him to even imagine a parting, he kisses his hopes and assurances into her flesh, breathing devotion and faith as the wind sweeps down with the rain to bless their union.

He wants to take everything she naively offers, but he wants to give as well. He wants to search out the name bestowed by her mortal mother and return it. He wants to whisper it like a benediction as he takes her again in the storm, tying them closer with old magic and simple understandings.

She chants his name with dizzying fervor, stoking his desire to find more, to press nearer in every way. Her body offers him the relief of a cottage fire in an autumn tempest, and he throws as much fuel on that fire as he can. As his hips roll to meet hers, he murmurs, “Let me feel you again. Will you give me another? Can you give me more?”

She’s past the point of words. Even his name has fallen from her lips, though he still feels it thrumming in her mind as she flutters around him, approaching the end with the most desperate sounds. He kisses her sternum, just over her heart to ask a boon of the little goddess coming to pieces in his grip.

“Please.”

She remembers how to speak as she crashes through her third high.

“Morpheus.”

What would he give to hear her call him thus every evening? It must be a spell. He prays the magic takes, that it sets around them, binds them like satin cord.

He works back up her throat, hungry for another kiss as his own end rushes near. She accepts him so readily, so happily. Even though she’s exhausted from pleasure, the smile she meets him with has the flavor of spring.

Joined in every way, he shudders with his release, filling her the way her rain filled his heart. Reluctant to leave, he rests above her, within her, as he stills. Quick breaths push her chest against his, and he cradles her blissfully limp body. Her fingers twine through his hair again, soothing, trying to return satisfaction and fulfillment she’s already given him twice over.

Her storm tempers itself. Satiated purrs carry through the sky, and a misting rain glitters on her bare skin, catches in her hair and lashes like jewels plucked from the night sky. Her eyes may as well be moons for the tidal pull they exert over him.

Though he has just had her, has yet to even pull away, he wants more. It’s a thirst he can’t slake, and he marvels at his own sway as she presses into the palm he holds to her cheek.

All too soon, she will wake. In Hell. She will suffer, regardless of the Morningstar’s favor.

There are few hates as strong as the starving man’s as he watches a fool leave all he’s ever craved to rot.

He will not allow it. He cannot bear to as she kisses his hand and glimmers in the sleeping meadow.

“Twice traded storm god,” he murmurs, “should you be willing, I would negotiate a third trade for you, to make you a creature of the Dreaming.”

He watches her face, almost mistakes the tears dripping from her wide, hopeful eyes as more rain. Eager again for her words, he kisses over her cheeks and returns the salt in a searing kiss, branding her with their entwined passions.

He wants all of her. Forever. He tells her as much.

“I would make you mine and keep you.”

If she agrees, she need never disappear from his arms again. He need never worry that the rain will cease. She need not sleep in a cold cell, trapped in the dark alone.

Her acceptance shines in her eyes, haunts the stroke of her hands over his back.

“I would be willing.”

It’s better than an oath, and he knows just how to honor it. He’s more than ready to worship her again.

----------------------------------------------

He sends Cain as his emissary. It’s the first thing he does after he loses the storm god to waking, and he waits on his throne for news, struggling to attend to his duties as he wonders what news his subject will bring.

Will Cain see the storm god, veiled and chained with bells in the corner of the room, or will the Morningstar lock her away again at the first whisper of a guest.

What demands will the ruler of Hell make of him in exchange for the storm god? It is a negotiation he dreads, and not only for the risks he will face. The Lightbringer is often cruel, and the tithe may have to pay for her own freedom in blood. But Morpheus will have her regardless of the Morningstar’s machination. Even if she comes to the Dreaming mauled, he will celebrate her arrival.

Surely she knew the danger when she accepted him?

She is made to weather storms.

He need not fear too much.

Cain returns.

He gives Morpheus a letter from Lucifer Morningstar, formally sealed with wax, written on parchment made from some ancient beast’s hide. Before he breaks open he words, he quizzes his subject. Had he seen the storm god? Was she well? Did the Morningstar intimate violence as it became clear who, in fact, claimed the tithe’s allegiance?

The first murder shakes his head. “She stood in the shadows with the Morningstar’s favorite Lillim. I didn’t even notice her until I said your name and the bells on her ankles trembled.” He hesitates, and Morpheus feels the sun dim behind the throne room’s stained glass.

“What?” he demands.

“The Morningstar – well, the Morningstar smiled.”

Morpheus opens the letter and immediately spots the trap. It is a terrible thing, clearly meant to destroy him. But he doesn’t care. Not as much as he should. And the Morningstar must know it.

