#its eyes are purple and strange and it may not be a bird at all

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty-Four

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: Some family-related angst, some family-related fluff

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Your father had never summoned you like this before. 

Helion was all charming smiles and dramatic entrances into rooms without invitation. The pegasus he’d sent to your apartment to invite you to a party said as much about his character. So, sliding a letter beneath your door in the early hours of the morning felt decidedly tame in comparison. 

Although, it may have had to do with the unimaginably protective Shadowsinger sharing your bed. 

He snatched the letter off the floor immediately, wings flaring out in suspicion. Then, recognizing Helion’s familiar scrawl, handed it over to you. 

“What does it say?” He sank into bed, concerning himself with kissing the curve of your neck so he wouldn’t read the words. Nosey bastard that he was.

You scanned the words again, feeling excitement flutter in your stomach. “He wants to have breakfast with Lucien and I. As a family.”

Your hands dropped to your lap. “He knows?”

Azriel nodded, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. “He knows. He and Lucien stopped by every day to check in on you.” 

“And did you let them inside the room?”

Azriel stiffened. “Yes.” Then he wrapped his hands around your waist, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt — his shirt. He sighed. “I could have been warmer to them.”

You leaned back against his chest, breathing in the quiet morning for as long as you could stretch it. But you had a breakfast to attend. Perhaps the most important breakfast you’d ever have in your life. 

Azriel accompanied you as far as the double doors to one of Dawn’s minor halls, although “minor” was likely a relative term. There wasn’t an inch of Dawn’s court that wasn’t dripping with gold embroidery and color. 

Purple lace curtains, hand-stitched to look like peacock feathers, fanned the open windows. Stained glass threw their colors over ivory walls and the hand-painted tiles could have put the sea to shame in its color and finery. 

Your brother paced in front of the doors, and the golden light of morning seemed to follow his footsteps, outlining him in a halo of pale yellow.  

“Y/n!” Lucien’s eyes softened at the sight of you. 

You were whole. Well. Safe. 

Your eyes lit up at the sight of him and soon you were clutching the layers of your dress in your fists and running down the hall. Silent footsteps ended with a dull thud as you slammed into Lucien’s chest, wrapping your arms around his middle. 

“Thank the gods you’re ok.” You breathed into his chest. 

“I should be the one worrying. You’re the one who killed a death god.” 

You huffed. Talking about what happened felt strange. Like it was too true to be real. 

He gave you a once over glance, and you did the same, checking for bandaged wounds and new scars. 

His hair was braided back at the temples, but your keen eyes saw the strands of hair that had been shorn short during the fight. You smoothed them back into place, tucking them into braids so they wouldn’t stick out awkwardly. 

Lucien glanced over your shoulder at where the Shadowsinger lingered halfway down the hall. Azriel was trying very hard, and failing, to give you your privacy. But the moment Lucien stepped away, Azriel was at your side once again, his hand firmly placed at the small of your back. 

Together, you cut a striking silhouette against Dawn’s colors. You, with your silky white and gold dress flaring down your back like bird wings, and Azriel with his black leathers and broad shoulders wrapping around you like shadows. 

A Librarian and her knight.

A Shadowsinger and an Inkbird. 

Two mates. Different. Same.  

Your brother smirked, but there was no animosity in his tone when he said, “I was wondering when your guard dog would come to attention.” 

“Careful,” you reprimanded him. Your eyes sparked dangerously. 

Azriel slid his hand from your back to your waist, pulling you ever closer to his chest. A flicker of pride reverberated through the bond. He didn’t mind Lucien’s comment, but he did like to hear you defend him. Very much. 

There was a strange understanding that passed between Azriel and Lucien. Perhaps even some sliver of respect as Azriel kissed your cheek. 

“I’ll be waiting outside,” he promised. 

He surveyed the hall, eventually finding the darkest corner available to tuck himself into. Even without his shadows he managed to disappear from sight.   

“How is Vassa doing?” 

Lucien tried to smile for your sake. “She’s grateful to you. You took away the worst of her pain. But I don’t think she’ll truly begin to heal until she sees Jurian again… or at least where we’ve buried him.” 

You took your brother’s arm and squeezed tightly. You suspected the same could be said for him. He’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye.  

“And how are you? Have you spoken to Helion since the lake? Azriel said you both came to see me.” 

“Those have been silent visits.” Lucien’s eyes flickered over to the darkness he knew Azriel was hiding in. “And it’s not like your mate let us stay long. Territorial bastard.”

“We’re also bastards.” You reminded him. “It’s not much of an insult when we say it.” 

He hummed half in agreement. “Helion’s been busy with Court business, and aside from visiting you, I’ve been avoiding him like the plague. ” 

“But you still came today.” 

“I did.” Lucien winced and squeezed your arm. “I’m glad you’re here. I was afraid I’d have to face him alone.” 

You furrowed your brows at his choice of words. “Why would you be afraid of—” 

The doors opened of their own accord and you quickly shut your mouth as Lucien stiffened beside you. 

Helion was many things — charming, charismatic, flirtatious to a fault. Always giving off an air of carefree happiness. Like the sun in the sky, he shined brightly in every room he entered, lifting spirits with his head held high. 

You’d never seen your father so nervous in his life. Or so… normal in appearance. 

He’d forgone his crown, which was not unusual, but he’d also left off his bracelets and necklaces. Nothing but a few gold cuffs added to his locs served as decoration for his cream-colored tunic and trousers. 

You and Lucien were wildly overdressed in comparison. Without realizing it, you’d both prepared for a breakfast with a High Lord. Not your father. And Helion could not hide his disappointment at this fact. 

His eyes locked on the white and gold garments you’d both chosen to wear. Day Court colors to show respect for him. But you’d also both chosen elements representative of your new homes. Lucien kept a bronze maple leaf pinned to the lapel of his jacket and the gown beneath your robes was laced with black thread. Shadows, for your mate and for the Night Court. 

He never thought a sight could fill him with such pride and such dismay. 

You took the first steps forward before Lucien unstuck his feet from the floor and followed. 

It was a long walk across the short hall. Garlands of carnations wrapped around the ceiling arches, dripping down the walls like ivy and framing the wide spread of food that had been prepared. 

Helion stepped around the table and held his hand out for your first, pulling you in for a hug that had your toes brushing against the floor. It was the first time he’d ever held you like this. 

It felt nice. Safe. 

Lucien watched with something like longing as Helion gently lowered you to your feet and shouted, “Do you have any idea the hell you put me through?!” 

Your eyebrows flew up in surprise. Lucien stiffened, his hand drifting to the knife strapped beneath his dinner jacket. 

Helion gripped your shoulders, red-shot eyes wide and desperate as he bowed down to look at you. 

“What were you thinking putting yourself in danger like that?!” 

Your mother had never reprimanded you. You had never left the Alcove for long enough to get into trouble. So, the flare of teenage embarrassment in your chest was an unexpected and new feeling. 

“Well I—” 

“Never again,” your father commanded, shaking his head. “You are never to pull any stunt like that again, do you understand? Not while I remain your father and High Lord.”

“Helion, I—” 

“Did you ever even stop to think about what you were doing?” 

You blinked and that embarrassment turned to indignation. You were a Librarian. All you ever did was think, and think, and think. Sometimes too much. 

“Of course I did!” 

“Then why the hell did you do it?!” 

The answer was obvious. “Azriel was dying. My mate was dying! And Koschei would have killed you next, what did you expect me to do?” 

“I expected you to stay safe and to let me handle it!” 

“You weren’t handling it!” 

“I am your father! You are meant to bury me, not the other way around!” He roared. 

The chandelier and the flowers trembled. The light from the windows flared up and died down like a comet had shot past. 

You were stunned into silence. You hadn’t truly thought about how Helion would react to your death. The twist of agony on his face was painful to look at now when you were still alive and standing. You didn’t want to imagine how he would have reacted if you had died. 

Guilt simmered in your stomach as you thought of him burying you. Of what it must feel like for a parent to see their child killed in front of them. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured awkwardly. Although you didn’t regret your decisions. “I guess I’ll… let you kill the death god next time.” 

Helion scoffed, rubbing his temples and shaking his head. “You’re grounded,” He finally declared. 

It was cliche. Obviously. But being cliche was an easy plan to fall back on when he couldn’t come up with anything else. What could he possibly say to his daughter after she’d nearly sacrificed herself to save them all? “I’m three hundred and forty-three. That’s really not necessary… or effective. ” 

“Fuck,” Helion muttered beneath his breath. 

“It was a nice try.”

As you’d told Lucien, Helion was not a great father… but he was trying. 

Lucien cleared his throat, feeling decidedly out of place as he hovered just off to the side. You grabbed his wrist, pulling him into the circle of conversation. 

“I don’t suppose you’ll try to ground Lucien as well.” 

The answering silence was a resounding No as you all took a seat at the breakfast table. The pile of tarts in the center was so tall and decorated with so many flowers you couldn’t see Lucien from where you sat on opposite sides. Helion must have recognized his error because with a snap of his fingers, the long table was replaced by a smaller, more intimate arrangement. 

“Thank you for coming,” Helion said nervously, pouring out a sweet drink into your cups that smelled of spiced apples and maple syrup. 

Lucien stiffened at the sight of the Autumn Court drink. There were many items from the Autumn Court actually — whole roasted chestnuts smothered in toffee, apple and walnut cake, pumpkin pastries, and spiced sausages. 

Helion slid a blackberry and custard tart onto your plate, needing something to do with his hands as Lucien stared without ever touching his silverware. 

You nudged Lucien’s foot from beneath the table and his golden eye whirled on you. 

Say something. Your raised eyes said to him. 

What the fuck am I meant to say? 

Helion noted the silent communication between you two and decided to take you both out of your misery by asking, “How long have you known about each other?”

You began cutting the tart into bite-sized pieces. “A few months. I recognized Lucien when he first came to the Night Court and told him I was your daughter a couple weeks after.” 

“How?” Helion asked in amazement. “How did you know?”

He’d always found it difficult to look at the Vanserra boys. They looked too much like their mother. But while she’d passed down her beautiful features, Beron’s cruelty had twisted them into something less lovely. Never Lucien though. Lucien had always been different. A little kinder.

Helion must have seen him a dozen times over three centuries. How had he not recognized his own son? 

You shrugged and took a bite of your tart. “I have eyes. You have the same nose and the same smile.” 

Neither Lucien nor Helion were smiling now, but it was true. They did have the same noses. 

Helion sank into his chair, dragging his hand down his unnaturally stoic face. “You must think I’m some terrible villain, Lucien.” 

Your brother swallowed thickly, fingers playing with the handle of his fork. 

“Did you know? Did you know who I was? Did you know what Beron was doing to us? To my mother?” 

Helion cast his gaze down in shame. “No… and yes. I didn’t know you were my son, but I knew what Beron was doing. What he was capable of behind closed doors.” 

“So why didn’t you do anything about it?” Lucien asked through gritted teeth. “Why didn’t you ever take her away from him?” 

“It’s not that simple, Luc—” 

“It is that simple! You’re a High Lord. What’s the point of all that power if you won’t do anything with it?” 

Lucien was a smart male. Years spent traveling as an emissary for Spring, Night, and the Human Lands had made him perceptive and diplomatic to a fault. He knew why Helion hadn’t done anything. To steal away the Lady of Autumn would have been an act of war. And if Beron had ever discovered the truth about Lucien, he would have killed him first and then his mother.

Yes, Helion had made the smart move by staying away. Aurelia Vanserra had made the best decision to keep her mouth shut and stay in Autumn. Even though one letter to Helion would have been enough to change everything. 

One letter and Helion would have taken her and Lucien to safety. 

But who would have protected Eris and the others then? Who else would have shielded her sons from the worst of Beron’s anger? 

Lucien knew it wasn’t that simple. But he also didn’t care. Politics and reason could go to hell. 

“You’re right,” Helion admitted with a sigh. 

Lucien blinked in surprise. You looked at your father and he seemed to age twenty years in an instant. 

“You’re right, Lucien. I should have recognized it sooner, but I didn’t. I should have protected you and your mother and your brothers, but I didn’t. And I will regret that until the day I die.” He shook his head scornfully. “I didn’t even take care of the child I did know about.”  

Lucien hadn’t expected Helion to crumple so quickly. He’d shown up to breakfast with a vial of poison in his boot and a faebane-laced knife hidden in his jacket, just in case. After all, that’s how he would have prepared for a meal with Beron if he was still alive.

So to see Helion, tears burning in his eyes and shame written on every facet of his face, was unexpected. It erased some of the anger that had been festering in Lucien’s chest ever since he learned he was a bastard. Dislodged the stone in his stomach that weighed him down.  

“But you did take care of me,” you said. “You still do… in your own way.” You pushed the pieces of tart around your plate. “I don’t like blackberry and custard tarts. I haven’t since I was seventy.” 

Helion’s face fell. “Oh.” 

“But they used to be my favorite… up until the day you brought twelve to the apartment and I ate them all behind mom’s back and threw up.” 

“You are setting a very low standard for me, Y/n.” 

“You can raise it in the future.” You looked at Lucien. He can do the same for you. Is what you were thinking, and somehow, Lucien understood. 

“I want us to be a family.” It was the first time you’d ever dared to say the words out loud. Words were precious, powerful things, fragile as they seemed when spoken to the world. “I want more breakfasts with the three of us at a table. I want to ask you how Court business and emissary work are going and I want to buy you shitty gifts for Summer Solstice. Is that too much to ask?”

Helion swallowed thickly and shook his head. “No, my darling, that’s not too much to ask.” He looked at Lucien, finding more and more commonalities with every second glance. “I would like nothing more.” 

Lucien stared at him hard and long. He was still hesitant about Helion and there were centuries of pain he’d need to let go of before he ever called Helion father.

But for you? He would try just about anything for his little sister. 

He nodded stiffly and finally served himself a helping of chestnuts. The toffee coating crumbled between his teeth. They tasted like home. 

“Let’s try this again. What should our first topic of conversation be?” Helion asked. 

“Recent events are off the table,” you muttered, sliding a strawberry and rhubarb tart onto your plate. 

“I second that,” Lucien said. 

He wanted to exist in this strange bubble for a little longer. This bubble where they were an estranged family and nothing more. Not a High Lord. Not a misplaced heir without a home. Not a Librarian marked by a death god. 

Just a father and his two children. That was messy enough as it was. 

“We could judge your new boyfriend,” Helion offered. “That seems like a family-worthy conversation.”

Lucien perked up at the suggestion, lips twitching into a smile. 

You cringed. That word — boyfriend — sounded so… juvenile. 

“He’s my mate.” You corrected him.

“It’s not too late to turn him down.” 

“Helion—” 

“I think you could do better,” Lucien chimed in, and Helion nodded in agreement. 

And so, your first meal as a family came and went. You all stumbled in the conversation, treating every word like uneven ground that could fall away into something too deep. Too personal. Too serious for a first breakfast. But you also laughed, mostly at Azriel’s expense. And you managed to keep the worst of the grief at bay. For all the centuries you’d spent on your own, this was a promising start.

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Author's Note: Y'all deserved a (relatively) calm and happy breakfast between these characters because DAMN has shit happened in the last like three chapters. Hope y'all enjoyed this little bit of Y/n, Helion, and Lucien FINALLY GETTING TO BE A PROPER FAMILY TOGETHER!!!! I love them so much.

[rosyjn]

Dilf!Jake catching you in your first heat MDNI

You nock the arrow, keeping the bow string stretched as you aim for a nearby bird. It is a colorful animal, resting on a branch. Your chest, adorned with flowers that barely cover your plump breasts, rises and falls with your breath.

You have been trying to ignore it. The tsahik told you this would come soon. The onset of your heat, you’ve been noticing since this morning. When you woke up, there was this strange hot feeling and an eager wetness between your legs. You should not have ignored it.

All you want to do is focus on hunting. This isn’t fair. Your head floods with bothersome thoughts. You release the arrow from the bow, the tense string making a snapping noise. Your sharp weapon flies through the air, striking the bird and knocking it off of its perch.

A relieved exhale leaves your mouth. You lower your bow. A prayer leaves your lips. May Eywa bless this soul.

You also need help from Eywa. Your legs are starting to tremble. Your clit is starting to throb. Your body is showing an unfamiliar neediness. You sigh, removing your hunting gear from your body and setting it aside. The weight feels good when it is off of your back.

Your ears perk to the sound of feet rustling through the forest. You quickly spin around, your eyes widening.

“Jeez, don’t worry doll. It’s just me.” It is the Olo’eyktan. Jake Sully. Your gut fills with butterflies. Your brain is telling you, that maybe you should ask him to give you a ride home on his direhorse. But no, there’s something else that your cunt wants.

“Oh, ma’Olo’eyktan..” you greet him, lowering your head and making an I see you gesture. “Can I ask for your help with something?”

He knows. He knows already. He could almost smell it. You sweet, innocent thing. You need to be guided to Mo’at, maybe a boyfriend. But, he think he’s so lucky he caught you first. He gets the privilege, now- of showing you how it’s done. He gets to show you how good his cock is.

“Of course.” He dismounts his direhorse, walking over to you. You awkwardly step back, lowering your body to the forest floor. He nods. “Lean back against that rock, hon.” You do what he says, shifting your position for him.

“I- I think I’m in-“ you stutter. You’re laying down now. He calmly strides over to you and his mouth falls gently agape.

“Relax,” he chuckles, kneeling to your level. “Why don’t ya, y’know, show me?” He suggests. His hand comes to your knee and he taps it lightly with his thumb.

“I want you to, make me feel better..” you spread your legs open for him. His breath grows faster. “Help me with my problem, sir. Please.” Jake swallows and clears his throat.

“I gotta take this off, alright? Daddy’ll make ya feel real good. No more heat pains.” He assures you, now grabbing the strings of your loincloth and fiddling with them until they fall loose and untied. You wince at the fresh breeze on your engorged clit. “Shh, relax.”

“Need it, need it so bad..” you’re already dripping wet, now squirming desperately. “Please touch me.” Jake almost chokes the at request.

