#rather than colour -> sharpen -> colour again

[theheroheart]

Quick GIF tutorial (Photoshop)

#holy shit this is perfection!!#i am so jealous of this set!#the coloring op THE COLORING!!! (original post)

alright @dontyouknowemma-itsyou and anyone interested, this was really easy to colour so I'm gonna give you a quick breakdown. (i didn't save the psd file?? so i'm redoing this i guess, but i did it on autopilot in the first place. i've been making gifs for over 15 years.)

GONNA INCLUDE A VIDEO AT THE END SHOWING OFF THE SETTINGS!!

General GIF stuff

This is in Photoshop CC. I extract a clip from a video as an MP4 file, which photoshop can open. (I use AviDemux for this, which is free, because it lets you save clips using 'copy' encoding for video output and still change from MKV to MP4 format - without losing any video quality, cause you're not re-encoding.)

Open that shit directly in photoshop as a video layer (just drag and drop), that lets you scan through it to check the colouring works overall. Convert the video layer to Smart Object, that lets you resize and edit it. (Do NOT open a full movie in Photoshop, it'll probably die and it has a max length anyway.)

Also all the colour adjustments are gonna be adjustment layers you can tweak and turn on/off whenever. There's a lil button at the bottom of the Layers window to add them quickly.

When we're done we're choosing a section of the video in the Timeline window and we're doing File->Export->Save For Web. 'Adaptive' (or selective) palette selection, 'pattern' style dithering.

Colouring

Curves layer to lighten. Just pull the curve up. Curves seem to give a much smoother lightening, since it mostly affects the middle, leaving the brights and the darks where they are.

Levels to make the darkest darks pure black, and the lightest lights pure white. Good for limiting GIF size. Don't overdo it though.

Colour balance!! My beloved, most important. So for the Shadows and Highlights, you're gonna move the sliders towards Cyan and Blue, but for the Midtones you're gonna do the opposite - towards Red and Yellow. This means you don't shift the overall colour of the picture, but trust me it does SO MUCH for the contrast and colour. I swear I do this for almost any edit, and also my art tbh. Also if the original clip is like very green or whatever, you can correct that here.

Selective colour. For this I did one thing. For 'Black' dropdown, I upped 'black' and 'yellow' sliders (the latter to counteract the blue in the darks). This in combination with:

Levels again. Bring in those darks, turn them pure black. Basically this does a couple things. It preserves GIF file size, by making sure the dark areas are static (file sizes mostly depends on pixels that are CHANGING). It ALSO makes the palette much more optimized, meaning you don't waste palette on the darks no one sees anyway, and instead uses them in the mid range colour variation, giving much smoother gradients. That's it!! That's all the colouring!!

EDIT: Uh I probably also had a Vibrance layer?? Idk. This just ups the saturation, but it's softer than upping Saturation. Makes the colours pop without overdoing it.

Other tips and tricks

Often I'll put a Smart Sharpen (50% amount, 0,5px radius) filter on the video layer, just to make it a bit crisper. Subtle but effective.

You can manually edit the palette when you save as a GIF, either to reduce file size, or because some colour areas look pixelly. See the video for how.

If your file size is huge but you don't want to shorten or resize, you can reduce the frame rate manually. To do this, FIRST save the GIF, then open the GIF you just saved. Go through in the Timeline window (which is now a Frame Animation rather than a Video Timeline), select every other frame, and delete them. When you do this, remember to select the rest of the frames and double their Frame Delay so you don't end up with a super speedy GIF. (You can also make a GIF slow-mo like this.)

Since the video is a smart object, I literally just resized it in between saving the different GIFs, to change composition between the different shots.

Selective Colour layer can be used for a lot of image tweaking. For example, if something is overly yellow or green, I may go to the Yellow and Green in dropdown and just reduce the yellow slider. (I usually then go to Red in dropdown and ADD some yellow to that, to balance out the reds to be less pink.) Or maybe the overall colours are nice but the blues are dull, so I'll just go to Blue/Cyan and tweak those specifically.

If you have a colouring you like that you want to use on lots of things, remember you can drag-and-drop layers between different images. You can also save a photoshop file with nothing but those layers, to use on later gifs and just tweak as needed. (You can also make Actions to automate stuff, but I won't go into that.)

How easy or hard something is to colour HUGELY depends on the original video, both lighting/colouring and video quality.

Finally the video showing settings!

This is like 5 minutes long and has no commentary or anything. This is mostly to show off where you find each individual thing, and what difference it makes in the colouring.

ANYWAY hope someone found this useful!!! ♥

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 9: Delicate Hostilities

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: Whistledown didn’t get the scoop. But you did. One charming rogue. One stiff-jawed Viscount. And a room full of witnesses who live for polite conversation with venom tucked neatly beneath the surface. The suitor. The rival. The diamond. And you—right in the eye of the storm.

The golden hour settles over the Bridgerton home, spilling warmth through the grand windows, casting soft golden hues across the drawing room where laughter rings bright and unrestrained. Seated among the family, you find yourself drawn into their playful banter, the warmth of their camaraderie, something you have long cherished.