It’s less of a letter and more of a will. Lucifer Morningstar has left Hell. The infernal realm and all within is given into the hands of Dream of the Endless.

An impossible burden. An invitation for war and conflict with a dozen of the most powerful entities to ever grow thought.

Yet all he can think of is the door in the royal chambers, and the little god locked behind it.

Cain took a day to travel back, and the storm god is not asleep. He cannot feel her in the Dreaming, and he wonders if she’s hurt, if the pain keeps her from resting. What has the Morningstar done in the hours since handing Cain the message?

He rushes to Hell. He does not pause to enter by the gate, armed with the word of the Morningstar. This time he enters not as a guest but as lord. If any demon dares interfere, he will not regret tearing his way through them.

Word of the Lightbringer’s desertion has already spread, and Hell hums with a particular kind of anxious chaos. Demons press against rules, abandoning their posts in the image of their former keeper. Souls wander, wild-eyed but free for just a moment of their torment.

He cares for none of them.

A few small devils scatter as he enters the Morningstar’s chambers.

The door stands open, the cell empty. Subdued fear crests over him like a wave.

Had the Morningstar simply left the demons to tear into her flesh? Undefended? Screaming as he waited for word to reach him?

He will find her soul and take it away with him, turn her into a true creature of the Dreaming and give her an eternity free of whatever agony the Morningstar had left for her.

One of the devils tries to skitter past him to the door, and he seizes it by the neck.

“What happened here?”

It chitters and croaks, but it is weak, and it bows quickly to Dream’s power. As razor-sharp claws scratch at his hand, it hisses what it knows.

“Ruler summoned fae king. Wanted magic. Wanted potion to stop sleep. Stop dreams. Stuffed it down the tithe-pet’s throat. Took the tithe. Took Rain. Not here. Gone. Gone. Gone. Let me go?”

He throws the twisted cretin across the room, snarling.

Yes. Now he sees why the Morningstar would smile. The little storm god made good bait, even if the former ruler of Hell had no intention of surrendering her.

The eternal ash scratches his lungs, but he can’t help drawing breath after breath, looking for some trace of her as he crouches to touch the floor of her cell.

She met him here.

He wonders if he can feel her hunger and thirst in the stone, her loneliness in the shadows.

She dreamed herself away, and now she will have no escape. Even if she walks the waking world, Morpheus has no doubt the Morningstar will find ways to punish her. And without a realm to govern, there should be plenty of time for torment.

The burden Lucifer so elegantly foisted on him prevents Morpheus from chasing after his little storm god for weeks and months. Time slips by as he sorts through the mess left by the Morningstar’s retirement, and by the time he’s free, she is gone.

He searches the waking world and discovers nothing. No stories, no whispers, no hints. The Morningstar has hidden her well, and he knows better than to ask the Lightbringer to trade a second time.

Months stretch on, birthing new years and decades.

He wonders as he waits in her meadow, still hoping that she will break the magical chains twisting through her mind and dream her way home.

Does she ache for him as he yearns for her?  

The grass is turning yellow.

Is she in pain?

The stream runs dry and the bare trees rattle like skeletons when faint breezes disturb the still air.

What else has the Morningstar taken from her in retaliation?

The sun is too bright, and the stars turn dull.

He was right. It is dying without her. Fading around him even as he tries to sustain the place where he kissed her, where they joined and made love for the first and last time.

Morpheus does not give up, but there is no path to follow, and the corner of his world they shared crumbles. She becomes another bleeding scar he cannot staunch, a misery he carries in love.

Perhaps one day. Perhaps by some miracle or mistake they will meet again. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Nothing kills hope, not even when it becomes a knife between his ribs.

He wanders the sea of the unconscious, looking for storms.

[ammonitetheseaserpent]

SCREW IT

LITTLE TOHxENA CROSSOVER SCENARIO

- The Collector comes across ENA and Moony, and King ends up in the Hourglass Meadow.

- Upon discovering she’s stumbled upon a god, ENA gets very happy very fast (and confused, and kinda nervous, but mostly happy). Her and the Collector’s dynamic is extremely wholesome and quirky.

- King is disoriented by this completely unfamiliar world, so instinctively tries to make himself inconspicuous by hiding within the hourglass dogs (“it’s been 3 days… they still think I’m one of them”). Though Shepherd does find him before long.