“You sure?” He didn’t think you’d give in this quickly. When you give him puppy dog eyes and wince from the sensitivity down there, he agrees to help you out. He starts to buck his hips against his tewng. You whine, reaching forward for the strings of his garment. He shushes you and once again asks you to relax. “I can undress myself, hon. Don’t worry.”

He shuffles his hands around his waistband until the thin fabric is removed from his body.

He’s huge. Throbbing. He gulps, his hands reaching to touch your body. Your face turns a shade of purple. You spread your legs far and wide for him.

“Please, sir.” You cannot wait any longer. He shushes you, getting into position as the leaves rustle on the ground.

“Alright, I’m gonna go in, tell me if you want me to stop.” He coos, pushing his hips forward. His cock sinks into your tight pussy, giving it the stretch it needed. His mushroom tip probes your walls immediately. You gasp, tightening around him. You needed this so bad. Jake grunts, baring his teeth as he continues to buck his hips all the way until he’s balls deep.

You whine, like a desperate animal. Your back arches. You’re so goddamn tight. When he bottoms out in you, you squeal.

“Thank you, mmph! Thank you, sir.” You moan. You start to get flustered, hot, needy. “Faster, faster, please..” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist. He is surprised. Pleasantly surprised. He shakes his head and smiles.

“Sure you can take it?” He teases, accepting the challenge. You beg. You beg for him to fuck you harder. You want him to fill you with cum, so that your heat will never bother you again. You don’t know how it works. All you know is that you want him to ruin you and paint you white. Breed you.

He growls, picking up the pace and fucking you harder. Your body shakes. Every thrust of his makes you wetter and wetter. You clench around his cock. He starts to notice your pleasure, challenging it by slamming into you. You yelp, arching your back as you feel his thick cock stretch you.

“Mmmph, sir!” Your eyes clench shut, your breasts bouncing with each rut.

“Too much?” He asks, his skin beginning to glisten with sweat. He hisses with every time you clench and pulse around his girth. The space fills up with the noises of arousal- moaning, panting, skin slapping, and the ground rustling.

“Feels good-“ you whimper.

“I’ll fill ya up, I’ll cum inside of you. Your tight little cunt, fuck.” He grabs your breasts, slamming into you harder and harder.

You squeal again, a primal need filling your heat as you feel Jake’s precum dribble out of his tip and towards your cervix. He fucks his seed deeper into you. You grip onto his shoulders, pulling him towards you. He pants and leans down until his chest touches yours. You love the feeling of his weight on top of you and his cum inside of you.

“Yes! Yes, Jake!” You feel your climax approaching you rapidly. An electric pleasure pulses through your body. Your clit is swollen with pure pleasure. He grunts above you, bottoming out, and holding himself there.

His tip presses into your cervix, his orgasm washing over him as his thick cum sprays into your womb. You let out a cry, your nails digging into Jake’s back.

You try to catch your breath. Jake clicks his tongue a few times before pulling out of you. A trail of cum leaks down your folds. Your eyes flutter.

“You okay?” He takes a look at your sore pussy and reaches for your loincloth. You nod. What will you tell the village?

[flurry-of-stars]

𝓣𝓱𝓮𝓼𝓮 𝓗𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓗𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓼 -𝕴

𝒫𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: 𝒩𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 𝐹𝓎𝑜𝒹𝑜𝓇 𝓍 𝒜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝑅𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒: Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, angst, fluff, eventual smut, multipart story. 𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: “Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion–” “His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. You were already struggling.” 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 6.5k or so (A/N: I know, strange to write an author AU when the characters are based on authors but here we are. I want to say Novelist AU Fyodor may have a few similar traits to IRL Dostoyevsky but he is not supposed to be a complete one-for-one in every sense of the word. They’re supposed to just be minor nods to the real Dostoyevsky.) ❤ Reblogs are appreciated ❤

𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝓁𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝒷𝑒𝑒𝓃 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝒸𝑒? 𝒮𝒾𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝓅𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒽𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹? 𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓁𝒶𝓈𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝐼 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝒾𝓉𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓈𝒾𝒹𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒸𝒽𝑒𝑒𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓇𝓇𝒾𝓉𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒶𝓌 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝓊𝓃𝒸𝒽 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝑒𝒹? 𝒪𝒽...𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼'𝒹 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝒽𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃. 𝒯𝑜 𝓈𝑒𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝓂𝒾𝓁𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓃𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒶 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓈𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝒸𝓊𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓈.... ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵ The lake always looks mystical early in the morning at this time of year. A faint mist rolls over the mirrored surface as dancers in orange and yellow descend from their places in the comforting embrace of timber and bark. Soldiers of fading green, browns and oranges line the lake, swaying in the soft, chilly breeze. Bird song and the gentle scurrying of the forest’s dwellers is the perfect symphony to this backdrop. Yes. This was why Fyodor always sat outside to write. He felt a peace unlike anything else when he sat at his small outdoor table, the earth claiming the furniture by wrapping tendrils of green around its leg. He doesn’t mind. He never had any intentions of moving it after all. A single page sat at his hands, one hand elegantly moving across it as he writes in Russian, his mother tongue. The sound of his pen scratching against the white sheet tickles his brain pleasantly, each stroke deliberate and careful. Fyodor would only write the drafts of his novels on paper. He would never touch a keyboard. Even when conversing with his agent he would only use his phone. With his long distant friend and fellow author, he opted for letters. Technology was something Fyodor wasn’t fond of. His deep, purple eyes rise from the page, tired eyes scanning the horizon before him. He notices a few russet sparrows flying over the lake. For a moment, he even thinks he can see a fox on the other side of the lake, disappearing into the treeline. Yes. This view was far more enjoyable than some television or computer screen. He breathes deeply, taking in the rich, earthy air around him. It wouldn’t be long until this view would be painted in white, the frigid air forcing him to stay indoors far more than he would have liked to be there. The novelist was a homebody, that much was true. But he spent most of his time outdoors when he wrote his stories. Or rather, attempted to. His current novel had been giving him a bit of grief as of late. “Romance novels are popular right now!” He could still hear his agent’s voice insisting. “With the works you’re already known for, I bet the world is dying to see your take on one! Plus, if we partner with this company and make it an international release, the revenue would tie you over so you can focus on a novel you actually want to write!” Fyodor scoffs. He wouldn’t have even considered writing such a novel, were it not for the fact that his funds were looking a bit depressed as of late, due to a few recent large expenses that needed to be paid. His eyes scanned over to his wristwatch; it was still a few hours yet until his guest would arrive. Another matter his agent had been too insistent on that Fyodor had begrudgingly accepted.

He didn’t understand why she had been so pushy about the matter of an assistant. He had managed so far on his own. He didn’t need any help. These were his stories to tell. Sighing, Fyodor rises from his chair. He moves towards his small, cozy dwelling, his raven hair ruffled by the Autumn breeze. Perhaps a nice pot of tea would get those creative juices flowing again. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ A soft breeze teases your hair and scarf as you walk up the winding stone path, heading deeper into the heart of the forest, an eerie fog cast across the sky. The trees sway their branches in the wind as if greeting you as sunlight filters through the thick branches, showers of yellow and orange descending on your path as you walk. You see an old, rough-looking tabby cat that gives a low mewl before disappearing over the fence like an elegant shadow. You notice a few small cottages scattered around the area. One is at the top of a flight of narrow cobblestone steps. Another is nestled near some thick bushes and trees, almost devouring the structure in its natural embrace.

The thin fence lining the pathway is overgrown with thick vines and small flowers here and there, with tall trees and other flora about, creating an almost fairytale-like appearance. Everything here is quiet and still, aside from the chirps of a few insects and the whistling of birds. You clutch your orange coat closer to your body, the fabric blending in with your environment as excitement runs through every inch of your veins. This was the opportunity you had been searching for! What were the chances that you’d run into a literary agent while heading to the unemployment centre to ask for help? It was as though God himself had lifted an olive branch for you.

The agent, Vivian, had looked at you with such joy when you explained that you were looking for experience helping authors get their works published. You wanted to help however you could, whether that be as an editor, a translator or even a beta reader! You just wanted a way to step into this field finally. You had grown up with a love for books and stories. You wanted to be part of the process to get these books created. “Well, I have just the guy for you,” Vivian had replied, a small smirk on her lips as she handed you her business card with a name written on the back. The name of the novelist she had been helping for the past decade. Fyodor Dostoyevsky.

You had never heard of the man before. Walking along the quiet stone path, heading towards a large archway overgrown with blossoming flowers, you wonder if he wrote under a pen name. You were so excited to meet him! Oh, but you needed to calm down and relax. Don’t make this weird! You walk through the archway, the gentle aroma of the blossoming flowers filling your senses as your eyes fall on the crystal-clear lake before you. The water was a calm, almost mystical blue, with nothing disturbing its perfect surface. It looked like it could have been the subject of an oil painting. You blink, the trance broken as you notice movement. An older gentleman sits at a small outdoor table, a small porcelain teacup in hand. You notice a few strands of grey in his otherwise dark hair, along with the dark crescent moons under his mystifying yet cold purple eyes. You wondered if they were from late nights of writing stories or brainstorming.

He looked more frail than you were expecting. Quite lithe. He reminded you of a scarecrow. He was almost swimming in the dark coat covering his shoulders, even his white scarf seemed to be looped multiple times more around his throat. You tense as his eyes flicker up, meeting yours. The teacup moves back towards the saucer, resting upon it with a soft clink. He lifts one of his hands, beckoning you closer. You come to stand before him, your heart pounding out of nervousness and excitement. This was it. The first day of the rest of your life! Things would only be looking up from here! Before you can speak, the gentleman interrupts you. His thick Russian accent sends a slight shiver down your spine, “You’re the assistant Vivian sent.” He looks you up and down slowly. You can feel the judging look in his eyes as he scans you carefully, “You have no experience in this field and yet you agreed to be my assistant. Fascinating…” You swallow, trying to calm yourself. You almost burst into excited rambles as you begin to speak in a rather rapid tone, your giddiness getting the better of you, “Y-yes sir! You see, it’s always been a dream of–” “Enough.” He says suddenly, shaking his head. Those dark eyes of his stare coldly into yours, your excited heartbeat being frozen still in your chest as he adds, “I do not wish to hear your life story. You are here to do a job. And I expect you to do it well.”

You try and speak up, “Shouldn’t we go inside–” “No. You will work out here,” he cuts you off as he reaches down to a leather bag by the side of his chair, hidden from view. He lifts it, passing it over to you as he speaks, “Within this is the first three chapters of my latest novel. I need you to proofread, edit and translate it into English by the end of the week.” You tense; the end of the week? You supposed you could handle that. What’s the most he could have done? Really? Maybe ten thousand words total? You take out the first group of papers. It looks like he’s stapled each chapter together. There’s no title page yet, so it starts straight on the prologue. One issue becomes apparent very quickly. One big, glaring issue. Fyodor’s handwriting. He had written in fluent Russian from what you could tell. But his handwriting was quite…well, it was cursive? It was hard for you to put into words. The best way you could describe it was like a doctor’s handwriting. “Excuse me, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You look up from the first page. Fyodor is gazing across the lake, sipping on his tea once more. He doesn’t spare you a glance as you continue, your tone soft and polite, “I’m having some trouble reading your handwriting. I don’t suppose you have a typed version I could reference instead?” His dark eyes slowly turn over to you. You swear you feel the cold of a hundred Winters rush through your body at once, “If you can’t translate it, then I shall call Vivian right now and inform her that sending someone illiterate does not help me in the slightest.”

‘Illiterate??’ You quietly think, feeling both offended and furious. ‘At least my writing doesn’t look like a chicken walked all over my page!’ Biting your tongue, you nod. You would make this work, just to spite this guy. ‘Just think about the end goal. Someone out there is going to love this book. You just need to focus on your goal..’ It’s a daunting task, one you weren’t sure you could achieve. But you were going to put your damnest into this job more so than ever now. ✩

Eyeing his new assistant from across the table, Fyodor’s heart twists in some cold form of rebellion and anger. Vivian didn’t mention that she was sending someone like you. Had he known that, he would have called his overseas friend to go and stay with him while working on this novel that he didn’t even want to write. His eyes scan you, watching as your pen glides across the paper, translating his words carefully. A smug smirk rises onto his lips, noting how many times you stop and start. He notices the way your brows furrow in irritation. You were already struggling. It was only a matter of time before you gave up and admitted defeat, running away from his little piece of heaven with tears in your eyes and a white flag in your hands. He liked that thought. That thought brought him peace. “You’re going to have to work faster than that,” he suddenly says, sounding very proud of himself. You don’t look up, your hands and eyes continuing to move as he adds, “Vivian wants the book by the end of the year. If you can’t handle getting three chapters done by the end of the week, you’re useless to me and any other author.” He notices your jaw clenching. He sees the way you swallow down whatever response you keep to yourself, instead replying with a soft “Yes, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” If he breaks you down enough, will you submit faster? Will that get you away from him faster? He’s silent for a long while, his gaze slowly returning to the scenic view before him. It soothes him and assures him he will soon have his space and peace returned to him. He lifts his teacup, sipping the warm liquid slowly. He just had to bide his time and wait. You would crack eventually. He would make sure of it. ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

Even though Fyodor treated you coldly and barely even spoke to you, you were intrigued by his writing. It felt like his words had a grip on you, filling you with the urge, that desperate need to know what happens next. The novel was about a young man. From what you had read, he was an extremely lonely man. No matter how Fyodor wrote him, or what scenes he was in, he was always alone, even when surrounded by people. But there was one thing you wouldn’t understand. “If this is supposed to be a romance novel,” you say slowly. “Then where is the other lead? What’s this guy going to romance, himself in the mirror?” “Oh come on now, cut him some slack,” the warm voice of your best friend chimes over the phone. “This is just the first three chapters, right? He’s probably just laying down the groundwork for now. I mean..” She pauses, hesitating before adding in a teasing tone, “The main female lead in that story you read didn’t get a proper romantic interest till like, what, book four?” “Hey, you say that like I wanted her to have one!” You joke, giggling as you walk up the winding stone path on your way to Fyodor’s. It was almost week’s end and despite having a handful of paragraphs left, you were almost done translating the first three chapters. Though it wasn’t an easy task. You had learnt that Fyodor had a habit of rambling in his stories. Sometimes, this made parts more fleshed out. More interesting and intriguing to you. But you didn’t need to know the full backstory of some random man sitting by a lake if he wasn’t going to be important to the story later on. “I want to give him some advice,” you say into the phone, your voice suddenly more serious. You notice the pair of village cats nearby as you pause in place. The younger orange tabby cat attempts to play with the old tabby, the older of the pair growling as he backs away, “But is it my place to give him advice? I mean…he is the author. It’s his story. I have no right to tell him how to write it.”

You hear a hum on the other end of the line as you start moving again, approaching the familiar archway. Then, “You could always try it. But this Fyodor guy doesn’t sound like the type who would take your advice onboard. You’re still so new to this field, your ears are still green!” You chew on your inner cheek, sighing. The chances that Fyodor would listen to you were slim to none. You understood that already. It didn’t take a genius to know where you stood in his regard. But you wanted to help Fyodor make improvements to his book. You look up at the archway, a gentle breeze pushing against your back as you sigh in defeat. “I’ll call you tonight and let you know how badly he chews me out.” You end the call, hiding your phone in your pocket, walking through the archway and into the lush clearing. You were already expecting to be greeted with the typical iciness from the author as you approach his table. “Ah, you’re finally here,” he greets you. His tone isn’t exactly friendly, but it’s not as frosty as you were expecting. There’s a faint hint of hibiscus in the air as the soft breeze draws the scent of his tea of the day to you. Yesterday was ginger. The day before was turmeric. He always had a fresh pot every morning when you arrived. But he never offered you a cup. Regardless, you come to sit at his table, your chair creaking faintly as you reach into your messenger bag, pulling out the last few pages of the first three chapters of his novel before speaking, “I’ve almost finished with these chapters,” you let him know, a flame of warmth in your voice. “I only have a few more paragraphs to go. Though I have to say–” You rummage around your bag, searching for your lucky pen as you continue, “--I quite enjoy your writing. It's captivating. Sometimes I feel like I’m hanging on the end of your every word–” “Flattery will get you nowhere,” Fyodor quickly interjects, deep eyes narrowing at you, the dark hoops under his eyes making him look more menacing. A shiver runs down your spine as he nods at the paper before you, “Get to work and stop wasting your time with idle chatter.”

‘Oh, so I can’t even compliment you?’ You quietly think, your hand wrapping around your lucky pen. You pull the gold and black ballpoint pen out, clicking it to life as you begin working, huffing and puffing in annoyance in your mind, ‘Fine then. Maybe I just won’t speak to you again. God, I hope all writers aren’t this entitled.’ You catch yourself, your fingers caressing the side of the ballpoint pen as the gold edge shines in the early sun. No…you knew all writers weren’t like Fyodor. He was a rotten apple surrounded by batches of bright, red fruit. He wasn’t going to stop you from reaching your dream. He would not stomp that flame out. A silence falls over you and Fyodor. It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not quite pleasant either. It just simply is. You glance up now and then to see Fyodor sipping on his tea, his eyes always drawn to the distance. You scan his expression for a few moments, your pen stopping its movements. He doesn’t notice you looking at him as he stares almost longingly into the distance, his dark eyes shrouded with depths of emotion you struggle to comprehend. But there is one emotion there that is most obvious to you. It’s a look of deep, suffocating loneliness. He stares, as if seeing something in the distance you cannot. He is silent and still. You barely even see his chest rising and falling with his breaths as a gentle breeze tousles his raven hair, as though an invisible hand would be combing through each lock with a careful, almost affectionate touch. Then, as if returning to reality, he blinks, his gaze slowly shifting to meet yours. You stare at one another, frozen in time for just a heartbeat. There is no coldness, no scolding. Just you and him and his sad, lonely eyes. For a moment, you almost decide to ask if he’s okay. Almost.