“Tell me, Y/N,” Daphne leans forward, her eyes gleaming with mischief, “how does it feel to be at the very heart of Lady Whistledown’s latest scandal?”

Benedict chuckles. “Yes, I do believe she took particular delight in writing about your charming little tête-à-tête with Lord Lucien Blackbourne last evening.”

At the mention of his name, the teasing only grows in fervor.

“Oh, and what a sight it was,” Colin adds, smirking. “He looked at you as if you hung the stars in the sky.”

Violet, ever the composed matriarch, merely smiles over the rim of her teacup. “He did seem rather…captivated.”

Before you can respond, the door opens, and a maid steps inside, her hands clasped neatly before her. “My lady, Lord Blackbourne has come to call.”

Silence lingers for a fraction of a fraction of a second before Eloise gasps, dramatically. “Speak of the devil!”

Laughter ripples through the room as the maid steps aside, allowing him to enter.

Lucien is dressed in a deep navy waistcoat, the colour rich against the crisp white of his shirt, his dark curls just slightly tousled as though he had run a hand through them moments before arriving. He sweeps a courteous bow, his eyes seeking yours first before addressing the rest of the family.

“Good afternoon,” he says smoothly, his voice carrying a warmth edged with amusement. “It appears I am the topic of discussion. Should I be flattered or concerned?”

Daphne grins. “That depends. How serious are your intentions?”

Lucien arches a brow. “Oh, quite serious.”

A beat of silence. Then an eruption of reaction–some teasing, some pointedly intrigued.

Your cheeks warm slightly at the boldness of Lucien’s response, but he gives you no reprieve. He steps closer, his gaze holding yours as he adds, “Though, if you are in need of reassurance, I am more than happy to offer it.”

The room is alight with laughter again.

Eloise smirks. “You do realize you are vastly outnumbered here, my lord? We have had years to sharpen our wit against one another. Are you certain you wish to enter this den of wolves?”

Lucien tilts his head, feigning deep contemplation. “Ah, but you see, my lady, I do love a challenge.” His gaze flickers to yours. “Especially when the prize is worth the battle.”

A hush falls, just for a moment. You hold his gaze, something flickering in the depths of your eyes.

Benedict claps his hands together. “Well then! Let us see just how well you fare, Blackbourne. Tell us—what are your intentions?”

Lucien chuckles, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Must I truly lay my heart bare before an audience?”

“Oh, but of course,” Colin grins. “Consider it a test.”

Lucien glances at you again, his voice dropping just enough for only you to catch the subtle shift in meaning. “Then I supposed I must pass with flying colours.”

You inhale sharply, the weight of his words pressing against you, even as the family remains blissfully unaware of the charged undercurrent beneath them.

Before another jest can be thrown Lucien’s way, the door opens once more.

Anthony steps inside.

His presence shifts the very air of the room. A quiet settles as his eyes sweep over the scene—his siblings laughing, you smiling, and Lucien Blackbourne…sitting just a little too comfortably beside you.

“Lord Blackbourne,” Anthony greets, his voice cool. “I see you are making yourself quite at home.”

Lucien bows slightly. “Lord Bridgerton.”

A moment of silence lingers between them, a battle of wills spoken in the silence.

Eloise, sensing the tension, hums under her breath. “Well, this is positively interesting.”

Anthony ignores her. “I take it your business here is of some importance?”

Lucien smiles, ever so slightly. “Indeed.” His gaze flickers to you once more before returning to Anthony. “It is a fine day, and I thought it best spent in pleasant company.”

Anthony’s jaw tenses, but he merely inclines his head. “How fortunate, then, that my family is so accommodating.”

“Quite,” Lucien replies, his own smile unwavering.

Colin, ever the instigator, leans toward Benedict and murmurs, “Oh, this is better than the theatre.”

The veiled remarks begin.

Anthony, never one to let a challenge go unanswered, tilts his head. “I do wonder, Blackbourne, do you make such calls often? Or is this a rare occurrence?”

“Rare,” Lucien admits, “but only because I prefer my attentions to be meaningful rather than fleeting.”

The implication is clear. You shift slightly in your seat, watching the exchange with something unreadable in your expression.

Anthony exhales slowly. “Meaningful.” He nods, as though weighing the word. “Then I suppose I must ask—what exactly do you mean?”

The room is silent. Even Eloise and Colin have fallen still, watching.

Lucien does not break his gaze from Anthony’s as he answers, his voice steady. “I believe my meaning is quite clear, my lord.”

Anthony’s grip on his gloves tightens. “And yet, I would still like to hear it from you.”

Lucien glances at you once more, and this time, he lets the weight of his words settle fully. “I intend to court her.”

A sharp inhale from someone—perhaps Eloise. A satisfied hum from Violet.

A hush falls over the room, thick and expectant. Anthony remains still, his expression unreadable. The weight of Lucien’s words linger in the air, undeniable, unshakable.

And then—

The door opens once more.

A soft, elegant voice carries through the room, light as a melody.

“I do hope I am not interrupting.”