[noonbeam17]

you yall motherfuckers ever listen to one singular song for days on end? you yall motherfuckers ever think about other songs during the day when you're away from spotify and then when you get back you just Keep On Listening To That One Song? you yall motherfuckers ever memorize the entire song and every little detail and instrument? you yall motherfuckers ever dance or do air-instruments to the song with exact precision? you yall motherfuckers ever want your mutuals to hyperfixate on that song Purely because you've played it so much around them and theyve grown to like it? you yall motherfuckers ever strive to listen to that song for the rest of your life until you forget other songs exist and think that song is the answer to the universe? you yall motherfuckers want this specific song to play at your funeral as you're being buried? you yall motherfuckers ever want this song to be your legacy? to be the one thing you're known for? you yall motherfuckers ever want to be known as The One Who Listened To That One Song For 37 Years Straight Without Ever Pausing It? you yall motherfuckers ever want to BE the song? you yall motherfuckers ever want to live and breathe that song? yeah thats hourglass meadow by oliver buckland for me right now

[skyward-floored]

Febuwhump day 22 - can’t scream

I’m getting so behind on these help—

Not much to say about this one, except there’s a description of an arrow wound and taking said arrow out of said wound so if that bothers you consider this your warning 👍

Windy is wind waker/phantom hourglass Link, and Light is four sword adventures Link.

Courage of ages explanation

————————————————————

Whatever this thing was, it was Windy’s new least-favorite monster.

A growling snort came from the other side of the rock where he was hiding with Light, and he smacked a hand over the other hero’s mouth as hoofsteps crunched towards them. The sailor held his breath as he heard another snort, heavy pacing in the grass beside their cover. But then the footsteps receded, and he let out the air with a shaky sigh, temporary relief weakening his knees.

Light twitched slightly in his hold, and he looked over at his best friend, pale and shivering.

They’d been dropped alone into a small meadow, hemmed in by cliffs on all sides that Windy could see. It had seemed innocent enough, and Windy had been admiring the flowers in the grass as Light wandered a little ways away. But then his fellow hero had let out a startled cry, and before Windy could do anything, Light had gone flying backwards with an arrow embedded deep in his shoulder.

Ice sprayed outwards as Light fell to the ground, and as Windy ran to his side, he’d realized three things in rapid succession. One, a huge maned horse-lion-monster-thing had been the one to shoot Light, two, it was charging straight towards him, and three, Light had been hit with an ice arrow.

Which then reminded him that Light kind of had a thing about ice.

So in one swift move he’d grabbed Light and threw them both out of the way of the monster charging at them, and ducked behind the rock where it hopefully wouldn’t realize they’d hidden. It had snuffled around, but they appeared to have eluded it for now anyways.

Light hadn’t gone into much detail when he’d explained, but apparently on his quest he’d been completely frozen at one point, unable to move an inch. He’d been freed after a length of time Windy was pretty sure he was lying about in order to not make them all worry so much, but ice still bothered him, and ice magic especially was a big no.

And he’d just been shot by an ice arrow.

“Light, are you okay?” Windy breathed next to him, trying to stay as silent as possible.

Light let out a whimper, and Windy tried to get a better look at the arrow in his shoulder, carefully brushing ice off of his chest.

“Windy, i-it’s cold—“

“I know, it’s an ice arrow,” Windy whispered, and Light’s breath hitched. “It’s okay, it’s not too bad. I think it went most of the way through, it won’t be too bad to take out. You’ll be okay once we get out of here.”

“Take it out,” Light said in a strained whisper.

Windy frowned. “Light I can’t, there’s no way you could stay quiet enough, the monster’ll hear us,” he whispered, sparing a peek over the top of the rock. The monster was on the other side of the meadow, but it’s bow was still in its huge paws. “You’ll have to wait until we can get away or I can kill it—”

“It’s freezing me,” Light said in a shaking voice, clutching at Windy’s arm. “I can feel it, it’s freezing me Windy I need to get it out please—!“

“Shh!”

Windy slapped his hand back over Light’s mouth, and the two of them didn’t speak as hoofsteps drew near their position again. Windy didn’t release Light until he was sure the monster had trotted away again, and he gave him an apologetic look.

“Sorry,” he apologized softly, watching Light continue to shiver. “Is it really freezing you more?”

“Yes,” Light whispered, and Windy heard a sharp thread of terror in his voice. “I can feel it, the i-ice keeps spreading. It’s going to k-keep going, get it out.”

Windy slowly exhaled, and pulled Light’s tunic away from where the arrow had hit his shoulder. He only had to tear it a little, and he felt his stomach sink as he got a good look at the arrow wound.