But as quickly as you see this side of Fyodor, it disappears under frozen blinds and walls of ice. His dark eyes glare at you, hiding the emotions you saw behind a careful shield as he scolds, “Why are you wasting time staring into space? Get back to work.” You shake your head, snapping out of your trance, eyes gliding back to the paper at your hands. You don’t speak a word and merely focus on those last few paragraphs. You knew what you saw. That cold facade cracked for just a moment to reveal something more to this man than you originally thought. There was more to Fyodor than the cold wall you kept smashing again. Your pen glides across the paper, finishing the last few translated lines. You smile to yourself, placing the ballpoint pen down on the garden table before looking up at Fyodor, pride glittering in your eyes. You’d completed the first obstacle he’d put in your way, “I’m done, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” His eyes graze over your smile, the proud glimmer in your eyes, then move down towards the sheet of paper at your fingertips. He turns his body, sitting at the table properly now as he nods at you, “Let me check.” Taking the rest of the pages out of your bag, you slide each completed chapter over to him, your hands carefully caressing the top sheet before passing it over. You were hoping this would prove your value to Fyodor and get him to start treating you…well, like someone trying to help him. Like a proper translator. Like someone actually trying to get his book published. He’s silent for a long while as he flips through the translated chapters. He murmurs to himself every now and then in Russian; sometimes he sounds almost fascinated. Other times, he sounds annoyed. Then, at last, when he’s midway through the second chapter, “This is precisely why I didn’t want to do an international release. My words simply do not translate well into English.” “We could work together to find a suitable substitute for your words in English,” you suggest. The moment his dark eyes pierce into yours, you gulp. “If you wanted to. It won’t be exactly the same but I’m sure we could find a nice middle ground.”

He’s silent for a while as if thinking over your words. Then his eyes travel back to the page, murmuring, “We can try. But I assure you, you won’t be able to translate it perfectly. The English language is incapable of properly translating what I’m attempting to convey–” ‘There he goes again, acting all high and–,’ your grumpy thoughts are interrupted as a thought strikes you like a bolt from the blue. You resist the urge to gasp. Wait…was this the first proper, positive reaction you’ve gotten from Fyodor? He accepted you reaching out a hand to him? Then maybe now was your chance! You gasp a little, suddenly standing up, much to both yours and Fyodor’s surprise. He looks up at you, taken off guard as you suddenly blurt out, “Um! In that case, I had some other advice I wanted to give to! It’s in regards to that man you focus the second chapter on!” “I don’t know if he has any significance to the plot or not, but is it really necessary to have the last twenty pages focused just on his backstory?" "Because it seems like you could use these pages to develop the male lead further or even bring in the female lead! Are you intending for him to have a larger role or–” “You dare to have the audacity to lecture me on how to write my novel?” Fyodor’s cold voice cuts you off, his eyes narrowing at you dangerously. You can almost feel your voice being stolen by his anger, as he continues you glare daggers at you so sharp, that you feel that little shred of confidence and pride you’d finally gained being ripped to shreds before you. “You translate three chapters and that’s it? You’re suddenly an expert in the writing world, are you?” He scoffs, laughing at you mockingly. He tosses the translated pages onto the table, his eyes continuing to stare into your own shocked eyes. His voice grows harsher as he suddenly begins to speak in his native tongue.

“Сверхуважаемая госпожа, я хочу напомнить вам, что ваше право на собственное мнение не обязывает меня слушать этот бред. Молчание - великий талант. Мой совет вам: если у вас будут мысли, держите их при себе; в наше время умные люди молчат, а не разговаривают. Я вас здесь не нанял для авторского выступления, так что будьте любезны, работайте и не стройте из себя Александром Сергеевичем Пушкиным.” *

He stands suddenly, leaving you stunned in place, unable to find your voice. You watch in stunned horror as he storms towards his cottage, tucked and hidden within the wilderness of the trees and shrubbery. He enters it, slamming the door behind him before you can utter another word. You feel both stunned and horrified. You had no idea what he had just said to you but why did it feel like you just lost your job? ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵ “You should have cut him some slack.”

“Do you really think I need to hear that right now?”

“You know it wasn’t your place to criticize him like that–”

“I know…I don’t know what came over me…” You sigh heavily, sinking into the thick duvet on your bed as your heart aches within the tight confines of your chest. The sound of the city beyond your apartment blares outside. The distant siren of an ambulance. The loud yells of passerbys. A dog’s loud barks as the scent of cigarette smoke and fumes waft through your apartment window.

It wasn’t the classiest apartment, very far from it, but it was the only place you could afford right now with the allowance you were receiving from the government, along with what little savings you had left. You sigh, running a hand through your messy hair, “I genuinely didn’t mean to do it. I just got so excited. I felt like he was finally accepting me into his world…” You lower your voice, sounding more upset. “But now I’ve gone and ruined it all…not even a week in...”

You lift your other hand, holding up your gold and black ballpoint pen once more. You twirl it between your fingers, Fyodor’s harsh expression still vivid in the back of your mind. You felt like you really offended him. You hadn’t meant to. You just wanted to help. But you understood how your words had come across as hurtful. You didn’t know the story Fyodor was plotting out. You didn't know if this man was going to play a pivotal role and yet you–

You hear a loud crunch on the other end of the line, causing you to wince and yelp in surprise, your thoughts broken through instantly, “Ack! Trixie! Hold the phone away next time!” “Mrm! Sorry girl, but look-” Trixie goes silent for a few moments while she finishes chewing whatever she’s eating. Then, she speaks again, sounding quite calm as she gives you her advice, “--I think you owe him an apology. This guy is not only your senior career wise, but he’s the literal author of the book you’re translating.”

You frown as she goes on, your eyes glued to your ballpoint pen as the streetlight outside touches it, making the golden parts gleam, “What kind of things does he like? You know, besides sitting and staring at the lake all day.”

You think over Trixie’s words, eyes sparkling with the golden hue coming from your pen. Fyodor hadn’t spoken to you much these past few days since you began working as his translator. He greeted you, scolded you to start work and then sat in silence until the day’s end. Did he like anything besides staring at the lake and–

Suddenly, you sit up in your bed, and your loose, white nightgown drops over your frame, the old springs of the bed squeaking softly. That was what you could get him to apologize! You would need to get some research in tonight and wake up early to head to the store tomorrow. You were sure there was a speciality store for this type of thing on the other side of town.

Moments before you’re about to hang up, you get a second call. Your eyes widen as you read the name on the screen; Vivian. Your heart leaps into your throat. “Sorry Trix, I have to go,” you quickly say, rising from your bed to move over to your kitchen counter where your laptop was sitting, charging. “I’ll call you when I can.”

“Keep me updated on your situation with your author man!” Trixie manages to chime back before you end the call, picking up Vivian’s seconds later.

“Yes? Hello, Vivian?” You quickly answer, holding your phone with your cheek while typing into your laptop’s keyboard, searching through the specific results you had pulled up.“I’m surprised you’re still up. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; all those involved in the literary world seem to be night owls.” She chuckles, before clearing her throat.

You scroll through the results page as Fyodor’s agent keeps speaking to you, “I presume you know why I’m calling. I just got off the phone to Fyodor regarding the…incident.” The incident…

You cringe at it being referred to like that. Your heartbeat picks up as you stand up straight, a deeply apologetic tone in your voice, “I know, I know, I was in the wrong. It’s Mr. Dostoyevsky’s book and he’s free to write however he pleases. I just got a little head of myself and–!”

“Easy,” Vivian whispers soothingly. It almost feels like she’s there with you, patting your shoulder and assuring you it's okay. “Fyodor is still a tad…appalled at your behaviour, but I have managed to convince him to give you another chance due to how efficiently and well you translated his first chapters.” A gasp escapes your throat; before your hopes can get too high, she quickly adds in a tone that reminds you of a stern teacher, “But this is your last chance. He’s said if you step out of line again, you’re out.”

“No…no, I understand perfectly!” You run a hand through your messy hair, resisting the urge to jump and dance around in glee. Oh thank God, you didn’t lose this chance! Your gaze flickers back towards the laptop screen, the results still silently waiting for you. You knew you still had to apologize properly for what you had done.

“I promise, neither of you will regret this.” You begin writing down an address frantically on a sticky note, looking up the coordinates to the location on the other side of town. You click your tongue, planning everything out in your head. Yes, if you wake up earlier, you will have the time to swing by and get everything ready before visiting Fyodor tomorrow morning without being late.

Suddenly, Vivian’s voice breaks through the silence, cutting you out of your thoughts, “I shouldn’t be saying this but do me a favour, would you?” She pauses for a moment. You focus more on her as she adds, “Cut Fyodor some slack.”

“Wh-what?” Is all you manage to breathe out. Everyone keeps telling you to do that. Were you in an echo chamber? Or did everyone else just see something you couldn't? She continues, sighing heavily and you swear you hear a pen being placed down, judging from the gentle tap you hear on her side of the call.

“It isn’t my tale to tell, but I will inform you that Fyodor has been through a lot as of late.” You frown deeply as you hear this. “This is his returning novel after taking some time away from his career, so all I ask is that you show him the same patience you would want to be shown.”

Your mind stews those words over silently as you chew the inside of your cheek. The novelist you were working with was an enigma. He was more mysterious than the deepest pits of the ocean, and more closed off than a crime scene. You only had his name. His career. And the gift of being able to read his captivating story. Well, part of it.

Just who was Fyodor exactly? And what had he gone through to make him the way he is now?

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵︵

The sky was overcast and angry as you began to make your trek towards Fyodor’s quaint cottage. You sprint along the stone path as the sky rumbles like a beast, growling as the clouds light up, warning you of the upcoming downpour that is about to begin. Clutching the bouquet you’d bought close, along with the small gift bag, you run through the archway.

The usual clear, mirror-like surface of the lake was black and menacing, nowhere near as picturesque as it had been for the entire week. No birds were singing. Branches waved violently in the strong winds that buffeted against them, sending spirals of leaves cascading around, like mini tornados of color.

You barely manage to hold onto your bouquet and gift, grimacing as you notice Fyodor isn’t sitting at the usual spot today. You look towards his cottage, the trees and shrubbery around it rustling violently against the strong gusts as well. They almost look like they’re clinging onto the cottage to keep themselves rooted. You catch a glimpse of that old tabby cat sprinting up to the door, his paws reaching up and scratching at the timber desperately and at once, it opens.

You see Fyodor, wrapped in a thicker cloak than normal along with what seems to be an old ushanka on his head, keeping his face warm. He opens the door to let the feline inside, cloak dragging on the floor behind him like a cape. Rubbing against the Russian’s legs, the tabby darts inside, away from the rough weather. But he doesn’t follow the feline; his dark eyes lift, meeting yours across the way.

He watches as the wind tousles your long hair as though playing with the elegant strands, your bright, vibrant coat of orange a stark contrast against the blackening sky but matching perfectly with the leaves falling from rustling trees around you. He sees the way your brown scarf aggressively sways in the violent breeze as the sky growls a final warning. He says nothing as he watches you. Is he waiting for you? His eyes scan you once, twice…it’s like he’s taking you in for the first time.

Like this, you look like a single glowing ember in the darkness of the world, seconds away from being snuffed out and devoured by the shadows.

Not wanting to be left out in this downpour, you sprint towards Fyodor, a loud crack echoing across the sky as it lights up, lighting striking somewhere in the distance as you pick up the pace. Without a word still, he steps aside, letting you run in just as it begins to storm. Cold droplets pour from the sky as it roars, another loud crack is heard in the distance. Rain begins to patter loudly on the roof of Fyodor's humble home, almost cleansing the land.

You hear the door close, along with a lock being turned, clicking into place. You turn to face Fyodor, noticing that the room is not illuminated by the bulbs hanging overhead but by candlelight. There are candleholders along the wall, lighting the hallway in a warm, welcoming light. Flickers of yellow dance across Fyodor’s face, his dark purple eyes practically invisible in the dark of the cottage.

Gripping the bouquet tighter, you hesitate to hand it over. Then, at last, you do, presenting the brilliant bouquet with a gentle hand. “Here,” you say softly, almost silently. “These are for you.”

You watch as his calculating eyes trace along each chosen flower; the blue hyacinths to the white orchids, to the few lilies of the Valley. He hesitates to accept them as his eyes turn back to you. He must be waiting to hear her apology out loud, “I’d like to say I’m sorry for overstepping.” The plastic around the bouquet crinkles as you grip it tighter.

“I am both your junior and not an author,” you begin, fighting back down every inch of your pride to make sure your apology comes across as genuine. “I had no right to tell you how to write your story. I’m only here to translate it into English so I’m sorry. It will not happen again.” You also present your other hand, holding the gift bag out to Fyodor. “I hope you can forgive me and we can start fresh.”

He eyes the gift bag, reaching for it first. He peers inside, hiding his surprise behind his cold eyes as he notices the variety of tea leaves you’ve purchased for him. These are all high-quality leaves from a teashop on the other side of town. Passionfruit drop. Cream black tea. Autumn spice. He looks up at you, raising a brow curiously.

You squirm under his gaze, anxiously waiting for a reply. Would he accept the apology? Would he not? It felt like time was frozen as you and Fyodor stared at one another, his deep, purple eyes peering into the very depths of your soul as if trying to see if you were truly sorry in the very pit of your heart.

Then he moves past you. You feel your heartbeat freeze in your chest and then–

“Come along. I will brew some tea while you begin work translating chapter four.”

Warmth spreads across your chest instantly, your heart fluttering in your chest, a smile breaking out on your face as you turn, following Fyodor through the candlelit hall towards what you presumed to be the kitchen, your apology bouquet in hand.

You wouldn’t admit it out loud, but you were both glad Fyodor had seemingly accepted your apology…and excited to read the fourth chapter of his novel. Even if he rambled on for the next forty pages and didn’t progress the plot. Your ankle boots click against the old wooden flooring as you hurry after the author.

✩ You were an enigma to Fyodor. Despite the cold walls he had placed securely around himself and the distance he had tried to keep from you, you kept coming back. Did this job really mean that much to you or were you just that desperate for money?

Or perhaps you were here for other reasons.

The kettle’s loud whistle shakes Fyodor from his web of thoughts. He takes it off the stove, bringing it over to his preferred ceramic teapot, decorated with painted pink carnations, filling it with the boiling water before moving on to inserting the mesh tea infuser, full of some of the new leaves you brought him.

As the aromatic smell of spices fills the air, he turns his thoughtful eyes to where you sit at his dining table, reading over the fourth chapter of his novel. He sees your smile behind the pages. The way your eyes gleam as you read and reread paragraphs. It even looked like you were no longer struggling to read his handwriting.

He felt warmth stirring in his heart. Fyodor had seen from reviews and heard from Vivian that his works were well-beloved, but seeing you smile and the joy in your eyes was something else entirely. It stirred something deep within his soul.

You actually did enjoy his story. You weren’t just going along with the crowd or agreeing with a friend because it was a popular piece. You were genuinely enjoying his work. He feels his heart pound for just a second before he turns away, focusing on the tea.

With slender hands, he pours the rich, orange liquid into the prepared porcelain teacups, the fragrance growing even stronger in the room. Between the sound and smell of the pouring rain and terrifying thunder and the earthy, aromatic smell of the Autumn spice tea, Fyodor felt his shoulders relaxing as he brought the two teacups over to the dining table, just in time to hear you gasp quietly.

Ah, you must’ve gotten to the part where the female lead is fleetingly introduced. For a moment, Fyodor finds himself smiling.

Dividers: @/saradika * Translation:  Dear Madam, I want to remind you that your right to your own opinion does not oblige me to listen to this nonsense. Silence is a great talent. My advice to you: if you have thoughts, keep them to yourself; Nowadays, smart people are silent, not talking. I didn’t hire you here for an author’s speech, so be kind, work and don’t pretend to be Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin.

[espionn]

SkyWing tribe sheet!

my computer always fucks up colors in export for some reason and its really obvious with these guys :( i promise they're more saturated my computer just sucks

anyway i really liked doing these guys, skywings are fun and i think they have a lot of potential. enjoy!

Physical Appearance + Traits:

-SkyWings, as their name suggests, are dragons made for the wind and sky. They are better fliers than any other tribe, with enormous wings and several birdlike features. Some can fly for more than a day without landing, and even when they aren’t flying they make their homes at the peaks of mountains, with the entire world beneath them.

-They are quite large, taller than any other tribe, with long necks, long tails, and regal figures. They don’t have any obviously deadly weapons, but they have no clear weaknesses either; they are generally successful dragons.

-Their coloration consists of almost entirely warm colors, specifically red and orange. Yellows and golds are sometimes seen too, and more uncommonly, purples and browns. Their colors are bold and striking; they are one of the few Pyrrhian tribes that has no need for camouflage. 

-Young dragonets are hatched with a coating of feathers, particularly on their wings, necks and tails. Most dragons simply shed their feathers as they grow; some, though, carry a few into adulthood, usually lining their wings or making a thin ruff around their necks. These feathers are often even brighter than their scales.

-SkyWing horns are a mark of pride, and they continue to grow for as long as they live, meaning some of the oldest SkyWings have horns that resemble enormous and heavy antlers. Sometimes their horns are decorated with wires strung with jewels.

-SkyWing fire is the hottest and most powerful fire any tribe can produce. At its hottest it scorches through bone, and it can be used with accuracy from a long distance. It is their main weapon in combat, and quite a devastating one if their opponents don’t know how to properly fight it. They also use it for a number of other things, though. (More on this in the “society and culture” section.)

-Their wings are stronger than those of most tribes, allowing them to temporarily use them for balance rather than their front legs. This lets them hold and work on things more easily. (This headcanon belongs to @sidyashchiy-na-plakhe!! i saw your post and really liked it, hope you dont mind me adopting it)

-Not dissimilar to SandWings, they have darker streaks near their eyes to help with the glare of the sun when they’re flying, often facing the horizon directly.

Life Cycle:

-SkyWings are hatched in clutches between one and five, although four and five are a bit less common than one through three. SkyWing parents are not involved much with their dragonets. By tradition, they lay eggs in nests high in the mountain peaks, and return occasionally with food once they hatch. The rare unlucky SkyWing newborn may be snatched up by a large bird, but they’re big enough that it isn’t usually an issue. They are also hatched with disproportionately massive wings, big enough to make the fall less likely to be lethal if they fall before they learn to fly.