Edwina Sharma steps gracefully into the drawing room, her serene smile perfectly composed. She is clad in a delicate gown of lavender muslin, her hands folded demurely before her. Her dark eyes sweep across the gathered company before landing, with unmistakable warmth, upon Anthony.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she greets, inclining her head ever so slightly.

Anthony, despite the tension crackling in his stance, straightens immediately, his expression shifting into one of practiced charm. “Miss Sharma,” he replies, stepping forward. “It is a pleasure to see you today.”

Daphne, ever the observer, glances between the two of them before exchanging a knowing look with Eloise.

Edwina’s gaze flickers to Lucien, her smile unwavering. “Lord Blackbourne, it seems you have also chosen to make the Bridgertons’ acquaintance today.”

Lucien inclines his head, offering her a polite, but confident smile. “A fortunate decision, it seems. The company has been most delightful.” His eyes flicker—just briefly—to you.

A slight shift in Edwina’s expression. Barely perceptible, but there. 

She turns back to Anthony, her voice warm. “I had hoped to find you here, my lord. My sister and I will be attending the park tomorrow. I wondered if you might join us?”

A pause.

Anthony, ever composed, glances at you just for a fraction of a second before answering. “It would be my honour.”

A subtle tension coils between the lines of this exchange.

You, caught between the currents of the room, feel the weight of the moment. Anthony, standing before Edwina with all the poise of a gentleman fulfilling duty, responding to an invitation from an esteemed lady of the ton. Edwina, a vision of grace, playing her role effortlessly. And Lucien—watching you, watching him, with something undeniably deliberate in his gaze.

Benedict, watching the scene unfold like a man witnessing a well-crafted play, chuckles under his breath. “Who knew teatime could be this thrilling?”

Eloise sighs dramatically. “It is a shame Lady Whistledown cannot witness this firsthand. What a column it would be.”

“Then it is settled,” Edwina says with a bright smile. “I shall look forward to your company, my lord.”

The words are innocent. But in this charged atmosphere, they land like a perfectly placed chess move—one that neither you nor Lucien can ignore.

Lucien leans back in his chair, stretching his legs slightly as he observes this unfolding tableau with keen interest. “Ah, how fortunate for Lord Bridgerton,” he remarks casually. “A morning stroll in the park with such charming company. Truly, some men have all the luck.”

Anthony’s head snaps toward Lucien, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. “And yet some must make their own fortune, mustn’t they, Lord Blackbourne?”

The air between them shifts—sharp, poised.

Lucien smiles. “Indeed. Though I have always found that the most rewarding pursuits are those which are earned, not merely inherited.”

A subtle blow. Calculated.

Anthony’s grip tightens around the back of his chair, but his answering smirk is practiced, composed. “And yet, there is something to be said for the weight of responsibility. Those who bear it know that fortune alone does not sustain a legacy.”

You inhale sharply, your gaze flickering between us. You can feel it—the battle lines being drawn.

Violet takes an extremely slow sip of her tea, contemplating if she should intervene.

Eloise, never one to miss a moment of intrigue, perks up. “Well, this is rather fascinating.” She glances between Anthony and Lucien, eyes alight with mischief. “Shall we wager on how long before one of you reaches for a dueling pistol?”

Colin snorts. “Oh, please. Blackbourne is far too civilized to engage in such theatrics. He’d simply outwit our dear brother until he surrendered out of sheer frustration.”

Benedict hums. “Now that would be a sight.”

Anthony’s glare sharpens, but before he can retort, your voice cuts through the exchange—silken, effortless.

“Now, now,” you muse, tilting your head. “If you boys must squabble, perhaps you should take it outside? Or shall we turn the drawing room into a battleground for wounded egos?”

Laughter ripples through the room at your words.

Anthony exhales through his nose, fixing you with a look—one that speaks of irritation, but also of something else, something lingering.

Lucien, on the other hand, has no shame in letting his gaze sweep over you, his smirk deepening. “Ah, but where would be the fun in taking this outside? I much prefer an audience.”

Your eyes meet his, amusement dancing within them. And yet, beneath the jest, something coils tight in your chest—an awareness of him, of Anthony, of the unseen war playing out around you.

Edwina, blissfully unaware, clasps her hands together. “It seems I have interrupted something.” She glances toward the Viscount, then to the seat beside you where Lord Blackbourne lingers, something unreadable flickering in her gaze.

Eloise grins. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Violet gently clears her throat, “Well, it’s lovely to see such…spirited conversation at this hour of the evening. Perhaps a second round of tea might cool a few tempers, hmm?”

Anthony, sensing the precarious edge upon which he stands, schools his features into politeness. “Not at all, Miss Sharma,” he says smoothly. “Lord Blackbourne and I were merely…comparing perspectives.”

A pause.

And then—because Lucien simply cannot refuse—

“I do find comparison fascinating,” he muses. “Particularly when the subject is so—” he glances at you, briefly, deliberately ���—coveted.”

The air crackles.

You can feel Anthony tense.

And you, you feel the heat of Lucien’s words settle over your skin like a slow, smoldering fire.

The gauntlet has been thrown.

Now, the question is…who will pick it up first?

______________________________________________________________

And so, the pieces are on the board.

One gentleman wears his heart like armor, the other like a loaded weapon. But only one will walk away with yours.