Light was right. The skin where the arrow had gone in was blue and oddly icy-looking, speckled with red where his blood had dripped. And as Windy watched, thin feathery lines of frost slowly spread outward from the impact point.

“Oh that’s bad,” he breathed, and Light swallowed.

“Please take it out,” he whimpered, and Windy exhaled, tugging his bandana off from around his neck and handing it to Light.

“Okay. Bite on this. I’m going to push it through,” he whispered. “You’re right, I don’t think that arrow should be in you any longer than necessary. Try to stay as quiet as you can okay?”

Light nodded, and Windy grabbed the arrow, wincing at the cold of the wood. He tilted Light onto his side so he could see where the tip would protrude, and before he could think about it too hard, pushed the arrow even deeper through Light’s shoulder.

Light managed to bite back his scream, but he clenched Windy’s arm so tightly the other boy nearly cried out himself.

“I know I know I’m sorry,” Windy whispered as he kept pushing. The arrow was almost through, he could see the tip under Light’s skin, along with an accompanying icy sheen. Light desperately muffled a sob in his sleeve and he felt his heart clench. “I’m sorry Light, shh, we can’t let it hear us.”

The bright blue tip of the arrow finally broke through Light’s back, and Windy felt relief hit him, even as tendrils of frost began to curl over Light’s skin on this side.

“Okay, almost done, just need to get the rest out,” he whispered, and Light only gripped his arm again. Windy then snapped as much of the arrow as he could off the back of it. Now it was just the tip and a short length of wood left, and he grabbed the bright blue arrowhead, hissing through his teeth at the burning cold that hit his fingers.

He quickly got to pulling it through, tugging it smoothly as he could despite how horribly cold it was. The tip was slippery, temperature nearly unbearable, but he persisted, and finally the arrow was out.

And the second it was, Windy tossed the horrible thing aside and blew on his fingers, the tips reddened and tingling. He couldn’t imagine what it must have felt like being in Light’s shoulder, and Windy looked down at where he lay, still shivering.

He tugged him up a little, and Light buried his face in Windy’s shoulder, breath hitching in an unusual display of vulnerability. Windy gave his arm a bracing squeeze, and poked his head around their cover, hoping that the monster would be gone. But it was still doing its rounds around the meadow, bow held menacingly in its grip.

Windy frowned as he then worked on bandaging Light’s arrow wound. It looked better now that the arrow was gone, but the skin still didn’t look too good, and felt extremely cold to the touch.

“I think you could use a fairy,” Windy said softly, and Light nodded, tension in every line on his face.

“That would be nice, yeah,” he whispered, voice still trembling.

Windy sighed, and finished wrapping him up, not happy with the sloppy job he’d had to do with what supplies they’d had. But it would hold until they could get somewhere safe, and that was all they really needed at the moment.

“Light, will you be okay here for a couple of minutes?” Windy whispered, and Light swallowed, then nodded.

“Yeah. I’m... I’ll be okay,” Light whispered back, voice still much smaller than usual. “Where are you going to go?”

Windy pulled his shield off his back and sword out of its sheath. He gripped them tightly, and looked out over the rock at where the monster still patrolled, righteous anger burning in his chest.

He gave Light a dark smile.

“I’m gonna to go kill the monster.”

[goldrose-star]

So I've been thinking 'why not create a character sheet for her?' for maybe a week or two and been working on this here since last week. The structure is inspired by @rottent33th 's OC sheets. Also some parts may be blank because I'm figuring these out. This is basically still under construction but I couldn't wait to post this. And if someone's asking, no, I don't know how to create moodboards or collages, but I'm trying 👀

Character Sheet AJ

Gender: Female

Avery Juniper "AJ" Riley

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 24

Sign: Scorpio (November 11th)

Height: 5'3" ft / 160 cm

Build: Petite hourglass body shape

Hair: Shoulder blade length, wavy brown hair, outgrowing bangs

Eye Color: Green eyes with a hint of blue and a golden inner ring (central heterochromia). Her eyes sparkle when the light hits them just right.

From: (not yet decided)

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual / Pansexual

Relationship Status: Single

Physical Description: She has a light skin colour with tiny birthmarks / moles sporadically littering her arms and legs. Most significant are the one on her left ringfinger between the first and second knuckle and the ones on the backside of her left upper arm which look like the star constellation Big Dipper / the Pleiades. The skin from her hands to her upper arms where the tee sleeves begin and the skin between her ankles and the middle of her thighs are slightly more sunkissed. She has full heart shaped lips.