-Once the dragonets are large enough, though, or once they get hungry enough to search for their own food, they will leave the nest, often simply jumping out and letting the wind carry them, learning to properly fly quite quickly. Once parents notice that the nest is empty, they simply stop bringing food. They will never know who their dragonets are, but SkyWing superstition says all dragonets will eventually make their way to the kingdom, where they will be made a part of the tribe. And, truthfully, they almost always do.

-This practice, which some tribes find strange or even barbaric, is seen by Skywings as an important part of their life and tradition. Each of them took the same journey, and so did the generation before them, so they have faith that it will continue to work out well. It’s in their nature to leave their nest and find the kingdom, and it doesn’t result in enough casualties for them to try to halt the tradition. The only dragons this practice does not apply to is the royal family, for the sake of tracking bloodlines.

-By the time they are entered into the wider kingdom, dragonets usually know how to hunt and avoid danger, so all tribe life offers them is the ability to meet other dragons and find work. There isn’t much of an education system in place, with the exception of mentorships for some careers, such as metalworking, and military training. If they take part in work for the kingdom, they’ll have societal benefits and a secure place in the tribe, and most end up in that position eventually. But there are always a few SkyWings who simply live on the outskirts, uninterested in the larger tribe.

-They don’t form many close relationships, being fairly solitary dragons as soon as they leave their siblings. They do not very often form genuine romantic relationships, but marriage is fairly common simply as a formality or political maneuver. Royals in particular almost always get married, though they don’t usually form natural bonds with their spouses. The only responsibilities parents have is bringing food to their nest until the dragonets abandon it.

Culture and Society:

-SkyWings are proud and solitary; these things combined have given them a reputation of being rude, aloof and uncharismatic. They are powerful fighters and fliers, but their strength is not in diplomacy. Their kingdom norms, though, which allow every dragon to simply utilize for the tribe whatever talents they may have, at their own leisure and for whatever profit might be available to them, suits them well and has made for an uncomplicated but successful society. (This is excluding a few periods such as the reign of Queen Scarlet, who reshaped the tribe into something more dictatorial.)

-They are generally quite matriarchal; every tribe has a queen, but SkyWings tend to have a more overall unbalanced system. Females are a bit larger than males and are usually in higher positions of command.

-Fire is extremely important to SkyWing culture - it produces light, warmth, and without it they would be much less deadly in combat. It has its place in almost every tradition and is used in almost every career path. 

-They are the most superstitious tribe in some ways, their lives dictated heavily by tradition and spirituality. The way dragonets are raised is one example; there are countless others, including funeral rites that involve burning, gladiator fights performed for glory, a general belief of night marking bad luck, and others. 

-Continuing on this note, SkyWings - though most would never admit it aloud - are almost universally afraid of the dark. The caves and caverns in which they live are always warm and well-lit, via torches lit by their own fire, and they are almost exclusively out by day. They worship the sun and daytime, believing it to chase away the shadows in its glory. NightWings, for similar reasons, tend to be unnerving to them.

-And to elaborate on gladiator fights: The arena near the palace was originally constructed for SkyWings to prove their prowess by fighting other SkyWings and completing various challenges. During these fights they would wear a special set of ceremonial armor, which they could then keep if they succeeded. (Scarlet, of course, transformed this arena into a convenient way to execute prisoners, and later Queen Ruby reinvented it completely by erecting a hospital where it had once stood.)

-In general, SkyWings are one of the only tribes to wear armor, and the only tribe that has used it for entire armies during war. A particular emphasis is placed on wing armor that allows for comfortable flight while still protecting the wing membranes, as a flightless SkyWing is considered as good as dead by its tribe.

-Jewelry almost always involves precious stones, particularly rubies, diamonds and citrine. It’s very common to have these jewels embedded in scales; some royals have done this with such excess that they appear to have crystals growing out of them.

Diet: Carnivorous. They eat birds, mountain goats, deer, and occasionally fish, rodents or whatever else they can catch. Sometimes raw, sometimes scorched. They don’t typically make full and elaborate meals like other tribes; the only common seasoning they use is salt. Other than the rare use of herbs for flavoring, they eat no plants at all.

[bri-cheeses]

| May 3rd | Prompt: Illusion | Word Count: 953 | @rosekillermicrofic |

Evan was waiting. For who, he didn’t know, just that the letter he had received had told him to be in this spot as soon as the moon had reached its highest point.

He sighs, sitting down on the fountain ledge behind him. The water in the fountain trickles slowly, as if it’s forgotten how it used to work and is only a sad echo of what it used to be.

Kicking the grass beneath him, Evan thinks about how he’d gotten into this situation in the first place.

It had started with a white crow. Now, Evan isn’t one to follow vaguely unsettling birds for the heck of it; that’s more up his sister’s alley. But Evan, like everyone else, had been raised on the legends of crows appearing to various people and leading them to the most extraordinary, elusive circus in the entire world.

The circus was said to travel everywhere, but getting an invite was rare. So if you were lucky enough to have the crow appear to you, you followed it, knowing that once you reached your destination you would experience the best week of your life.

Not to mention that the circus was rumored to be magical, as well.

And so Evan had followed the crow into the forest on his family’s estate, watching as it weaved through the trees. Eventually he had stumbled upon a door carved into one of the trunks. Evan had had the feeling that the door wasn’t entirely real, but he had gone through it anyway.

And it had landed him in a small circus tent outfitted with a bed, clothes, and other necessities. Evan had immediately deduced that it would be where he was staying for the next week.

Then he had noticed a slip of paper on the stand next to the bed. And of course he had picked it up and looked at the directions written there, following them out of his small tent and into the night.

There had been a cobblestone path leading away from his quarters, winding through a dark field and into a small, quaint town. From there he had gone to the outskirts of the strangely empty village and found the fountain that had been drawn on the paper.

And now he was sitting there, waiting for… something.

He looks up at the moon just to have something to do. It’s full, or at least close to it, and its light illuminates his surroundings.

Evan sighs, scuffing a foot along the ground one more.

And that’s when the night explodes.

Not literally, of course, but the overall effect is similar to that of an explosion.

The moon begins to emit swirls of color that wrap around the courtyard, filling it with delightful shades of reds and purples and greens and every other color imaginable. The shades are all bright and playful, almost overwhelming in their radiance as they solidify into shapes of various sizes. Evan sees a swirl of fuchsia tangle with a light blue and turn into a circus tent. Beside it, a burst of tangerine forms a fully grown tree. Evan’s not sure, but he thinks there might be a yellow monkey swinging from it. He can’t say for certain, though, as his attention is being pulled in a new direction every other second.

A tightrope springs up from a flood of crimson, dragging Evan’s gaze to it. Then, on the opposite side of the clearing, a cloud of navy condenses into a wheel of knives. He can feel himself becoming dizzy as elephants and swords, ropes and stilts, and tigers, fires, hula hoops, and more are brought into existence all around him. And a vibrant circus is left behind as, one by one, the colors die off.

All of the colors but two.

A bright purple and green swirl around each other, winding faster and tighter as Evan watches a form take shape.

The boots are the first things clearly visible, electric purple and pointy. Then the legs form, along with the torso, all clad in a bright green suit. It’s perfectly tailored, decorated with purple trimmings that immediately catch the eye. The cape and gloves that come next are the same color, tying the entire outfit together. After that, a green hat pops into existence above the headless body, suspended in mid air.

And then finally, the head of the mystery person appears, a devilish grin and a pair of sparkling eyes fading into sight.

Evan’s taken aback by the boy now standing in front of him. He’s Evan's own age, with brown hair, captivating green eyes, and a cocky arrogance about him. And despite Evan’s best instincts, he’s instantly intrigued.

The boy makes a show of acting surprised to see Evan standing there, then sweeps his hat off of his head and bows. The grand gesture brings a slight smile to Evan’s lips.

“Barty Crouch Jr,” the boy introduces himself proudly, “ringmaster of this incredible circus.”

Wait. This is the ringmaster? Evan thought he’d be older. And far less charming, if he’s being honest

“Pleased to meet you,” Evan hedges, still slightly unsure about all these new happenings. After all, it’s not everyday that one experiences magic. Especially on a scale as large as this.

“No,” Barty says, his mouth curling even further into a wicked grin, “the pleasure is all mine.”

His gaze meets Evan’s eyes, causing him to shiver. There’s something to be said for being the focus of a magician—particularly one as bewitching as Barty is.

And somehow, surrounded by the most beautiful illusion he has ever seen, Evan gets the distinct feeling that this just might turn out to be the best week of his life.

[glitterponyshark]

finally done! ( i hate how the quality went down, may fix later ) but it’s done

CONTEXT ON HOW THEY MET BELOW!!

“what…is this?” fox looked around the bustling low light place, his eyes darted from the many people that were there. certain people were dressed in scantily clothing, dressed as animals with mask.

one of the scanty dressed came to him, he was dressed in a suit, like a butler, but with a dog mask; barking as he took off fox’s coat and bowed at him. before fox could say a word though, the dog man stood and beckoned him to fallow. with caution, fox and his men fallow him, walking past the man patrons. some indulging on selling matters, some others doing fights, sexual acts and many more on the masked animal people.

sounds that fox knew all too well from his own work. but those sounds soon died down as they reached a secluded area, two taller guards stood near the entrance, both sporting lion mask. they step aside when the dog man snaps his fingers. once inside, the dog man barks and leaves the room.

confused, fox looks back from the dog man to see a whole room of masked people, all pleasuring each other or themselves. some even tried to get fox’s attention, but his eyes landed on two people that sent him an invitation to come here. all the way at the other side of the room stood the famous songbird, standing next to her handler, collar his his hand as he smiled at fox’s arrival. teeth just like an predator finding its prey.



Songbird, formally known as [REDECATED], was mysteriously and randomly brought into an underground human trafficking club called "smooth blue". rumored began to spread on how she got there and why; they soon died down when a “volunteer” was publicly executed while songbird sang. the strange thing was that it was almost as if the victim was fallowing her words from the song. the victim smiled as is they were happy they died to her voice. patrons became excited by her songs of death, causing auctioneers to try and buy her off of the club owners hands. but to everyone’s disappointment, she was off the market. that didn’t stop her from becoming a club favorite. people ranging from murders to corrupt business people came far and wide to see her perform. all while trying to grab her attention, but to no avail, she only flirted with them for her owner’s pleasure.

now for how fox found out about the club, was through his chat. a recent clip was sent from a donation, show casing her latest act. piquing his interest, he finds out more about the club before going. once finding that they also auctioned off victims, he decided that it would be time to find another “pet”. to his surprise, an invitation was sent to his home, no return address or anything. the card had the clubs slogan. “music smoother than a blood on a knife”. a large purple kiss mark was on the other side of the card, with a little note hoping for his presence at the club.

confused and cautious, fox threw (he kept it) the letter away and had extra security around his home to look out for anything suspicious. but even then, they still somehow managed to send another invitation to him; this though, had a personal picture of song bird, blowing a kiss to the camera.

finally deciding to go, he takes his two body guards with him, for all he knows, he and his men could become songbirds next “meal”.

[a-driftamongopenstars]

o companion mine; crow x guardian ficlet

i was watching ahamkara lore videos and had an idea for... this :) happy season of the wish everyone! also on ao3

The geode walls of the hollow shimmer in the daylight. The Guardian runs their fingertips over the jagged edges, watching their pearlescent sheen change from purple to pink to light green. 

A shadow is cast on the wall, and the Guardian turns to find Crow there, smiling his sweet smile. 

“You are late,” the Guardian points out without accusation, and Crow spreads his arms in an apology. 

“Then let us not waste a moment longer. Race me, Guardian.”

They run through the golden fields and up and down the rocky hills, racing each other to the nearest tree, then the nearest creek, then the nearest star. The Ascendant plane whistles past them with its eerie song, and they ignore it in favour of the Dreaming City proper. They run and laugh and cheer.

Crow is faster, and wins every race.

When both are out of breath, they find a small outpost, empty of its Corsairs, and sit beneath a long-branched tree, indulging in its fruit. 

“Tell me, Guardian,” Crow says, wiping his mouth of sweet juice, “what do you think comes after?”

They eye him, squinting from daylight. 

“After what?”

“When the Darkness and the Light are no longer our concern. When the fight ends, what will we do?”

“If that ever happens.”

“Wouldn't you want it to?”

The Guardian throws aside the fruit core and looks at Crow more intently, studying the seriousness of his features. 

“We need to get there first. Where is that philosophy coming from all of a sudden?”

Crow rests his head against the tree trunk beside the Guardian, his eyes glinting as he looks up. That amber gold brighter than it has ever been. 

“I've always been curious, haven't I?”

They can't argue with that. 

“And there is still so much to know. Especially of the places I have never been to, and stories I have never heard the end of.”

Crow closes his eyes, and speaks unto the Guardian with a plea. 

“Tell me of the places you have seen.”

And the Guardian does. With fervour they didn't know they possessed, they speak of the icy slopes of Europa, the broken rings of Saturn, the hallowed halls of Oryx’s dreadnaught, the tides of Titan… 

Place after place after place until the words run out and their listener is satiated. 

“Perhaps, one day, I will see those places with you,” Crow replies, staring the Guardian down with a strange gaze of determination, as if gauging for something.

The Guardian smiles at the thought, and smiles at Crow. He touches the Guardian's hand and after a moment's pause continues. 

“It is strange, Guardian. Here beside you, that ‘after’ I asked about almost doesn't matter. You are the Light, and in it, you know you are invincible. Paracausal. Even when the Light and the Darkness may change forever, you know you will continue.”

The Guardian listens, knowing that Crow speaks the truth. 

“Do you never wish for rest?”

A noise distracts them, something shivering in the grass and rustling in the bush, and when the Guardian turns back, Crow is gone, only a silhouette left in the pressed tufts of grass. 

In the sky, a lone bird traverses the afternoon sky. 

As the Guardian turns around in search of their companion, touched with an unsettled sense of wrong, the sweet taste of fruit turns sour in their mouth and their heart is pounding, not from the race, but doubt… 

“Guardian!”

Crow’s voice reaches them from afar as the Hunter's figure grows closer and closer, as Crow approaches the outpost atop a Sparrow. His cheeks are darkened with speed and wind, his eyes open wide, his smile sweet as ever. 

“There you are. I thought we were meeting at our usual spot. I've been looking all over.”

The Guardian swallows down realizations of illusions and takes his hands and kisses them, kisses Crow's cheeks and watches his eyes for a deceitful shimmer, finding none. 

“I followed a stray creature and got lost.”

“I wish you'd wait for me.”

The Guardian silences Crow with a kiss. 

[metalhoops]

Steve had always thought his house was haunted. It wasn’t until the bodies started showing up on the front porch that he suspected it was something more sinister. 

The Harrington house had an air about it, with its elongated, hollow halls resembling gaping maws come sundown and all the familiar clicks and ticks that came with living in an enormous house alone. The pipes rattled like cuffed hands clapping when Steve stood beneath the shower spray. The wooden walls warped with the seasons, making all sorts of odd creeks. Then, of course, there was the wildlife, the shrieking of nightbirds and nocturnal creatures in the woods around the house. 

He used to think the haunting was the extrapolation of an overactive imagination. It was the reanimated corpse of a broken home. Sometimes an open window would blow shut a downstairs door, letting Steve think for a moment his parents had returned, only to find a silent house at his feet. 

After his first run-in with The Upside Down, he got paranoid. He slept with his bat by his bed, bolted the windows and checked the locks twice before going to sleep. Nothing ever happened. Each time the paranoia waned, another apocalypse would rear its ugly head, and he’d be back to the old routine. 

March 1986 sent him over the edge with Vecna's disappearance, Max’s coma, and Eddie’s death. He made new sets of keys, figuring with Hawkins being the way it was, his parents would avoid the place like the plague. He borrowed one of Nancy’s guns and kept it in his bedside drawer. However, unlike in other years, the house was anything but empty. 

He’d wake to the sound of slamming doors in the middle of the night and walk downstairs to find all the kitchen cupboards open and the front door ajar. Things escalated quickly. By mid-May, he was finding dead animals on his doorstep. 

He’d held back vomit one morning when he’d stepped out onto the welcome mat to find his once pristine white Rebooks wedged between the ribs of a coyote. The creature was pallid to the point of purpling. The front yard was a crime scene, the neatly cut grass streaked with blood. It seemed like the blood was everywhere but within the animal. It’d gone cold and stiff in the night. 

The next week it was a fox, the week after, a possum. Steve became more well-acquainted with death. He’d thrown house parties every week back in high school, and knew about deep cleaning, burying any trace of what a state the place had once been in.  

At first, he’d tried to think rationally. He tried to make some excuse about the change in weather, bringing the creatures to his doorstep. He’d even mentioned it to Robin, who’d been appropriately disgusted but level-headed. After all, the town had almost been cracked into a hundred little pieces months before, and nature acting strangely was expected. Every other day a bird would take a nosedive into the video store window. 

Steve became good at explaining these instances away until he found the final body on the floor of the living room. It wasn’t dead, but it should be. 

The familiar sound of a slamming door roused Steve from his sleep. He grabbed the gun and headed downstairs only to find himself looking down at the familiar body of a boy, sprawled out on the living room carpet. His form was covered in fading scars, his pale skin ashen with the transparent sheen of death. It was Eddie. The boy Steve had watched die. 

Steve saw the man’s chest rise and fall in languid gasps. He was dying at his feet all over again, and Steve was too used to strange things to question the authenticity of the sight before his eyes. 

“Eddie?” Steve choked, disbelievingly watching as Eddie’s eyes sprung open. He’d known them as warm brown coco, but now they were gaping black pits, open yet unseeing.  

“Stevie?” He echoed, sounding disorientated. 

“It’s so freaking cold,” the boy huffed, attempting to sit. It was an echo of a conversation they’d had while Eddie was dying. Maybe Steve was dreaming.