Choose wisely. Or recklessly. I won’t judge.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor

[plushiesssforcrying]

Bluebells.

୨୧ chapters ┊ memories. / nightfall.

୨୧ character ┊ telemachus.

୨୧ pronouns ┊ she / her.

୨୧ contents ┊ day 3. telemachus fucks up. reader fucks up too. miscommunication? kinda reasonable tho LOL. not beta read, we die. angst if you squint? they have no established relationship but they're fucked up basically.

The wind bent to the slash of the blade as a young prince swung it with precision. Sweat dripped off his face as he kept moving and attacking an invisible target, the wind in the open courtyard of the palace effectively cooling him down.

“Once more.” A stern feminine voice demanded when the prince lowered his sword. He sighed in retaliation, making her gaze sharpen.

“Can we take a brief moment?” He asked her in a winded manner, “I fear my arms might fall off if I continue…”

She opened her mouth to deny him before she stopped herself, her gaze seemed to stray off— an unusual look on the goddess of wisdom. Telemachus raised a brow, confused by her hesitance. After a short moment, she nodded.

“Yes, go ahead.”

A smile broke out on his face, stepping away to rest against a tree. Athena followed not shortly after, glancing at him as he wiped the excess sweat off his face. Telemachus hadn't told his mentor about the woman he met, figuring it was nothing to note.

After all, some people are just a bit… odd. It was nothing he should be alarmed of, he thought to himself. Telemachus stared at the grass below him, picking at individual blades as his eyes were unfocused, unblinking. His breaths stayed slow and composed as he stayed lost in his thoughts, something the goddess quickly snapped him out of.

“Telemachus, are you listening?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Uh, great idea.” He muttered absentmindedly.

“Really? Because I've yet to say anything.” Telemachus blinked at Athena’s claim before groaning, realizing he walked right into her trap. He leaned his head back against the tree with closed eyes, his hands still quietly fiddling with the grass below him.

He debated rather quickly in his head whether he should tell her or not but it'd be best if she did, she'd know better after all. He opened his mouth to speak, but the armored goddess beat him to it.

“Something clouds your mind, Telemachus.” She more so stated rather than asked. “Is this because of that strange woman you've met?”

“What? No! I mean, she's just an eccentric woman at the market, with scales on her skin, and— wait, you know?”

“Did you think you could keep something from the goddess of wisdom?” A response that made Telemachus groaned as he slumped further back against the tree, letting himself slide down into the grass.

Seeing his troubled expression, she decided to speak.

“You should use your head,” She started, “nothing comes with slowing down the inevitable.”

She gently pats the top of his head. “If you seek answers from her, you should find a way to get it. By all means necessary.”

With that, the goddess bid her farewell in a hurry— with firm reassurance that she will return again, something he noticed she does very often.

Telemachus mused about it quietly. He knew that he should consider her words carefully, considering a goddess had just bestowed her wisdom to him. Although, he had a bad gut feeling if he did.

He sighed after a while, nothing comes with doubt and hesitance, he thought to himself. He picked himself up from the ground, once more in hopes to find the dangerously alluring shopkeeper.

Birds chirp overhead the prince as his shoes left a trail of temporary indents in the grass. His dual coloured eyes followed the noise instinctively, assuming that it perched not too long after the sound of flapping wings went absent.

He continued further, some leaves and fallen twigs crunching under the sole of his shoes. He reached the familiar opening in the forest after a short while, hoping to see the woman yet to be named.

It didn't take long for him to set his eyes on a figure, except he didn't quite recognize it. With a discarded cloak beside her, a woman sat elegantly on a rock.

Her face obscured by her hair, she lowered a leg towards the water of the lake—stopping just as her feet hit the top of the water, leaving a ripple in her wake.

Telemachus watched with fascination, and caution. His eyes narrowed on her body, brows furrowed as he tried to make out the spots decorating her skin.

He took a step forward and unknowingly crushed a stick, a sound that seemed to startle the woman as she quickly shielded herself with her cloak once more.

Seeing her in the familiar cloak, he finally recognized that it was the shopkeeper he had been searching for.

He couldn't help but simply blink at the sight, her back faced him as she stood upright on the rock. His gaze narrows at her, he was sure he wasn't mistaken this time.

She had scales on her skin.

He thought he was only imagining it the last time they met. It wasn't a logical idea after all, why would she have scales on her skin? What would that make her?

He's read of many creatures that have scales, dangerous or not. Is she dangerous too?

The prince was too caught up in his thoughts to realize the woman had came down and faced him with a stiff smile.

“I wasn't expecting you here, prince Telemachus.” She spoke, as if she was trying to lighten up a mood that was yet to be present.

He blinked in response, “I… couldn't find you at the market, so I figured you would be here.” He spoke slowly, watching her obscured face closely.

“You were searching for me specifically?” Her teasing tone returned.

“Careful, young prince, if I didn't know any better.. I would've thought you were here to court me.” She laughed all too familiarly, the usual mocking demeanour becoming apparent in her behaviour once more.

He couldn't help but be affected by her words. Despite knowing that she was only joking, the thought never quite crossed his mind at any point in time.