Other Defining Features: She has a lineal scar under her chin and a circular scar on the back of her left hand under the major knuckle of her thumb from an baking / cooking incident and more tiny scars littering her hands and forearms where her cat scratched her. Has a lip piercing on the left side of her bottom lip.

More about her appearance:

✨️AJ Visual Reference Sheet ✨️

Job/Profession: Website & Software Designer / Developer (freelancer) & Small Business Owner on the side (tiny accessoires she creates out of clay mostly)

Personality:

When meeting new people: cautious, quiet, curious, friendly, very polite

When better acquainted with someone: kind, helpful, can hold grudges, can be jealous

Towards people she cares about: protective, loyal, considerate, loving & bubbly, mischievous

Morality: Morally Grey

Hobbies: Painting, Knitting & Crocheting, Sewing and Designing her own clothes, Baking, Gardening & Planting, Sculpting (clay), Photography, Thrift Shopping, Gaming, DnD, Working out, Traveling, Stargazing

Style: has no sense of style whatsoever and wears whatever she likes, finds cool and pretty. This can range from activewear, to bandshirts and army boots, to jeans jackets, flowy dresses and chunky loafers.

More about her fashion style:

✨️ AJ Fashion Inspo Page ✨️

✨️ AJ Fashion Inspo Page pt. 2 ✨️

Backstory: (more following soon)

Her father is from America and her mother is from Ireland

--

Also tagging some moots who may like this:

@bluecoolr @rottent33th @slaasherslut @vincent-sinclair-deserved-better @solmints-messyocdiary @the-pinstriped-hood @myers-meadow @shonkgobonk @sketchbook-of-shadows

Let me know if I forgot to tag anyone or if you don't want to be tagged.

[statecryptids]

A new full page spread from my “Field Guide to Saturn” WIP. Including a letter from Hya to Jess about her encounter with the Amber Fairy Fly.

“To my Jessica,

I saw a fairy today. Well, not like a tiny person with wings and a dress made of leaves. But maybe like a spirit that slipped in from the Other World?

 It was foggy this morning. It’s so strange seeing orange fog. The maintenance team hates it because its greasy and coats all our equipment. But it’s pretty when you see it through a window or a visor. It was so quiet, too. There’s usually a lot of noise from all the habitat machinery and the field insects. But the fog muffled the habitat sounds when I got a couple feet away. And the insects weren’t out that day. It was like that quiet after a new fallen snow.

 I was poking through the spurge meadows with my camera when the fairy flew up right in my face. It looked like two spindles stuck end to end- an hourglass the size of a pencil eraser. Its whole body was translucent orange like a tiny piece of amber, its body surrounded by a white halo. It hovered in front of me for a bit- curious about me, I think. Then it floated over and alighted on one of my hyacinths (I guess I shouldn’t call them “my” hyacinths. This isn’t my world, and I don’t own them).

 I got a better look at its anatomy when it landed. The white halo turned out to be a pair of long wings that it folded against its sides as it slid up into the flower. The pointed end at the back split into four long tentacles that anchored it to the opening while it fed inside. When it finished it came out dusted with yellow pollen and little brown-gray dots had appeared on its body. At first I thought these were a feature of its anatomy I’d missed, or maybe hidden organs that the fly had inflated. But when it rested for a moment, I saw that they were passengers! Little creatures hitching a ride. And when it landed on another hyacinth, they were gone. Like those mites that ride from flower to flower on hummingbird beaks back home.

 I’ve been thinking about that fairy fly a lot today.  Don’t know why it stuck with me so much. Maybe its because that’s the first pollinator I saw visiting my hyacinths (I know, I shouldn’t think of them as mine). Or maybe it was the calm quiet and the mist that made it feel like I was walking through another world. I mean, I am. It’s Titan. But this felt like I had slipped through a Veil into Another Place. Maybe I’ve been looking at too many Brian Froud books on my Reader.

Anyway, hope to hear from you soon.

Yours,

Hya

 

 To my Hya,

You can absolutely call them “your” hyacinths. I mean, everyone else around here has been claiming creatures for themselves. I think it helps us all feel more connected to this world.

Also, can I call you my Little Orange Fly from now on?

-Jess

 

Jess, my Brave Explorer-

I would like that very much.

-Your Little Orange Fly”

[marsalta-alt]

unsolicited song recommendations:

cuckoo song by cosmo sheldrake

winter by yabadum

nothing by thanksgiving (that one might be hard to find)

for the departed by shayfer james

dirty night clowns by chris garneau

wellerman by nathanevanss

hourglass meadow by oliver buckland (do you know what ENA is?)

I will listen in the morning 🫵🫵