He dropped the gun and helped pull Eddie into a sitting position, one hand on the back of the boy’s knee, the other on his shoulder blade. His hands were covered in blood, but Steve couldn’t see an injury. 

“I was looking for you... thought you’d know what to do. Jesus Christ, you’re warm,” Eddie hissed through chattering teeth, his whole body leaning into Steve. They were on the cusp of summer and Steve was sweating, while Eddie was as cold as death. 

Steve felt like he was standing on the edge of a steep cliff, being asked to jump. Something primal in the base of his brain was screaming for him to turn tail and run. 

“You died, Eddie. I saw you, you shouldn’t be here,” Steve let out a string of incoherent ramblings. The boy couldn’t be alive. 

Eddie curled further into himself, into Steve, a quiet groan escaping his lips. 

“Can we save the crisis for later? I’m so damn hungry, man.” Steve nodded and pulled Eddie to his feet, leading him by the wrist to the kitchen. 

He switched on the lights and watched Eddie wilt beneath them, using his hair to shield his face from the brightness. Steve, oh too familiar with migraines, flipped the lights back off, letting darkness swallow them. 

He poured Eddie water from the sink and watched him inhale greedy gulps, his Adam’s apple bobbing while a vein in his neck throbbed. Steve scraped together food from the fridge and watched as the man ate with the same frenzied fervour, before spinning on his heels and throwing up in the sink. Steve cringed but rubbed circles across the man’s back.

“I feel like I’m dying,” the boy groaned.

Steve couldn’t tell him he wasn’t. He didn’t know what was happening to Eddie, but he knew he didn’t want to watch the guy die again.

Steve felt Eddie’s body trembling beneath his fingertips. He rubbed his hand down the length of Eddie’s arm, trying to warm him. 

“I’m going to get you a blanket,” Steve spoke, backing away from Eddie, keeping his eyes on the boy until his back slammed into the doorframe. 

By the time he gathered the sheets from the upstairs closet and returned to the kitchen, Eddie was gone. The only trace left of his visit was the open front door and the bloody handprint on the sink. 

After that night, Steve stopped locking his doors. He didn’t tell anyone he’d seen Eddie. They’d think he was crazy. He thought he was crazy. 

It would be weeks before Eddie woke him again. This time, Steve was startled by another body sliding into bed beside him. The room smelled of rotting fruit and iron. Sickly sweet and coppery. Steve rolled over, finding himself looking into the vacuous black eyes he’d come to know as Eddie’s. 

“Are you real?” Steve murmured, almost certain he was dreaming.

“Last time I checked,” Eddie grumbled, still shivering.  

“Are you the one leaving the animals on the porch?” Steve asked. He’d been doing a lot of thinking, and contrary to popular belief, if pushed, he could put two and two together. 

Eddie didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His face spoke volumes. 

“It works in horror movies,” Eddie grumbled.

“Did it work?” It surprised the both of them how non-judgemental Steve’s tone was, as though they were discussing the weather. 

“No,” Eddie confessed. 

Steve felt the same sinking sensation he had when Eddie first appeared, but he never was one for running from danger. 

“Do you think something else might?” He tried to remain cool, but his heart was a kick drum in his chest. Steve was good at playing the martyr. That didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified each time he did it. 

“Satanic Cult Leader Lays with Hawkins High King and Local Golden Boy, Luring Him into his Ranks Through Blood Sacrifice. That headline has a nice ring to it, huh?” Eddie teased, putting on his most dramatic news anchor voice, shattering the illusion as he stuttered the final words out through chattering teeth. 

“It’s a little wordy, and ‘lay with’ are we five?” Steve grumbled, trying to help Eddie by moving closer to the boy. 

“I didn’t mean to imply...” Eddie grumbled. Despite his decrepit state, he still managed to look like a deer caught in headlights. 

Steve shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t care that you did. Do you still feel like you’re dying?”

Once more, Eddie’s silence spoke volumes. Steve knew he was about to do something stupid, but chose to do it anyway. 

“I want you to try it,” Steve insisted. Instead of moving closer, Eddie shuffled further away, going to stand when Steve reached out, catching him before he could recreate his disappearing act. 

“I know what happens to you in horror movies, Stevie,” Eddie whispered, shaking himself from the boy’s grip.

“Only the predictable ones,” Steve argued, sitting up in bed. 

“I don’t want to kill you.” 

“And I don’t want to watch you die again, so just hurry up and get it over with,” Steve hissed. 

“Christ, you have a death wish,” Eddie grumbled but returned to the bed, sitting cross-legged opposite Steve. 

The two boys sat, looking each other over for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Steve watched as Eddie’s eyes became darker. The moonlight from the window turned his skin the same silver, blue as the night. His lips purple. His cheeks hollow. The veins across his face appeared like a million little highway lines cutting across the map that was his skin. 

“Can you hurry up?” Steve spoke, feeling his nerves stretched thin.

“Sorry, Harrington. S’not like they give you a manual on this shit,” Eddie complained, leaning over and gathering the gun from Steve’s bedside drawer, switching off the safety and placing it in Steve’s right hand. He took Steve’s free hand with a beat of hesitation. 

“Here’s something I thought I’d never say. Harrington, I give you consent to shoot me if shit goes sideways.” Steve’s eyes swelled wide, but he nodded to show he understood. 

The idea of something was always worse than the real thing. He shut his eyes and tried not to squeeze his finger on the trigger as a sharp spasm of pain shocked up his left arm. The sound was worse than the pain. He could block out the sensation as time went on. It was hard to ignore the intermittent slurps or smacking of lips. Just when the world started to blur around the edges, Steve felt Eddie pull back. 

“Sorry, sorry.” Eddie apologised as he grabbed a shirt from Steve’s things, trying to wrap it around the wound. 

Eddie’s face was a sight to behold. Blood painted it from nose to jaw, a pool coagulating at the corner of his lips. That was the thing that tipped him over the edge. Steve felt the world go dark. 

He woke hours later. The curtains were drawn, and he felt a body by his side. A warm body. Steve rolled over, surprised to find Eddie’s face pressed into his side. The boy was deep in sleep. Steve glanced at his mangled wrist, finding it wrapped in gauze, unsure where Eddie had found it. 

Steve supposed his life was never going to be normal anyway. He might as well let it happen. At least he wasn’t going to be alone in the house anymore. If Eddie was alive, Steve couldn’t be haunted. 

[abhainnwhump]

IMYM Chapter 28:

New Ally, New Plan: Dream

(Content warnings: A lot of talk about torture, body horror, addiction, smoking, sort of emeto)

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Dream checked off a day on one of his now several calendars, using the board once used for Ink. Two months since Blue has been in a coma, Fresh died, and Error went missing. He disappeared not long after he, Cross, and Core took Blue to him. It couldn’t have been longer than three weeks. He hadn’t spoken to Epic or Core since their argument. He spoke to Cross seldom, but it had always been tense. Dream thought it was strange Error went so long without attacking an AU. Outer hasn’t seen him, the Anti-Void was empty, and no AUs were destroyed.

It wouldn’t make sense for him to abandon Blue. Blue spoke good things about Error and how he treated him after he destroyed his AU. Dream was a hundred and one percent certain his disappearance had ties to Nightmare. The question lay in what, how, and why . . .

Error may not have been someone he was close to, but Dream was still worried. He never left the Anti-void when he. He could have been dead, it would make sense. They feared choosing a new Guardian of Destruction after what happened to Fresh. At least if both positions were down, neither side was stronger than the other. The balance was in check.

Almost.

Dream opened his window and looked around to make sure no one was watching. He searched through his nightstand drawer and removed a package of cigarettes. He used to be very against smoking, but now it was one of the only things that calmed him. Dream lit the end and took a long puff, blowing it into the air outside. He watched the smoke cloud drift into the sky, melting into the air with an orange hue. A bird flew through the sky and landed in a nest, adding sticks to the woven pile. At least the sunset and the beauty outside never changed when the world went dark.

Dream inhaled again and looked to his left. His nightstand held a photo of the three heroes after a victory. Dream held their bow in the air, Blue held his hammer, and Ink held Broomie. A faint smile appeared on his face as he remembered that day, back when everything was okay.

Blue . . . oh, he hasn’t seen him in a week.

Dream blew his cigarette out. Tossing it in the trash, they made an entrance to the Anti-void. He snapped his fingers four times before a portal appeared. They looked down at their soul again. Math wasn’t Dream’s specialty, but he assumed he only had about twenty-six percent of color left. It no longer glowed as it used all its energy to stay alive. He wanted to fix it, but he couldn’t with the multiverse filled with so much negativity- combined with his own.

Error still hasn’t returned to the Anti-void. Dream wandered around the white space, studying the blue strings around the place. When he wasn’t in his home, he was here. Someone had to watch over him now that Error was gone. There was a tiny chance Blue could hear him. Dream vented his frustrations, reminisced out loud, and read stories to him. The guardian walked over to Blue’s hammock, only to realize he was gone.

“Blue? Oh no . . .” Dream pressed his nail into his palm. He couldn’t lose another person he cared about, Blue was like a brother to him. Dream looked around in a panic, waking up from the exhaustion taking him over all day.

But luckily, someone shouted at him. “Dream! Hey!”

The voice glitched like Error’s, but was much lighter. A pair of strong arms wrapped around Dream’s body in a hug. Dream didn’t recognize who it was at first glance. But then he looked into his eye lights. He could recognize the look from anywhere in the multiverse. He beamed and hugged him back. “Blue! Oh my stars, you’re alive! You’re okay! You look . . . different!”

Blue let him go and stepped back. His bones and armor turned black like Error’s. Instead of red limbs, his were a blueish-purple gradient. His teeth, eye sockets, and nasal bone turned light blue. He wore a red scarf and boots to replace his blue ones. Three gold stars were tattooed on his right cheekbone and one was tattooed on his left. His eye lights were yellow with purplish pupils.

The glitch that was once Blue noticed Dream’s tense smile. “Dream, don’t tell me you’re scared of me . . .”

Dream laughed for the first time in a while. “Blue, I don’t care how you look! I was just shocked at first. I’m so happy you’re okay!” He hugged him again. He looked over his body. “How are your arms and legs? Do they hurt?”

Blue flexed his arms. They glitched as he moved them. “They’re kinda stiff, but I feel better.”

Dream smiled, but it slid away as fast as it appeared. He hugged Blue again. He wanted to shield him from Nightmare ever reaching him again. “I’m sorry this happened to you. This wasn’t what you deserved. I was worried this exact thing would happen . . .”

“Was that why you didn’t let me go on missions with you?” Blue crossed his arms. “I thought you were looking down on me. You kept pushing me aside whenever I wanted to help. I can fight. I'm a mortal, but we've fought together for years! I just want you to see that!"

Dream nodded, ashamed of himself. Yet part of him also wanted to yell at Blue. He pushed the thought aside and sighed. He was not interested in a repeat of Fresh’s death. “I am so, so sorry. I just wanted to protect you. I hope at least you see that.” He spoke the last bit with a scoff.

"Sorta. But I'm still hur-" Blue raised a browbone and his glitches flared. “What do you mean 'at least you'?”

“Blue . . . a lot has happened. Cross and I are on bad terms, Core and I are on bad terms, Fresh died-”

“Wait, what? What do you mean Fresh died? When? How?” Blue’s jaw dropped.

Dream sighed and explained everything to him. It felt nice having someone to talk to after weeks of shunning everyone. He zoned out and nodded off in the middle of explaining. Blue had to keep squeezing his arms to keep him awake.

“Is that way you’re dressed like that? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear a black shirt.” Blue gestured to Dream’s outfit. The guardian sighed. They haven’t put much effort into their appearance lately. Dream couldn’t even recall the last time he took a bath, not even in a river. He didn’t have the energy and failed to see a reason to.

“Yes, yes I am.” Dream said. He decided to change the conversation to something more .positive. “You can come home now, it’s not safe to stay here. The clubhouse has been so empty without you and Ink. It’s not safe to be in here after what happened to Error.”

“Error’s gone too?” Blue looked around the Anti-void. “I mean, I guessed that since I couldn’t find him here.”

“Nightmare has him, there’s no other explanation.” He scowled. “He has everyone these days.” He grabbed his arm and dragged him through the portal he summoned.

They made it inside and Dream shut the portal. Blur stumbled and clutched his ribs. Dream gazed at him, preparing himself for something going astray. As everything else in his life seemed to be. “Is something wrong?”

Blue looked at him. “Yeah, I’m fine! I haven’t eaten or drank anything in . . . however long I was there.”

“Oh, well go ahead. I don’t care.” Dream walked up the stairs back to his room. He lacked the energy to continue talking to him. As he made it halfway up the steps, blue magic stopped him in his tracks. Dream looked down at Blue, who held in him a tight grasp. Drema gritted his teeth and pulled at his magic. "What are you doing?"

"I can read your code now and your soul is losing power. You're not acting like yourself at all, so I thought of something just now! Well, since I woke up in the Anti-void, but it works here. I haven't talked with anyone in months and you're isolating yourself. So . . . how about we both visit him together and we can all talk?"

Dream looked at Blue as if he had two heads. "No! It's only going to make things worse. I'll do it later. I can teleport you alone. I have work to do."

Blue's aura turned worried. "Dream, that's absurd. You two love each other. I don't know how bad that argument was, but you two have been through worse. And you owe me for keeping me out for so long." The glitch reminded them.

Wanting to argue things are worse, Dream thought about the request. He did want Cross back . . . but he said to kill . . . would it even matter? Was he making a bigger problem out of nothing? Was it his own thoughts or his damaged soul speaking? He didn't know. Dream wasn't in the mood to argue. He would take whatever made them appeased. He looked up, not meeting Blue's mismatched stare. "That would be fair. Fine . . ."

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

Fresh purple daises and chocolate filled the air. Dream bought the presents no longer than twenty minutes ago, though he didn't have to. The petals were crisp and untouched. The hall of the apartment was black and empty. Monsters and humans shuffled in their homes. Cross's door was dark black with the number 1010 plastered in silver. His room made no sounds. Dream looked at Blue, then he knocked on the door.

The door opened and Cross stepped out of his apartment. He wore a dress shirt, dark pants, and slacks. His eyes sockets widened at Dream and he leaned against the doorway.

Dream took a deep breath. He kept his anger and bitter feelings inside, he knew he had to apologize. He wasn’t scared of Cross, but he did fear his emotions. He held out the flowers and chocolate. “These are for you. I’m so sorry for lashing out at you. I don't want to fight anymore, not after everything else. You . . . here, just take it.”

Cross took the gifts out of Dream's grasp and touched the petals. He opened the chocolates and chuckled. “Thank you. You even got my favorite brand." He sighed, wrapping Dream in a hug. "I'm sorry too. I should've known how much that was going to hurt you."

Dream leaned into the hold. “Wait, who's that behind you?"

Blue stepped closer as he lingered in the dark hallway until then. His miscolored eye lights glowed in the dark. Cross's breath caught in his nonexistent throat. "Hey, Cross. It's me, Blue!

"No, you look awesome, dude."

Unlike Dream's room, messy with notes everywhere, Cross kept his apartment perfect. Two black couches rested in the living room on a black and white carpet. The walls were white as fresh cream. A bookshelf was littered with trinkets and photographs. Dream recognized one from their first anniversary. Cross prepared a glass vase with a purple bow wrapped around it. He set the flowers inside and set it on the coffee table.

Dream said nothing unless directly asked. Blue and Cross chatted about him becoming a glitch and turning into stone. Dream half-smiled at the two interacting so well. They encouraged him to join in, but Dream waved them off. He rested his head on his hand and closed his eyes, almost falling asleep.

To everyone's surprise, someone knocked on the door. They sounded frantic and like they were running from something. Dream sensed a distressed aura, but they couldn’t pinpoint what was off about it. Then a faint groan, followed by the scratch of nails on wood echoed through the room.

“Dream, stay back." Cross stood up and gripped his sword. “I’ll get that.”

Cross walked toward the door, stepping out of sight. Dream didn't move a muscle and stayed, tapping his fingers on the armrest. Blue stood up from the couch to join Cross.

“Error? Holy crap. Dude, what happened to you?”

Blue rushed ahead of Cross and ran toward the door. “Error! Why do you only have one arm?"

Dream couldn’t hear what Error was saying, but his voice sounded weaker and raspier than usual. It was barely audible.

“- me in. I won’t destroy anything, I swear on the Creators.” Error dragged himself inside. Cross and Blue stepped aside and Dream gasped. Error looked like he walked through one of the darker, gorier AUs without protection. His turtleneck was gone, revealing his damaged ribs. Stained a deep black with specks of purple, Dream recognized as the malice corrupting AUs. His jacket was missing the sleeves. The torn clothing made the moon-shaped brand on his chest obvious. One of his eye sockets was blue, his version of a black eye. Error limped as he walked, glitching more than usual. His left arm was gone, only a few pieces of chipped bone remained. He had a tremble throughout his entire body as if he was both sleep-deprived and high on caffeine. His hand held the worst of the twitching.

Error sat on the other sofa by himself. He looked exhausted and defeated like he fought in a war only to lose. Dream could tell he wouldn’t be able to hurt them even if he wanted to. Black liquid leaked from his mouth, Nightmare’s malice. Dream bit his lower jaw. It was a miracle Error was even conscious, much less alive.

Blue sat closest to him and dropped a blanket over his shoulders. “Do you want me to get you a hot chocolate or something?"

“Yes, sir.” Error clung to the blanket. “I haven’t eaten in days. I don’t get hungry in the Anti-void and I hate it.”

“Sir? I . . . nevermind. Cross, do you still have it in the upper cabinet?” Cross nodded at his question. Blue stepped into the other room. Dream watched Error with a mixture of emotions. His soul ached, assumingly from Error’s malice. He made a fist in case he attacked.

Error put the sweater on and his shivering calmed a bit. Blue came in with a hot chocolate and some toast. Error drank half the mug, even though it was piping hot. He looked up at the Stars and Cross. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want your pity. I- I’m just hungry.”