So much so that he was more embarrassed that he had little to no idea about the topic and would rather not think about it now of all time.

His gaze followed the woman walking behind the rock she was previously on.

“Yes, well, a shame that's not the case.” He played along halfheartedly, trailing behind her. He watched her crouched down and rummaged into a bag, taking out an assortment of colourful flowers that was neatly put together into a bouquet.

“What is it that you seek from me, Telemachus?” She asked, her focus still on the deadly beauty she had arranged herself.

The noble didn't respond right away. Instead, carefully regarding the way she handled the vivid flowers from afar.

The way the tip of fingers brush against the leaves, avoiding the thorns that she had yet to remove from a few of them. A soft glisten of light on her cheek catches his eye, barely visible under her hood.

Expectantly, she looked up at him again— awaiting an answer to her curiosity. Meanwhile, he was trying to find an answer to his own. One that would satisfy him without the need to cross the River Styx.

He bit his lip, his eyes holding emotions indecipherable as it watched how she stood up with a rather sluggish manner. A sign that she was comfortable, no doubt.

As she opened her mouth to question him again, he caught sight of her undeniably sharp teeth.

“Are you... a gorgon..?” He asked unceremoniously.

The woman’s smile slowly dropped, a moment of silence passing by them.

The man recalled their past meetings— the way that he had never seen her eyes, her inhuman strength, her appearance, the strange aura she emits whenever they would interact. It was a wild guess, but one that he spoke with confidence, more so as a means of intimidation than genuine certainty.

The woman, on the other hand, stayed silent. The only noise that could be heard was the rushing waters, a silence so deafening that Telemachus was sure he could hear his heartbeat drum in his own ears as he gripped the hilt of his sword in one hand.

“And what if I am, princey?” Her voice flat and monotonously answered.

She tilted her head, feigning curiosity as she stepped closer. Her movement was deliberately slow and steady but not cautious as Telemachus observed.

On instinct, the prince drew his sword. He took a sharp inhale, his eyes darting to her feet as he avoided staring into her eyes. She said nothing and only took another step closer which he gritted his teeth and tightened the grip on his sword.

“Stay back! I'm.. I'm warning you—!”

“Or what? you'll fight me?” Her tone was snarky and mocking. Continuing to taunt him, she stepped closer.

“I'd love to see you try—”

In a heap of panic, Telemachus swung his blade upright with closed eyes. The woman yelped, her outstretched hand quickly retracted back to her side as crimson red liquid dripped down her arm. She hissed, trying to subside the pain while the prince could only watch the blood pool by her feet and seep into the grass.

The prince could see in the corner of his eyes how the woman's hand twitched in irritation, her breathing slowly grew heavier. The cut he had made on her arm wasn't too deep, but it definitely stretched longer than he expected. The gash began from her forearm before she swerved to the right, narrowly avoiding her wrist and vital point.

She staggered in her steps, putting needed distance between them as her heartbeat quickened. Telemachus couldn't help but stare as the glow of her eyes intensified by the second, he had just hurt a monster.

This is what he always asked for, wasn't it? To hunt and fight monsters. To see if he could find his father once and for all at the end of the battle. Perhaps this was the battle he was looking for. Maybe, just maybe, his father will return from the death of this beast.

But why is it that now as he stares into the injured form of who he thought was a regular shopkeeper, does he only stare? His brows furrowed, his mind only focused on how monstrous her appearance was.

When the prince took a cautious step forward, she flinched and took multiple steps back. Her form was hunched, squeezing her forearm for dear life—she looked like a wild animal at this moment, no longer the composed and sophisticated young woman he'd met before.

Without another word, she turned and fled into the forest, her cloak swirling behind her. Telemachus stood there, as if his feet were rooted to the ground. For some reason, he felt as if the air in his lungs were taken away from him.

Perhaps it was from adrenaline, or maybe something else churning deep in his chest?

Whatever it was, he snapped himself out of it quickly— remembering that there was a gorgon on the loose in the forest.

He stared at the deep red blood that dripped off the tip of his sword with a flickering gaze. He tightened his lips together, sheathing the weapon once more as he swiftly made his way onto the path out the forest.

He doesn't wanna cause a panic or riot, not when the suitors run rampage in his home. If he has to deal with this monster himself then so be it.

sorry this was late, i was missing a whole middle scene in this LMFAOO. also yes, reader only appears for a short time, I KNOW.

next mini chapter is reader centric and after we knew reader's whole deal, then i can start writing her pov shh.

taglist; @lin-elizabeth @theyumeeighth

[sparxwrites]

It’s two in the morning when Gem wakes up to screaming in her castle.

The noise is coming from the entrance hall, and it sounds like neither a wither nor a warden, so she figures she’s good to head down in just her pyjamas and her little silk house-robe. Her sword is a comforting not-weight in her inventory, visible a half-dimension away when she lets her attention slip to the peripheral of her vision. Whatever it is, she’ll be fine. It’s probably some bugged zombie or something – if it’s not just some new god-awful prank from Grian, or Scar, or both. 