“It’s not out of pity, it’s out of basic kindness. You’re hurt.” Dream kept his eyes on Error’s missing arm. The shards of bone sticking from his shoulder never received proper medical treatment. “I can heal you a little, may I?”

“Dream . . .” Cross warned him with his tone. “Be careful with your magic, please.”

Error looked skeptical. He tried to move his arm, but it stayed still as ever. Sighing, he moved over and held his damaged shoulder in front of Dream. He lowered his sweater to expose his shoulder. “Don’t touch me.”

“I’ll try my best.” Dream moved closer to the shards. He held his hand over it, summoning green magic. Usually, he liked to hum while performing healing spells, it helped with concentration. But now he didn’t believe it was the time. He hoped he earned Error’s trust by now and he wouldn’t lash out.

Cross kept a tense look on his face, preparing to step in if Error attacked Dream. “Where were you this last month and how did this happen?”

Error grunted, leaning back a little. “I got kidnapped by Dream’s brother and his gang of bloodthirsty hyenas.”

“Called it,” Cross muttered. “So what’s the story?”

“After you guys brought Blue to the Anti-void, I was pissed at Nightmare. We had a deal that he could torture you and Ink as much as he wanted as long as he didn’t hurt Blue. Well, then he turned Blue into stone. I broke into his castle and strangled him, then he insisted we go for a walk. Long story short, I found out how messed up and Ink were. I tried to help Ink and get him out of there, but he didn’t listen! All he did was cry and beg for Nightmare! It was worthless because Nightmare came back anyway. He captured me and beat me up. Even Ink got in to help and smiled while Nightmare branded me! He was happy to be his slave and help torture me. You should have seen his outfit and ribbons, he looked so stupid.” Error smiled for half a second, returning to scowling.

“Ink- no, Ribbon wouldn’t stop smiling. He tried to make me his friend. He talked to me about how ‘good’ this all was and how much he loved Nightmare. He even made me have tea parties with him. That . . . .was probably the best part of any of this. I don’t know who taught him how to bake, but he brought me chocolate biscuits. I almost felt bad, he’s lonely. Nightmare hasn’t allowed him to socialize with anyone except his numbskulls. I kept yelling at him to snap out of it, but that made him cry. And then Nightmare punished me for making him cry. It’s not my fault he’s so damn sensitive! Somehow, I can’t make myself hate him. He’s scared and doesn’t want to get hurt. But I hate everyone else in that castle, especially Nightmare.”

“The worst part was that Ribbon's visits, or playtime as he called it, was the best part. The rest of the time, Killer, Dust, Horror, or Nightmare would torture me. Nightmare wouldn’t stop jabbing me with the sludge he infected AUs with. Then he made me describe the effects. I’ve never been so hungry in my life. In the Anti-void, I don’t get hungry or tired. Blue figured that out. But these guys wouldn’t feed me for days unless it was more sludge. They promised I would get more food and clean clothes if I started ‘behaving’. I spit in their faces and I punched Horror. Then Nightmare blindfolded me and beat me with his tendrils. He even muzzled me most of the time to embarass me. He finally said,” Error’s bitter look slacked, “he would make me into a doll like Ribbon. Dust would've taken my voice and Ribbon talked about making me dresses. He nearly cut my magic strings out of my eye sockets because Dust wanted to experiment on them.”

Error coughed up more black liquid. Dream moved aside to avoid it. “But one day, after Ribbon came down for playtime, the lock on my cage wasn’t closed right. I slammed myself against the bars a few times and the door broke open. I didn’t realize how weak I was and struggled to walk. I was never let out unless it was for me to get tortured or humiliated in some way. I think they were on a mission or something so I was looking around the castle and . . . and . ."

“And then what?” Blue leaned closer to Error. Dream's mind drifted off, not focusing on the entire story. He concentrated on the malice and Ink, how Error described it. His hands shook as he healed Error. The sharpened ends lost their points.

“I found the key to my Anti-magic chains in Nightmare's office. I also found this . . . I don't know, a potion? It was that, a book, and an empty syringe. I broke those stupid handcuffs and got away. I tried figuring out what that potion was, but the book was in a different language I couldn't read. I didn’t have enough time and I didn't want to keep looking. Eventually, my powers worked again, but. Killer, Horror, and Dust fought me and I won. I got here since I felt your soul, Dream. This malice is making me miserable."

Dream stopped healing for a moment. He had a horrible premonition about the potion. With knowledge of Nightmare's history, he feared it was something horrible. His nightmares were always horrible, but he didn't see any potions in them. Yet . . . there was no way Error should have been able to enter the Omega Timeline with Core's defenses. Dream's personal feelings slid into concern.

Error shivered in his blanket. “If I was in there another month, hell even a few weeks or days, I would’ve gone crazy like Ink did. He meant it when he said it’s easier to give into the rewards and stop thinking.”

Dream dug his nail into his palm. He thought back to his final conversation with Ink before Nightmare took him. "How does Nightmare treat Ink? Did he ever hit him or something like that?"

Error sighed. “Weirdly. Sometimes he treats him like a partner, sometimes like a little kid, and sometimes like a dog. Like I said I . . . I didn’t see much in the dungeon, but Ribbon seems used to adapting to what he wants. He was so cuddly with him . . . I can't believe they're getting married . . ." He rubbed his temples. He paused and coughed up more malice, eyeing Dream's chest. His weak soul begged not to fight and Dream covered it with one of his hands.

Cross's aura was shocked, yet mixed. Dream remembered something he told them once, about his soul. Error stole it years ago and it started the X-Event. "Yeah. I hope you're okay, but can you stop coughing up liquid corruption on my couch?" He snapped his fingers and used his telekinesis to drag a trashcan in front of Error. "Keep it in ther- did you just say they're getting married?"

Error looked shocked. “Huh, I thought he would've flaunted that off by now. Nightmare popped the question and he’s marrying him at the end of the month.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wad of crumpled paper. Dirt and blood stained it. He tossed it to Blue. “Read this, I got it from Nightmare's desk."

Blue unfolded the note and scanned Nightmare's centuries-old writing style. Dream and Cross looked over his shoulder at the black and lavender note. The location was a chapel in Mafiatale. Of course, Nightmare loved to make things official. It fed into his superiority complex. If Ink married him, he would change his name and . . . Nightmare would steal his position, completing his claim on him and becoming a god. There couldn’t be any other reason. Part of Ink's guardianship had to remain, right? Leaning away, Dream finished healing Error's arm, at least the best he could. He lay down from the magic exhaustion.

“There, how does that feel?”

Error touched his shoulder. Once he figured out the pain lessened, he moved his fingers down each point. He pulled his hand away to check for signs of blood. Error smirked and his aura glowed with new positivity. “Thanks, I guess.”

“No problem.” Dream watched as he worked with the arm. “Do you want me to try and help with the malice?"

Please say no.

“No. You can't do anything, I would've figured out how to get rid of it by now if there was something. I can't even stop my damn hand from shaking! I even bit someone on the way here and I couldn't control it!"

Dream sighed. "Error, I think what you’re experiencing is withdrawal. You said they pumped you with poison and starved you, so it makes sense your body grew dependent.” Dream paused as he thought about Ink again. He might be having problems too if he stayed longer and in similar circumstances. He was already addicted to Nightmare’s toxic aura. Dream heard the last bit, but he didn't want to acknowledge it, not now. But his idiot friend beat him to it.

"Who did you bite?" Blue looked into the trashcan full of malice. He paled. "Oh stars . . . did you spread that?"

"Some random monster, I don't know. They looked fine. It made me good after. How do I make it stop?” Error's hand kept twitching. He dug his nails into his scarred shoulder. More black liquid spilled onto the trash can. Cross frowned at the liquid staining the edges. The malice moved inside.

Dream had to remember the course he took on helping addiction victims. The tactics blurred in his mind, too exhausted and too negative to think. "I forgot. Nevermind., you can find out yourself."

Cross stared into the garbage can. "I'm getting Core on this. This isn't normal. Error, if you bit someone and this spreads, shit." Cross wrapped the garbage bag up to keep the malice inside.

Blue seemed disappointed. Dream wanted to take a nap anyways, even if he felt a little bad for Cross. "Error . . . can you teleport me home? I don't have enough magic to use." Dream covered his soul. Error's hungry glare still made him uncomfortable.

"Ugh, fine . . . just because you healed me." Error opened a glitching portal. The ends dripped with black negativity. Dream hugged Cross again and kissed him on his nonexistent lips. Cross returned the embrace, running a hand down Dream's skull. Despite everything, both gave him positivity and helped him feel warm inside.

"I love you, cookie dough."

Cross kissed Dream on the head. "I love you too. We'll take care of this, together."

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

“Error Crayon,” Core said in a polite tone.

“Core Frisk.” Error crossed his arm.

Five skeletons and the Guardian of the Omega surrounded the main table in the Omega Central. Never seeing the Omega Central before, Error looked around in awe. Four nights came and gone from when he showed up. The monster he bit was found and sent to a lab, hopefully for testing. Dream leaned against the wall. He itched for another cigarette, or to leave. His soul ached with misery. He rested between Epic and Blue, keeping his sights away from the main task and Core.

Epic stared at Error's mutilated state and his missing arm. He wore Fresh's glasses on a chain around his neck. "Dang bruh, where's your arm?"

Error glared daggers. He grabbed the strings on his face. “Not. A. Word.”

Cross walked up to the head of the table, wearing his royal guard armor. He rolled a massive sheet of blank parchment and a few pens and pencils on the long table. Each pen was a different color. "So . . . we have a problem. Another one. Nightmare is getting married to Ink, or Ribbon, and he has some plan with a potion. That, on top of whatever this malice infection is.

"So what do we do about it?" Epic asked. "'Cause everything is ending up with someone dying, or worse."

Cross put on his commanding general voice. "We need an attack plan. This could be one our final chances to defeat Nightmare, we need to take down that wedding. If I learned anything from the year I worked for him, it's that Nightmare won't have it be normal. He needs to turn it into a grand spectacle.

"That's true." Blue looked at his arm, flexing his glitching fingers.

Cross closed his eye sockets. “Look, it’s no secret I hate Ink. He’s selfish, cocky, childish, ruined my life because he was bored, and he never apologized for any of it. My friends, my brother, and my world are dead because of what he and X-Gaster did. I don’t forgive him, but not even he deserves to be Nightmare’s braindead plaything. No one does.”

Error grumbled. “Braindead is right, he can't even think for himself. ‘Oh I'm just a little doll!’ That’s a dog bed, bastard. Nightmare has him sleeping in a dog bed and he likes it.

“I’m not even going to ask.” Cross bit the tip of the pencil as his mind constructed plans. He sketched out a castle, shockingly accurate to Nightmare's. He switched his pencil out for a pen and drew attack lines.

Blue looked over at the plans. "Wowie, you're good at drawing."

"Thanks. Ink taught me." Cross sighed. He peered up from the surface and noticed Core Frisk sleeping. Their head was buried deep in their arms. Cross tapped them with a pencil. "Core, wake up. We need your help here."

The child didn’t even seem to realize they fell asleep. Core sat up and looked at the others. Dream glanced out the tall window. He lacked their ability to sense what happens in this AU and he couldn't open code like Error. Despite that, they could tell the aura around the place weakened. The emotions of tension and confusion from the citizens told him.

"I'm sorry, my nightmares have gotten worse. I can't sleep." Core rubbed their eyes and yawned. “Error, if you know where Nightmare’s castle is and can access the AU, why don’t you destroy it?”

Error scoffed. “What? Do you think I haven’t tried? If I could, I would’ve destroyed it a long time ago. Nightmare cast spells and altered the code of that world so I get shocked if I mess with it. Not worth it.

"We don't need to destroy the AU or Cross slammed his finger on the map. "There’s another way. Right here there’s a secret door that can be activated with a lever. The lever is disguised behind one of the rocks holding up the mountain. It would take longer to get in, fifteen minutes instead of three, but it’s our best bet.”

“And how do you know all of this?” Core inquired. “Just curious.”

Cross pressed his mouth into a firm line. “Killer showed me. Sometimes, he, Horror, Dust, and/or I would sneak out at night to cause trouble. We would creep back before Nightmare woke up so we were never caught. Everyone will be too busy with the wedding to check the castle, but it's safer to use that door. Someone can still be there."

“Oh hey, that reminds me. When Dream and I were fighting Nightmare in my AU, he mentioned something about a contract he made Ink sign. Where would that be?” Epic swirled his finger on the map.

“Easy, his office. Nightmare always keeps a lot of paperwork on his desk. That should be around here, so we’d need to take a sharp left. We can get that and the potion at the same time,” Cross said.

“So now that we have that settled, who wants to go?” Blue asked. "I'm going!"

Error laughed. “Oh hell no! I’m not risking getting tortured again, especially not for Ribbon. Blue? Sure, but not Ribbon. And my arm is gone, so I can’t fight anyway. I still think this whole mission is pointless. We need to separate those two, but there’s no saving Ink. He’s too far gone. He described being forcefully stripped and branded to be as bad as a minor argument. He doesn’t think he’s being tortured.”

Dream frowned at that. His optimism stirred in his chest again. He wanted to believe Ink was there, he did. But did he have any proof? Every piece of evidence pointed to him being less and less redeemable. Positivity was what they all expected from him too. He sighed.

“Okay, so let’s say Ink is gone for good and nothing can save him. Whoever is in his body now needs our help. He doesn’t know how to live and care for himself. We can teach him how to be a person again and help him remember who he is.” Dream said with a nervous tone. Error tensed at the word friend. Dream said a silent prayer to the Creators. “But . . . I’m willing to give Ink only one more chance. If this doesn’t work, I give up. I’m so tired of fighting. Nightmare can have Ink if that’s what makes him happy, I don’t care. Just make him stop.” He buried his face in his hands.

Cross put his hand over his, giving it a comforting squeeze. “We’ll figure out how to handle Ink, or Ribbon, when we get there. For now, I say we should focus our attention on stopping Nightmare and saving the multiverse."

Epic fiddled with Fresh's glasses around his neck. “I’ve never been on one of these “save the multiverse” missions of yours.

“Epic, if you don’t want to go, you don’t have to. We can handle this! We've all done missions before," Blue said.

“Bruh, are you kidding? Of course I’m going!” Epic grinned. “I want revenge on Nightmare for destroying my AU and killing Fresh. And we’re breaking into a wedding, rescuing the bride, and making sure the groom doesn’t take control of every world.” Epic suddenly grinned. “We’re doing a Shrek.”

Dream didn’t know what that term meant, but since everyone else at the table nodded or shrugged, he didn’t ask.

Cross drew two small figures on his plans. "Okay . . . we split up into two teams. Epic and I will break into Nightmare's castle and find the contract and spell. Dream and Blue, you two break into the wedding and stop them from getting married. I don't know the layout of that chapel, so we'll have to research it, okay?"

"Fine." Dream thought back to Aviar’s goggles still on his nightstand. He’s only touched them when they needed to dust them. His gaze drifted to Blue. His glitching never would have happened if not for Nightmare. Dream held his hand over the table, groaning. “For everyone who’s fallen.”

Cross, Epic, Blue, Core, and with string, Error, set their hands atop Dream’s. Cross removed his hand and his eye lights glinted with determination. “Alright everyone, listen up. Here’s the plan.”

[reblog-house]

An Alien Find

Characters: Gem, Pearl

Wc: 987

Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt 251, “Out There”

Ao3: Here!

When Gem settled on the mountain with her dwarf friend, Impulse, it wasn’t just because of its advantageous position, far away from civilization and with a river on the skirts of the mountain.

The landscape across from her… there was no word for it other than alien.

No, not magical. She knew magic better than most and it didn’t look like that. Hills that twisted and rolled. Platforms of soil, forming natural underpasses. Trees of colors she never would have imagined possible. Purple, blue, pines of yellow and orange. Crystal flowers. Vines that supported their own weight, growing up in the air. And over one of the hills…

A mushroom. Towering over nearly everything. Teal. Like two heads of a bird, sprouting from an orange stem. Nothing about it felt… earthly.

And next to it, a flower, the only thing that stood taller than the mushroom. Its petals reached out like tentacles into the skies. Its roots shaped the soil around it like a magnet, green tubes that left the ground. From afar, you could confuse them for moss-ridden bridges.

But not everything was natural, and that interested her just as much. Builds sprawled over the landscape. Grey, but not stone. And a tower, though it was unfair to just call it that. It stood as tall as the flower and mushroom. Multiple layers of different colors and shapes. Rings floated around it. 

And they were empty. 

So far, Impulse and her hadn’t seen anyone around. No one who could’ve built or lived in those buildings. And yet, they weren’t crumbling from disrepair.

Neither had crossed the river yet, fearing what could reside there, all the same.

They still chose that spot to live in because sometimes, the views were worth the risk.

And anyway, their distance was changing today! She thought she saw some movement, as she was setting up base — a bigger one, not the small treehouse she was currently living in. It was nice, but obviously temporary. She was an elf. Sure, she may have been exiled for befriending a dwarf and also her many crimes of treason with said dwarf and some beheadings here and there, but she still had standards. And those standards were a big castle with a dungeon where she could display the heads of her enemies.

And so, she filled herself with courage and buckled her sword. 

One could never be too careful.

Impulse was too busy doing dwarf things underground and she wanted to do this on her own. Still, she called out to him, just in case, and when he didn’t respond, she shrugged. She was intimidating enough on her own. And if the being wasn’t intimidated by her at first, they would quickly learn to adapt.

She slipped on her wooden glider wings, something she and Impulse designed for quick get-aways, and with a running start, jumped off the mountain.

The closer she got, the more she was hit with how gorgeous it all looked. 

She descended gracefully in front of the buildings and closed her wings. She unsheathed her blade.

Slowly, she approached the main building’s gates. 

The crushing of grass behind her made her swivel, sword outstretched, her braid whipping from the movement. 

“Oi, mate! Careful with that thing, you almost hit me!”

Gem’s eyes widened and her arm lingered uncertain as she processed the message and what she was looking at.