(She’s heard that thing under Scar’s base. It’s horrible. If they’ve put one of those in her castle, she’s going to kill both of them. Even if it was just one of them that put it there, she’s going to kill both of them. On principle.)

It’s not a bugged zombie, or a prank. It’s Pearl – also in her pyjamas, red flannel and a button-up shirt – hunched over, pulling at her own hair, howling. Her eyes are huge, wet, the pupils blown so large they’re almost black. There’s dark bags under her eyes, no colour in her skin other than high spots of red in her cheeks, the red of her nose where it’s running.

She’s barefoot – and that shouldn’t be what makes Gem’s heart break in two, but it is.

“Hey, Pearl,” she says, gently, raising her voice to carry over the wounded wailing. “Pearl! Hey. Can you look at me?”

She feels like she should have expected this, really. She’d heard from Mumbo what Grian had been like, after that first game, the one he’d won. She’d not been close enough to experience it first-hand, but she knew it’d been bad. She knows that winning those games is really more of a loss, than anything.

Pearl’s head snaps up. The howling stops, or rather transitions, turns into a choked gurgling, a gasping, this awful and wrenching sobbing like she’s gagging on her own saliva and desperately trying to swallow her screams. Her eyes are hollow, empty, nothing behind them but fear, pain. There’s something else there, too, some kind of deep and welling existential terror that makes Gem want to take a step back. 

She doesn’t, but it’s a close thing. The back of her neck prickles, the hairs on the back of her arms standing on end. She swallows, instead, and forces herself to take a step forward, towards the fear.

“That’s good,” she praises, “that’s great, Pearl, good job. Well done. Now. Can you tell me what’s going on? Seems like you’re having a bit of a rough time, huh?”

When Pearl rushes at her – hunched, animal, too-fast and skittering and staggering – she still doesn’t back up. 

She does, however, flinch. Her gaze slides to the peripheral, again, to the sword there. Just for a moment.

Pearl doesn’t seem to notice. “Tilly,” she gasps, grabs at Gem’s wrists. Her nails dig in, overlong, and draw blood. “Where’s– Tilly, what did they–” Her gaze sharpens, but only for a moment, and there’s still no sense in it. “What did you do to Tilly–”

Like this, this close, skin-on-skin contact between them, Gem can feel how hard she’s shaking.

“I’m sure she’s around here somewhere,” says Gem, as calmly as she can. “Can you tell me where you think you are, Pearl?”

Pearl gurgles, an awful noise. and tips forward. She’s still clutching hard enough to draw blood and, when she falls into Gem’s chest, she’s as cold as the night air outside. Her shaking rattles Gem’s ribs.

“He left,” she says, wet, like a child. “He left, he– he killed, he died, he killed himself, rather than– than be with me. He hates me. He wanted to get away from me so bad that he, he, he–”

She howls again, then, a noise of raw and ragged pain that seems to tear its way out of her like a living thing. 

There are tears soaking through Gem’s pyjamas, and her heart breaks a little with it as she carefully, carefully, shifts a hand to cradle the back of Pearl’s head. Her wrists are bloody with nail marks, and some of it catches, smears in Pearl’s wild hair. She tries not to worry about it. They can wash it out later.

“Shh, shh,” she murmurs, pets at the tangled mess beneath her hand, holds Pearl close while she works through another bout of screaming. “Shh, shh, shh.” She takes them both to the floor, slowly, legs going out from under them as Gem lowers them down. “I’m here, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

“He hated me,” moans Pearl, between sobs, when the wailing has passed. The shaking is slowing, easing a little, the agony giving way to a slower, bone-deep hurt, the madness passing into grief. “He wanted to die rather than stay.”

That’s not true, Gem thinks, and she thinks Pearl knows that too. But she doesn’t say that. Now is not the time for saying that.

What she says, instead, is just, “I’m here. And I don’t hate you.” She hesitates, for a moment, and then leans forward, curls over Pearl where they’re sat tangled together on the floor. Presses her lips to the top of Pearl’s head. “I’m here,” she says, and means it, “and I’ll stay. For as long as you want me to.”

[muffinsin]

How would the Dimitrescu sisters react to the reader kissing one of their flies? I just imagine them with a surprise-Pikachu face.

-Touch-Starved Anon

Hell yeah, this is adorable XD This was such a cute thought, I had to get started on it immediately🙌🫶 let’s get into it!

Masterlists

Bela

The first time it happens, it’s after sex, when she rests on your chests and gently plays with your fingertips

She doesn’t even notice the few flies that stray from her shoulder, really

She feels utterly relaxed around you, and with you

To feel your arms around her and bask in the scent both of you have left in the room is heaven to her

Unlike her, you do notice the curious little insect moving from her shoulder

It climbs past her and over her hair, until it settles on your fingertip

Its steps are light and almost ticklish, and you nearly giggle at it

Bela just hums as she hears your attempt of staying quiet, her eyes closed in utter relaxation

You’re sure, the exhausted woman could fall asleep any moment

And still, the curious little fly looks at you, almost curiously

Its wings beat lightly like the rest of the flies still settled to ensure Bela stays in her (appearance wise, at least-) human form

The many wings nearly create a purring sound, even, and this time you can’t help but smile brightly