A woman was standing there. Human, by the look of things, but you could never be too certain. Tall, long brown hair, a sloped nose, friendly looking eyes, and some very strange clothes. Forest green… not quite breeches, that extended over her torso, covering a black shirt. And on her head, the strangest thing of all, a helmet without face protection. Orange, and with a texture she couldn’t recognize. Actually, her boots seemed to be of a similar material.

Gem took a step back, certain with her sword. “Who are you?” she asked with a threat in her voice.

The other got the memo and stepped back too, arms still in front of her. “Wh— I should be asking you! You burst into my home and threaten me?”

That got Gem to finally lower her sword. “This is your home?”

The lady looked around with mild panic and then deflated. “Yes.” Then, her eyes shone, body re-energized. “Oh, you must be one of the new neighbours! You’re human, right?”

She looked too eager, asking that.

“Uh…”

“Oh, are you not?”

Gem pointed at her ears and the woman nodded absently.

“Right… So, not human?”

“... No?”

Okay, whatever that lady was, she definitely was not a human, like she’d thought. They’d have to keep a close eye on her.

“And your friend? The short one?”

“A dwarf.”

The definitely-not-human lady took a second and then pouted. “Okay.”

“What, you looking for humans?”

“W-well, of course I am looking for my people!”

Right, so that’s how they were doing things. Gem decided to play along.

“I see!” She looked over the constructions. “And they aren’t in one of those buildings?”

The stranger shook her head. “No, I don’t know what happened. I’m trying to study what happened to the– to my people. They were all here and one day, they disappeared. I figured if you two were humans too… you may have an idea of what happened.”

“Sorry, no.” Gem genuinely was sorry. “I was too busy trying to commit regicide.”

“Oh.” Their eyes met. “And that is?”

Gem brushed it off with her hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay…” The woman sounded unconvinced. “Oh, you asked for my name. I’m Pearlescent Moon. Pearl, for short.”

“Nice to meet you, Pearl.” Gem stretched out a hand. “Gemini Tay. Gem.”

Pearl looked at the hand for a long moment, frowning, then met her gaze. “Um, nice to meet you too, Gem! I’ll have to meet your ‘dwarf’ friend next!”

Yes, she would definitely have to.

[gtzel]

The Boy in the Walls Chapter 4

first previous next

As Oliver's eyes adjusted to the light, he realized he was in a small glass jar with a lid. He tried to move, but found that he was stuck in the jar with no way out. Fear gripped him as he realized he was trapped, and his breathing became rapid.

Unexpectedly, he heard a voice that sounded familiar. It was his host, speaking softly to him. Oliver recognized the voice and tried to calm down. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, trying to slow it down. he couldn't ruin his small air supply, who knew how long he would be held captive.

As he calmed down, he began to listen to what the human was saying. "I'm sorry I scared you, little guy," the host said. "I didn't mean to frighten you." strangely enough, the human seemed to have lowered its voice since their last encounter.

Oliver opened his eyes and looked up at the human. He saw that the teen had a gentle smile on his face and was looking at him with a mix of curiosity and concern. Oliver never really had a chance to study the human closely like this.

surprisingly enough, the human had grey eyes, but they weren't menacing, they looked kind, like platinum, and they had a gleam of curiosity in them. his hair reminded Oliver of bird feathers, black, but it shined with bluish purple. like ravens.

"w-what do you w-want with me? what are you going to to to me?" Oliver asked hesitantly.

a spark of realization seemed to hit the human "No, no! I promise I won't hurt you," the host replied with a slightly hurt expression "I just want to understand what you are and how you got here."

Oliver felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe he could find a way out of this mess after all. He took a deep breath and tried to collect his thoughts. 'can I trust a human? he seems nice enough, but he also put  me in a jar and caused me to pass out...twice' he thought for a few minuets, until the human spoke again.

"so...do you have a name, or should I just call you tiny person?"  he asked in an attempt to break the ice. at which he so horribly failed.

"o-of course I have a name!" he said defiantly, clearly not getting the joke. then realizing he may have angered the human by speaking so brashly, apologized "s-sorry, my names O-Oliver"

"That's a cool name, mine is Isaac" the teen said with a teethy smile. Oliver noted how big the humans mouth was.

"S-so um...could let me out now, I-its kind of uncomfortable in here." Oliver asked, internally praying the giant would say yes.

"Will you swear on the River Stix  to stay if I do?" Isaac said with a hint of sarcasm.

"what's a r-river stixs?" the borrower asked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. and Isaac had to contain an 'aww'. 

"never mind, but will you?" he asked hopefully.

Oliver considered his options. He could either say no and risk the humans wrath, or he could say yes and have a chance for escape.

"I-I suppose..." he said hesitantly.

As soon as he had said the words, Oliver immediately regretted it, Isaac abruptly reached into the jar trying to fish him out. when he had seen he humans intentions, Oliver pushed himself as far away as he could from it. he wanted nothing to do with that thing. Unfortunately though, Isaac was too quick, and caught Oliver by the shirt.

The borrower was then lifted out of the jar and through the air. The whole room spun around him as he was held by his shirt and placed onto the humans desk. As soon as his feet hit the wood, Oliver bolted for the nearest hiding place, which so happened to be the nearby pencil case. Oliver sat behind the large bag, shaking like a leaf, and holding his legs close to him.

"Wha-Oliver, why did you run?" Isaac said, in a soft yet booming voice. causing a large gust of hot air to blow onto Oliver, making him to shiver more violently. "Please come out, I didn't mean to startle you...again"

Though the tiny boy did not know it, Isaac could see Oliver perfectly well without him coming out, but he would still give Oliver the choice. The human continued to plead to Oliver, but the borrower was in the midst of one of his 'attacks'.

Oliver was scared, more then he had ever been in his entire life. He had been caught, and when the human had been kind, he had run and very likely angered the human. Now he was hiding in a rather obvious place, but Oliver didn't want to move. Isaac continued to talk but Oliver couldn't hear over the sounds of his pulse slamming against his eardrums.

"*sigh* fine, if you don't want to come out, I wont force you." The human said in a sad and quite frankly defeated tone. These words, Oliver did manage to hear, and they surprised him greatly. 'What is this guy trying to pull? Couldn't he just kill me if he wanted to? Why make me wait' Oliver thought to himself but was interrupted by the sound of the human leaving the room.

[icebrooding]

Fic: Dreamkeeper

On Ao3

When Riannoc dies, it marks the start of the sylvari afterlife. An empty place, but a lush one begging to be turned into something greater. Something all the more beautiful. As it blossoms, he finds companionship in faces he does not know. And, perhaps he was right in not fearing what came for him.

"Hm. It resists the magic—does not rise. No matter. The sword is gone, as is he, and this swamp will claim what remains soon enough."

— — 

Blue eyes open slowly, capturing above him the sight of a canopy of leaves with sunlight trickling through in intricate patches. Strange, he thinks, when he knows he last looked up and saw a grey sky full of clouds and rain and beneath him marshlands and dirty water. There was no birdsong, just the cacophony of horror. None of this peace and quiet.

He sits up, takes in the sight around him—blooms as beautiful as Mother’s, tall trees with intricately twisting branches and the softest grass he has ever felt. It reminds him of the Dream, for however little he can recall of it.

As he stands and finds Caladbolg missing from his side, his head turns this way and that, looking around yet further. It is just him. Him and sounds of wildlife he cannot seem to see.

But he does not feel alarmed. Rather… as if he were once again in the gentle embrace of his mother. Safe. Secure.

He takes a step forward, filled with every bit the same determination he was born with.

— — 

Even as he observes the coming and going of the sun, watches as the green leaves around him turn to orange to purple to orange and back to green all to repeat it over and over, he feels as if the world is at a standstill. He feels no hunger, no exhaustion, no thirst. The Dream—if that is truly where this is—may be free from the shackles of time, but he can measure the loneliness the sunrise and set brings with his heart.

Always had he enjoyed company, be it that of his many elder siblings, or that young human boy he had become fond of.

It is unpleasant to be alone, and for so long.

— —

It startles him one day whilst exploring to find three sylvari curled up at the base of a tree. They huddle together, scared, and jump when he slowly approaches.

He does not recognise them. They do not recognise him. Odd.

He asks them; who are they, how did they get here.

One quakes, looks to the other two, and begins to sob softly. They recount a horrible tale—one that led to their arrival here.

As he listens, his brow turns upward, mouth opening in disbelief. Horror. Such cruelty, happening to these young, innocent beings. To his own.

Closing his eyes, he tries to push the horrors described from his mind. Reflects for a moment on what he should do. How he should help these young ones. He had been the last to open his eyes, to be greeted to the world by his many brothers and sisters. He does not know what it means to be an older brother, but he allows memory—of Trahearne, of Kahedins, of Malomedies, of Dagonet—to guide him as he gently reaches out to the quivering trio.

He will guide them and protect them.

— —

They follow him around the Dream, like he had once seen small birds do with their mother. If he busies himself with some of the thicker plant matter, trying to shape it in a clumsy imitation of Kahedin’s fine craftsmanship, they follow suit in their own awkward attempts. If he tries a new plant to gauge its use as a food item, they spare no moment in copying the action.

It’s very strange, and slightly embarrassing—he remembers doing the same until Malomedies assured him to explore and learn on his own.

‘Riannoc’, he says, giving them a name to call him, but they don’t seem to listen. They are enamoured, intrigued, because he was not there in their lives, they do not know him.

Sylvari have no deities, no higher belief—the Pale Tree is their mother, not a being of worship—but these young ones look up to him as if he were something of the sort. A being to follow, at the very least.

‘Dreamkeeper’, they begin to call him.

— —

Noise fills the Dream as he awakens one day, much louder than his three young ones are capable of. He shakes himself awake and is quick to find the source.

He spies a small clearing amongst the trees and finds the three—and then many, many more. He pauses, tries to take it all in and count the new arrivals, but loses his place very swiftly.

The three notice him, usher him over, and introduce him to the new flock of sylvari with the name they have given him. He blushes, tries to enforce his real name—please, call me Riannoc—but quickly gives up when he looks back over at the new arrivals.

They, too, look frightened and unsure of themselves… but look up to him with a brightness in their eyes.

He thinks it much the same way he looked up to his own brothers and sisters long ago.

— — 

As time goes by, the Dream becomes more and more lively, more bustling. The young ones are quick learners and have begun to truly shape it, turning it into a proper home for them all.

He is proud of each and every one of them.

— —

When a familiar face eventually joins them, it leaves him breathless for a moment.

A sister of his, with wide eyes and purple leaves.

He does little more than watch as she takes delicate steps, disorientation clear with the slight way she wobbles, the way she holds her arms close to herself. She turns her head every which way until her gaze lands on him, and those eyes widen somehow even more.

They approach each other, curious, ascertaining, hardly able to understand who it is before them—but then silently pull the other into a gentle embrace, tears blurring the forest around them.

— —

Wynne becomes as much a guardian as he for the sylvari he cannot recognise, tending to them as gently as their own mother once had.

Still, however, they come to him as well. For guidance, or his companionship.

— —

The Dream flourishes more as the sun rises and sets, and the ‘Grove’ shaped by—as his sister named them—the newly awakened is filled with laughter by day and quiet hums by night.

It had been fun, wonderful, to pass day by day with his elder siblings, all eleven of them… but taking care of all these dozens of saplings, well, it’s hardly boring.

As he watches the young ones run around and make merry under the soft lights of the fireflies and the moon, he raises a cup of nectar to his lips and takes a small sip, smiling all the while.

This isn’t too bad.

— —

It is a long, long time until he sees another face he can recognise, but he is not as lucky this time when their gazes catch each other.

She looks at him for a moment, and without a single word turns away. Walks away from him, from them all, and does not look back.

There is a heaviness in his chest, wondering why and how Faolain could look at him with such disgust in her eyes. Even as a duskbloom, she had been bright, never shying away from a word with him. He does not remember her this way.

His other sister puts a gentle hand on his arm, and with a shake of her leaves whispers sadly to him.

She had always been like this.

— —

There is commotion in their Grove not long after.

It comes from the clearing, where Riannoc has long since learned is where all the newcomers awaken. He is curious, for it is rare for a new arrival to cause a stir like this. Something races in his pulse, a sense of expectation resting in his stomach. But he is unsure why.

The newly awakened gasp, whisper amongst themselves, but he cannot make any of it out clearly.

With as many of them as there are, he hadn’t always been able to greet the newcomers to the Dream, but the young ones hushed talk pique his intrigue further. He approaches where they have crowded, and wordlessly they part to let him through—they believe it is his right, or duty, to tend to newcomers.

When he is past them, stood in the clearing with whoever this new sylvari is—his breath hitches at a familiar sight. Delicate fronds, soft yellow, vivid, deep green… everything as he remembered it, over twenty years past.

The newcomer looks at him. Surprise. Uncertainty. He looks away for a moment, sucks in a deep breath.

Then he looks up again, smiling—even if it carries just the slightest melancholy.

Riannoc smiles back, wide and toothy because never has he been happier—and reaches his hand out to Trahearne, much like how the man had done for him, so many years ago.

[chansaw]

ok as promised here’s more followup on jackie and misty’s roles in my yellowjackets animorphs au (part 1, part 2) for the like three people who care.

misty FUCKING quigley:

when she found that weird glowing cube half-buried in debris, misty thought it’d probably net her a hundred bucks on ebay and a cool story to brag about to ben and the soccer team. but she could tell there was more behind the team’s faces than the usual frowns that signaled “oh, great, another misty monologue” when she showed it off. and then, natalie scatorccio of all people started watching her - sitting next to her in every class, tracking her movement from across cafeteria, pushing away the kids in purple t-shirts emblazoned with “the sharing” who bug her in the hallway. “it’s very nice of you, but i don’t need a bodyguard,” misty tells her on a break during practice a few days later, as she hands the girls ice cold water bottles. nat just shakes her head and smiles, then walks away without another word.

then, it happens. out of nowhere, while she’s walking back to the car, the kids from the sharing attack her, like physically attack her. a guy she’s pretty sure is on the football team pins her to the concrete while a goth girl from her math class grabs her backpack and starts rooting through it. “i’ll give you a week’s lunch money,” she rasps, “a month! just tell me what you’re looking for!” the goth looks like she’s about to respond when the puma appears from out of nowhere. as if this day couldn’t get any weirder - cougars aren’t even native to new jersey, she thinks to herself as she watches the big cat fend off her attackers. once it’s taken care of the last of them, it turns on misty. there’s a strange glint in its eyes; she braces herself for the end. and then: <what was that you said about not needing a bodyguard?>

like david, misty is made an animorph mostly out of necessity. she’s seen too much, knows too much. and like david, she’s kind of a loose cannon, unpredictable on and off the battlefield. but unlike david, she’s fiercely loyal to her team and willing to do whatever it takes to keep them safe. and she knows things: exactly how much venom to use while in a snake morph to paralyze someone rather than kill them (<though maybe they’ll wish i had killed them!> misty chirps after demonstrating), which birds wouldn’t look too suspicious traveling in a flock together, and how much force a predator needs to bite with to tear someone’s arm clean off. and even though morphing back to human undoes any injuries the team takes while morphed, misty’s field medic knowledge has saved them from a messy death on several occasions. unlike david, she never betrays her team.

jackie taylor, part 2:

“you know, it could be worse,” shauna tells her one time, a day or two after she first gets trapped. she’s setting up the cage (“enclosure,” shauna calls it, but she knows what it is. it’s a cage). jackie’s not sure shauna’s right about that. she misses her body. she misses having opposable thumbs. she misses sleeping in an actual bed, and most of all she misses eating actual food instead of dry-ass hay and grass and shit. that last part’s not a hyperbole, by the way. rabbits and hares eat their own shit. she wishes they’d put that on the sign at the zoo, because she learned about that lovely habit the hard way.

but what probably hurts the most is the fact that she feels so fucking useless. like, aside from the occasional recon or espionage mission, she can’t exactly do much in a fight. she may be hare-brained, but she's not stupid; she sees the way the team looks at her hungrily when they’re in their predator battle-morphs. during one mission, when they head into the woods to investigate the rumors of a rogue faction of taxxons, shauna loses control of her morph, lets the wolf's mind overtake her own. if tai hadn't intervened, jackie knows she would've been a goner. tai tries to reassure her that she’s still an essential part of the team, that she's still good for something. but jackie knows all she's ever been good at, even before she became like this, is running and hiding.

she lives that way for a little over a miserable year. shauna does her best to make it better. she gives her fresh fruit and keeps the tv on for her while she’s away. then, the ellimist (aka space gamer jesus; he’s nearly omnipotent and on the animorphs' side, but can't directly interfere to help them) gives jackie an offer. in exchange for her help in establishing a colony of free hork-bajir, he’ll give her back the power to morph - with the catch that the hare is now her base form. so this leaves her in something of a catch-22; she can go back to being human but trap herself as a nothlit again and deprive herself of the only weapon she has against the yeerks, or keep living as a hare in order to keep morphing, to stay useful. so she compromises; she lives as a human for 2 hours at a time. she miraculously returns from the dead. she goes back to school, and picks up soccer again. every 2 hours on the dot her digital watch beeps and she excuses herself to demorph and remorph, and she sleeps as a hare just to be safe. its a precarious line to tread, but it works. and hey, she can enjoy actual human food again. and she can fight for real now. she picks a grizzly bear as her battle morph, and maybe she fights with a little less panache and grace than her friends, but still. she’s helping. and once this is all over, she’ll finally be able to stop hiding once and for all.

[petitmonde]

Part of that Dragon Sasha x Dancer Anetra idea I talked about yesterday. Thank you so much @sweetlikesunflowersandhoney for entertaining the madness.

TW blood and a smidge of gore.

Into the Heart

Light danced across blades of green, dew drops glistening as the sun welcomed the day on the cold mountain, warming it with its gentle embrace. The forest awoke once more from its slumber, birds chirping and insects buzzing.

Dawn was Sasha's favourite time to take a walk through her domain, on two legs rather than four. Even as a dragon, Sasha enjoyed the mobility her humanoid form gave her. The animals left her alone, and it suited her just fine.

The greenery had grown back from the last time a human army had trudged through her forest to get to her castle. They were all the same, money hungry bastards after her gold. Weak of mind, and weak of body, she burnt them all for their disrespect of the mountain passes.

Small trees jutted up from the once muddied soil, all traces of the intruders gone. A few wildflowers dared set root in the clearing, hopeful of staying in bloom to the end of time. Yellows, whites, and reds proudly stand in defiance of what once was and what was to come.

If Sasha had been an elf, maybe she would have settled to make a flower crown of the cornucopia of wealth. She plucked a red flower and put it in her black hair to saviour that thought. There was no one to see her act like a fool, save for the birds and the bees.

Sasha went on her way, walking past the caves leading to the heart of the mountain, past the waterfalls all the way to the heart of the forest.

The Grand Tree of the Inner Sanctum reached into the sky and shone the brightest amongst all of the trees. Sasha put her hand on the trunk to feel the heartbeat of the mountain pass. Sasha gave it power in exchange for information, just enough to get a feel of everything in her domain. She may have the power of flight to see from above, but she did not possess the many eyes and ears of the Grand Tree, nor the memory of everything past, present, or future.

Sasha retracted her hand, burnt by power unknown. Someone was in her forest, and they were close by. Someone who had power, unlike anything she had ever felt.

Not good. Not good at all.

She had to leave the Inner Sanctum. If these intruders found the Grand Tree, there was no telling what they would do to it.

Sasha rushed into the direction of the intruders, weaving through the dense branches and treacherous terrain.

Chatter broke through the forest, stopping Sasha in her tracks to observe. She was far enough from anything important to engage in combat without a worry that she would destroy it.

There were five people in total. A knight, an archer, a mage, a rogue, and a gunslinger. All of them carrying weapons emitting a strange type of glow only sung about in legends.

Must be enhanced by some type of divine magic, Sasha thought. Her initial feeling of dread upon feeling them through the Tree was right. These people were dangerous and not likely to understand what power they were wielding.

An excellent addition to her hoard. And at the cost of five skulls, that was too good of a bargain to pass up.

They hadn't spotted her yet. Perfect. Sasha inched closer, keeping her footsteps light. The intruders had settled in quite nicely, tents still put up and the flickers of an ember licking up the last few scraps of firewood. Sat on the ground, they were vulnerable.

It would be so easy to turn into herself and burn them all to a crisp, but Sasha was honour bound to face them in proper combat.

"Look what we have here, a band of thieves stealing from the gods to parade through my domain." Sasha's sharp voice startled the group to stand against her, weapons raised. "Now, be good kids and drop your weapons and get the hell out. You're not welcome here."

Her presence alone should have been enough to make even the strongest warrior falter. Her appearance alone a tale of nightmares.

Slitted purple eyes that looked directly into your soul, eating at it until there was nothing left but pure obedience. Five horns jutting out of her skull, two from her jaw, one in her forehead, two at the back and two on the side curling to frame her face, all adorned by gold and precious stone. Sharp claws at the end of each hand, sharper than any man made object. Scales protected her most vital parts, covering her throat and her stomach, continuing down to her spiked tail. Two sets of wings protruded from her back, capable of creating strong gusts of wind.

Truly, these people were idiots.

"There it is, this is the monster I was telling you about," the knight yelled out, voice breaking at the word monster. His sword was pointed in Sasha's direction.

"What do we do? I wasn't prepared for this," the archer croaked out.

Sasha let the scene play out. If they wanted to bicker amongst themselves before they attempted to fight her, they could go right ahead. Nothing she hadn't seen before.

The gunslinger moved their finger to the trigger of their handgun, ready to fire at a moment's notice. "Isn't that obvious? We fight!"

Points for enthusiasm, that one.

"I'll back you up!" The mage proclaimed enthusiastically, the gem on their staff glowing.

That one was Sasha's biggest concern. A mage could potentially turn the situation dire, and as such, needed to be taken out first.

The rogue didn't say a word. Wise. Sasha had to respect that.

"Foul beast, I will claim your head for all of the lives you have taken." The knight had the gall to come up with ludicrous accusations.

It was time.

Sasha's eyes glowed, taking in every minute detail of what she could observe. Trees lined the clearing of the settlement, plenty of flat ground with a few stones that could serve as cover. The knight front and centre, the archer at the far back with the mage, gunslinger, and rogue on the second line.

"Foolish humans." Sasha played along with their little roleplay of big bad dragon versus innocent little humans. "Such insolence. I shall burn you on the very ground you stand on."

The first shot barely missed Sasha's head, too quick to dodge out of the way with four other assailants on the way.

"Divine protection!" The mage's first spell enveloped the knight, who is running headfirst at Sasha.

The rogue disappeared from her sight into the greenery to hide. The archer pulled back, letting the first set of arrows loose.

With one flap of her wings, Sasha was airborne, away from any immediate threat. Heat gathered in her throat, spilling out of her mouth in a sea of flames. None of her assailants were hit, saved by the mage in the back.

She had to go.

Sasha swung her tail at the mage, shattering the shield the mage had put up to protect herself. An arrow hit one of her wings as she swung her tail once again. Shield after shield broke on impact, the mage forced to retreat a couple steps every time, until she couldn't anymore. Back against a tree, Sasha's tail cut through her stomach, severing her in half.

Her party members must be horrified, Sasha laughed to herself. They wanted a monster, and here she was. Their screams were static to Sasha's ears, their words muffled by the bloodlust that had awakened in her.

The arrows and bullets were immune to the whirlwind she created with her wings, breaking through the scales. A smart choice to take away her ability to fly, she had to give them that. The knight stood in the middle of the clearing, too shocked to move as his team members frantically tried to kill Sasha.

Not satisfied with how things were going, Sasha morphed into her true form. With sheer size and power on her side, it would be a manner of seconds until she stood victorious.

Sasha hurled fireballs at the gunslinger and archer to stop their attacks, setting the ground ablaze. They had nowhere to run from a hell of their own creation. The small tears in her wings hindered Sasha's ability to fly straight, but that didn't matter. With one flap, the two of them crashed into the rocks with a hard thud.

Leaving only the knight and the rogue.

The knight had earned himself to be the victim of her teeth. He just stood there, transfixed. Fool. Sasha made her move, leaping at him, only to be stopped by invisible chains. No matter how much she willed her limbs to move, they defied her as the restraints got tighter. The knight disappeared as panic took over.

She couldn't move. But how?

That was a question Sasha had had to ponder for several decades, as a blade struck her heart, locking her in time and place.

[ahungeringknife]

365: May 20

She was alone when she woke up. Above her was a ceiling made of glass and shattered realities. She blinked slowly to get her bearings, not knowing where she was for a moment. Where was she? Why was she on the floor on her back?

"Eyes up Guardian," Ghost said and appeared above her, floating and looking down at her.

Kass sat up so fast she almost smashed her visor into Ghost's eye as it all flooded back to her. The Vault. The Gatekeeper.

Atheon.

She looked around wildly and saw no one. Nothing. Not a single remaining Vex. Instead in front of her was the heaped remains of the Vex Mind Atheon and glass that reflected a thousand possibilities. But no friends. No Ghosts.

Scrambling to her feet she forced her breathing to remain calm. Ghost was still here. "Where are they?" she asked in a small voice.

"Atheon killed them-

"And their Ghosts?" she demanded so sharply and harshly Ghost flinched away. But she couldn't do it. She didn't want to do it. She didn't want to be alone.

"They're at the edges of the Vault," Ghost said softly. "So you didn't shatter them too."

The memory was fresh and looking back on it; terrifying. She didn't know she could do that. Just explode with Light like that. She remembered the force of it shredding her armor, ripping away the fresh Vex plating wrapped around her until she was a star of pure unfiltered Light. She'd heard the Vault crack and shatter and all of Atheon had cracked too. And it was dead. She'd killed it in ten thousand time lines all at once. The Time's Conflux was no more in every time line. Every reality where time worked like it did in this one had lost Atheon in that moment of fractured glass and screaming metal.

"I see," she said softly. "Did I die too?"

"No. You just... passed out."

She went over to Atheon's... corpse? It was a machine so it hadn't really been alive. Could something like that have a corpse? She supposed she also wasn't a thing that was alive and she very much could make corpses. So it stood to reason that Atheon also created a corpse. But its corpse was a tangle of metal and fractured glass that when Kass looked into each frantic sliver showed her a different reality, a different timeline. But she ignored that and was looking for his radiolaria capsule. She couldn't be sure, despite what she knew, that it was done until she found the source of it.

She found it, cracked in two like an egg spilling out radiolaria, and latched around it like the hand of a Vex was... a gun. It was burnished copper like some Vex and an insane construction. "What is this?" Kass asked, picking it up off Atheon.

Ghost came over and scanned it. His fins moved in what was a frown. "It belongs to you," he said in confusion. "My records show you've had one in your Vault since it was assigned to you."

"But I've never had this gun," she said softly looking it over. It fired some sort of energy ammunition and as she held it it... hummed.

"I know. I've never seen it before now either. But when I search for it it says it's been in your Vault. It isn't there now. But it was. Records, which appear to be logged by me, claim it to be a fusion rifle."

"Doesn't look like any I've seen," she said. No. The Vex mechanical machinations were so... strange but when she fit her hands around it they fit perfectly into the form and the form into her hands. It was like she'd always held it.

"No. There appear to be several revisions of these records, which again I put in here but have no memory of them. It's called the Vex Mythoclast," he said slowly, thoughtfully. The stats on the weapon appeared on her HUD. "Just from looking at it it looks like you renamed it fifty-six times before it ended up in your hands now."

"Huh. But if I've always had it why would I rename it?" Kass asked.

"No idea!"

Movement caught her eye and she spun, ready to fire this Mythoclast at whatever moved and see what it could do.

It was two Ghosts. Bird and Amelia. "Kassy?" Amelia asked from inside her spherical purple shell.

She lowered the gun. "You're safe!" she cried and the Ghosts rushed over to her. "Where are the others?" she asked and gently caressed Amelia's nervous shell.

"Around. We saw them hide so so did we."

"We saw you kill Atheon," Bird said, staring at her.

"Ah- yeah," she said weakly.

Another Ghost ran into her, thonking against her hood covered helmet. "Are you alright?" Mr. Grey asked frantically. She scanned Kass out of nervous habit.

"I'm fine," Kass said even as Cleo and Reggie slowly joined them. The Ghosts hovered around her like a constellation. "You're all fine?" she asked them.

"Yes," Reggie said as the rest bobbed in the air.

"What was that?" Cleo asked what they were all thinking.

Kass didn't say anything. She put the gun at her side. Silence stretched between her and the Ghosts. "Don't tell them," was all she said.

"Why not?" Bird asked.

She looked down thinking about this entire expedition down into this place. She couldn't see their faces but their voices had been enough. The shock, the awe, the way her friends just collapsed around her after they'd fought the Templar from her Light output to keep them charged up long enough to shatter it. Not like she'd been able to shoot it. The Aegis had clung to her arm the entire time since she had first touched it- Speaking of. Where was it? She looked around but didn't see the glowing shield of Light anywhere. And then in the maze where they'd been spotted by a Gorgon and even as they felt it starting to erase them from time she'd fired an unheard of number of Golden Gun shots into it's stupid eye and been left only winded after she'd torn it asunder. But she didn't miss the way they shied away when she ordered them around or the one time she'd snapped at them. They fell in line but were afraid. Afraid of this place where she felt no fear.

Afraid of her.

They'd all gone down before her. Blasted away from Atheon or dissolved out of time. She'd stayed up. They'd barely been able to scratch Atheon's silver coating but Kass had just... shattered him all by herself. She didn't want to think about what that looked like on the outside. She didn't want them to be afraid of her. They were her friends.

"I'm afraid," she said softly. "Of what they'll think."

The Ghosts looked between each other, talking between each other without speaking aloud. "It was amazing what you did," Cleo said.

"Never seen anything like it," Reggie agreed.

"But we understand you're scared too," Mr. Grey said. "It's okay to be scared. Just don't let it make you who you aren't." Kass nodded.

"We won't tell them," Bird assured her.

She relaxed her shoulders. "And can you bring them back?"

"Guardians can't be lost in time. They are always where we need them," Bird said. "But we need help."

"With... what?" Kass asked nervously. Did she have to go looking for them?

"Your Light," Cleo said nicely.

Kass let out a helpless little laugh. "I have plenty of that," and she held out her hand. Light poured out of her and she formed great fat motes on her palm. The Ghosts came over and each took a moment to absorb the Light from her, one mote per Ghost, before going a ways away and popping their shells open in Light. One by one in rapid succession each of her friends were transmatted and arranged back into existence just the way she'd seen them last.

"Kassy!" and she grunted when Grey was suddenly hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe. She hugged Grey back one handed, still holding the Vex Mythoclast.

"Is Atheon dead?" Kaley asked.

"Looks dead by that pile of scrap Kass is standing in," Rigel said his mechanical voice even more monotone than usual.

Grey slowly released her and signed, 'Okay?' She nodded.

"So... now what?" Nef asked.

"We climb back out," Kass said seriously.

"Yeah. Was afraid you'd say that," Nef sighed.

[infiniterichesinalittleroom]

August

Dull August! Maiden of the sultry days, And Summer's latest born! When all the woods Grow dim with smoke, and smirch their lively green With haze of long-continued drought begot; When every field grows yellow, and a plague Of thirst dries up its herbage to the root, So that the cattle grow quite ribby-lean On woody stalks whose juices all are spent; When every fronded fern in mid-wood hid Grows sick and yellow with the jaundice heat, Whilst those on hill-sides glare with patchy red; When streamlets die upon the lichened rocks, And leave the bleaching pebbles shining bare, And every mussel shell agape and parched, And small snail-craft quite emptied of their crews; When not one angel-cloud is to be seen To image coolness and the coming rain, But all the air with stour and dust is filled, Through which the sun stares with a pallid face On which one long may look, and turn, and read Some prophecy of old with eyes undimmed; When every morn is fiery as the noon, And every eve is fiery as the morn, And every night a prison hot and dark, Where one doth sleep and dream of pleasant snow, And winter's icicles and blessed cold, But, soon awakes, with limbs uneasy cramped, And garments drenched, and stifled, panting breath; When life itself grows weary of its use, And mind is tarnished with the hue of things, And thoughts are sickened with o'erdàrkened food; When man uneasy strolls, a listless mome In museless misery, a wretch indeed— Say, fiery maiden, with the scorching eyes, What hast thou left to chain us to the earth? Ah, there are busy forms which, all unsought, Find yet a relish in thy scanty store. And, for that blooms are scarce, therefore the bee Wades knee-deep in the purple thistle tops, And shares their sweetness with the hungry wasp. Therefore the butterfly comes sailing down, And, heedless, lighting on a hummer's back, Soon tacks aloft in sudden strange alarm, Whilst bee and wasp quick scurry out of sight, And leave their treasures to the plodding ant. The beetle in the tree-top sits and sings His brassy tune with increase to the end, And one may peep and peer amongst the leaves, Yet see him not though still he sits aloft, And winds his reedy horn into the noon. Now many a sob is heard in thickets dim, Where little birds sit, pensive, on the spray, And muse mayhap on the delights of Spring; And many a chitmunk whistles out its fear, And jerks and darts along the panneled rails, Then stops, and watches with unwinking eyes Where you do stand, as motionless as death; But should you wag a finger through the air, Or move a-tiptoe o'er the crispy sod, 'Twill snudge away beneath the balsam brush, Quick lost and safe among the reddened spray. Now one may sit within a little vale, Close to the umbrage of some wood whose gums Give heavy odours to the heavy air, And watch the dusty crackers snap their wings, Whilst gangs of blue-flies fetch a buzzing teaze Of mad, uneasy whirlings overhead. Now one may mark the spider trim his web From bough to bough, and sorrow at the fate Of many a sapless fly quite picked and bare, Still hanging lifeless in the silken mesh, Or muse upon the maze of insect brede Which finds a home and feeds upon the leaves Till naught but fibre-skeletons are hung From branch to branch up to the highest twig. And many a curious pleasance may be seen And strange disport. Of such the wondrous glee The joinèd gnats have in their headlong flight; The wild'ring quest of horse-flies humming past In twos and threes, and the small cloud of wings Which mix and throng together in the sun. A num'rous kin dart shining o'er some pool Spared from the general wreck of water store, And from the lofty woods crow-blackbird trains Chuck o'er the barren leas with long-drawn flight. Far o'er the hills the grouse's feath'ry drum Beats quick and loud within a beechen copse, And, sometimes, when the heavy woods are still, A single tap upon a hemlock spire Dwells with the lonely glades in echoes deep. Then with the eve come sounds of varied note. The boys troop clam'ring to the woods, and curs Yelp sharply where the groundhog's lair is found. The horn has called the reapers from the fields, And, now, from cots half-hid by fruited trees, The homely strains of fiddle or of fife, Which distance sweetens with a needed art, Come dropping on the ear. And sometimes, too, If sparks are deemed sincere, and rustic love Run smooth, the merry milkmaids sing A fallow's length with pails at elbow slung, Or, while they thrust the draw-well dangler down, 'Gainst which the swains oppose their yielding strength, Laugh loud and long, or scold with mimicked heat. These find a pleasure in the waste of days, And strive against the mis'ry of the time With am'rous snares and artifice of love. Not less those faithful ones who look upon This weather-sorrow with sufficing joy— The old, who still would linger with their seed, And snatch a little comfort from the earth. Still would they gaze upon the simmering sun, And take the warmth into their aged bones, Nor cavil with the hindrances which stay. The lethal hour when death shall come and bend Their reverend heads into the restful grave. Hail August! Maiden of the sultry days, To thee I bring the measured meed of praise. For, though thou hast besmirched the day and night, And hid a wealth of glory from our sight, Thou still dost build in musing, pensive mood, Thy blissful idyls in the underwood. Thou still dost yield new beauties, fair and young, With many a form of grace as yet unsung, Which ripens o'er thy pathway and repays The toil and languor of the sultry days.

by Charles Mair