She purrs loud, and only blushes a little when you point it out

And again, the curious little insect keeps walking, up your fingertip and to your knuckle

You can’t help the chuckle that passes your lips at the little fly’s next action:

A single bump of its head against your knuckles, then the back of your hand

Almost- affectionate

Still, judged by Bela’s calm breathing, her closed eyes and her fingertips entangled with yours, you doubt she’s all that aware of the actions and movements of her insect

You aren’t even sure if she can focus on only one of her flies

It seems, though, the little insect is rather fond of you, even if it is perhaps just a part of Bela’s mind

It makes you grin brightly

In a way, this means Bela loves you so much, even her swarm knows it perfectly well- even when she is not controlling it actively

It grips it tightly when you raise your hand a little, having had it entangled in Bela’s golden locks previously

As expected, the blonde whines at the loss of contact. And as expected, she is quickly shushed when a kiss is pressed to the top of her head instead

You must admit though, the small fly on top of you is cute

It’s larger than a normal fly, certainly, but still, it can be considered as quite cute

You examine it a little closer, noticing the small, red tail it has and the dark redness at its belly

The sight nearly makes you coo

For a moment, the thought of kissing the top of the fly comes to your mind

Perhaps surprisingly, you give in

Bela’s eyes snap open when your lips press feathery light against her fly, the insects within her beating their wings even harder and cresting an even louder purring noise

She bites her lip, hard, to keep from squeaking in surprise

Never has she felt what you just did

Somehow, it felt intense. More so than normal

You only grin when you look down and see Bela’s face has adapted a sweet, deep red colour. The poor thing is so flustered and confused, she can’t even meet your eye

Though, quietly, she asks you to do it again

Cassandra

The very first time you kiss one of her flies, you aren’t even aware that she notices. Aren’t even sure she would be aware of it

As it turns out, she is. Entirely aware

A single fly of hers is separated from her swarm, a part of her arm

It doesn’t even seem like she notices the insect, or at least doesn’t at all pay any mind to it

You, however, do

You watch it fly lazily through the room, landing at times to clean itself and feed off the blood sticking to the floor at spots

Usually, it doesn’t seem to stray far from Cassandra

The brunette is cleaning and sharpening her sickle, a concentrated look on her face and a sadistic grin forming already

You know, she’s thinking of using her favorite weapon again already, until it needs cleaning and sharpening again

And while it is such a dark and twisted thought, the implication of it itself already, you can’t help but smile

Merely because she is ridiculously adorable when she grins like that

Suddenly, the little insect strays from her, though, and you find it has landed on you

Having a book in your hand, you didn’t even notice it until it crawled up to your knuckle, then to your fingertip

You eye your girlfriend for a moment, her back turned to you. When you clear your throat and call her name, Cassandra turns to you

A wide grin that normally promises chaos spreads on your lips. Then, you raise your hand and sweetly press your lips to the little fly’s back

Cassandra gasps, her expression a hilarious-looking mix of shock, disgust, adoration, and most of all: confusion

Her expression matches the surprised pikatchu face the most

“What are you doing!”

It’s been quite a little time since the incident has passed, and Cassandra, as well as you, has mostly forgotten all about it already

That is, until you lie in bed with her on top of you

Her head is tucked closely to your neck from when she fell asleep to drinking from you and inhaling the apparently “sweet scent” of your blood, as she likes to put it

With one hand tangled in her beautiful, dark hair, and another resting on her bare back, you notice a few flies break off occasionally

While normally some only break off her arm or backside, they all return to her within seconds

You’re just about to doze off, lulled by her silent purrs and comforting weight on top of you, when you suddenly feel something move about against your hand again

A single, little fly

And judging by the small, black dot in her neck, it strayed from there

Tiredly, you think nothing of it when it sets on your hand and you raise it to your lips

The reaction you get, however, is by far more rewarding than her confused and flustered-angry reaction the last time

Her purring immediately picks up in volume and frequency, but that is not all

A single sigh escaping her lips comes before you suddenly feel her head bump against you

Then, you feel her slide down a little, and cover your mouth as to not wake her with your giggles when she begins to rub her cheek against your shoulder

Over and over again, purring wildly

You continue to scratch her scalp, and curiously press another kiss to the little insect

And again, she headbutts you, then rubs her cheek against you like a cat might do with catnip

You frown in confusion as you eye the little fly

Perhaps it’s because it’s from her neck this time?

A light kiss pressed to Cassandra’s neck confirms this, when she sighs almost dreamily even in her sleep

You grin triumphantly, and pull her close and flush against you

Now, it’s time for both of you to sleep

Daniela

She’s reading peacefully in the library, her hand gripping her book, the other at the top of your head

You lie in her lap, and all seems perfect

The temperature in the room is high, and the sun hits both of you just perfectly

Daniela’s voice is smooth and soothing, and you feel almost lulled to sleep already

Then, though, she suddenly jerks up and sits up in a tense, straight position

She seems to cringe for a moment, and you tilt your head to the side in confusion when you sit up as well

Then, with a little frown on her face, she tells you: one of her flies that strayed from her just flew into a spiderweb

You practically see the discomfort on her face, and gently cup her cheeks. Thankfully, this brings a watery smile to her lips

You promise, you’ll help her take care of it, and so she leads you up to the kitchens, until she comes to a sudden halt and points forwards

And sure enough, you spot a single of her flies, stuck in the sticky webbing and tugging with all its might

You nearly coo at the sight, yet surprise this. You wonder whether Daniela can view through an individual fly, and whether this is why she is so unnerved

With a protective arm around her hips, you grab the fire poker from the fireplace and gently begin to tear away at the thin webbing

You’re careful to not do as much as graze the little insect, until the webbing is torn away and the little thing manages to break free

It shakes off the webbing tangled around it, and you giggle when it quickly returns to Daniela’s side

Then, however, a gasp is pulled from you when something strange and unexpected happens:

Many little flies stray from her

From her back and arms, her shoulders, her neck, even her cheek!

And they all fly towards you, buzzing happily and satisfied

Daniela giggles at the curious and happy insects, her arms thrown around you and a small kiss pressed to your cheek

“My savior!”, she sighs dreamily, and you grin in satisfaction. She’s so adorable

You notice her flies rest on your shoulders and the folds of your shirt, their little limbs used to cling close to you

When one sits the side of Daniela’s head, right in front of you, you can’t help but move forwards

Your lips press against the adorable insect in a featherlight touch, and you giggle at the surprised gasp you pull from her

When she pulls back, her cheeks are flushed pink and she stares at you in disbelief

“W-Wha?”, she asks confused, her beautiful, golden eyes blinking in surprise

The sight looks so adorable, you can’t help but love forwards and peck her lips playfully

Again, she squeaks in surprise at the suddenness of it. Her arms tighten around you a little, and her fingertips press against you

You only shrug at her questioning, confused look

“What can I say? You’re adorable, Dani”

[imtrashraccoon]

Hello lovelies! I have been working on this for the past two weeks and it's finally time for Badsansuary 2! This time the story is set in my Dark Fortress AU and if you haven't already read that oneshot, I highly recommend doing so to fully understand what's going on. Check it out here. This chapter is a bit wordy to explain some of the worldbuilding and lore, but I am happy to answer any questions you might have.

@owl-bones Thank you for making the prompt list! I'm very excited to be doing this again.

Next Day

Bad Sansuary II: Dust - Differences

Word Count: 2,015

Note: Reven is my name for Dust in this AU.

It was a rather dull day today. The sun should have reached its apex a few hours ago, but thanks to the cloud cover, you couldn't be entirely sure what time of day it really was. On the horizon, there was a large mass of ugly, gray clouds that signaled an impending storm. The only questions were how long the rain would hold off for and, when it did arrive, how much precipitation would end up descending on the land.

You wrinkled your snout in disgust. You didn't like rain. No matter what you wore, it would soak through to your fur, leaving you feeling soggy and gross. Wet paws also meant you were more likely to lose your grip on your weapons or your own footing, not to mention the infamous wet dog smell. Hopefully the rain would pass overnight and you wouldn't have to put up with all that unpleasantness.

Your folded ears flicked as the merchant in the line ahead of you raised his voice, complaining about how long the screening process was taking. You got up on your tip toes, craning your neck to see what had set off the grouchy man this time.

There were at least three guards at the gate into the city, but only one was going through the various baskets in the man's hand cart, while the other two stood back and watched like overgrown squirrels. You had to actively suppress a grin at the comparison, noting how their eyes looked small and beady behind their metal visors. The last thing you needed was to look out of place.

No, you were here for one reason and one reason only: to infiltrate enemy territory.

Your cream coloured fur had been mussed up and stained with clods of dirt to give the appearance of living on the land for weeks already. Your old suit of half plate armour had been downgraded to a set of rough hide and fur, so as to not draw suspicion from onlookers. The quiver of basic iron arrows on your hip, combined with the wooden longbow and rucksack slung over your shoulders, completed the look of a nomadic hunter.

The bow wasn't your preferred weapon, but you were at least competent enough to hit a target if you had to. Unfortunately, you had to leave your trusty meteor hammer behind as it would only betray your military background. At least you had been able to bring a dagger along, so you weren't completely out of your depth.

The blade had actually been a gift from your soulmate, as an apology for destroying your old one, but you suspected there was more to it than that. While the handle looked rather nondescript, the blade was made from steel, folded a dozen times and sharpened to such a fine edge that it could slice through flesh like butter. You had to constantly resist running your paw pads over the leather grip, marvelling at how it molded to your grasp and repressing the itch to test it out.

You were a little surprised that you had been tasked with such an important and risky mission. There were others with more experience, but your small stature and unassuming looks meant you were more than qualified. It helped that your subspecies, canine monsters, were very common throughout the various kingdoms in the land.

Two months.

It had been two months since your last mission. Two months since you abandoned your allegiance to the Klasical Kingdom. Two months since you died.

Well, that was the official account of what happened. The truth was that you had finally found your one and only, except he was the one you and your fellow soldiers had been sent to kill. It had been his idea to fake your death and, lacking any other option, you had agreed. You had willingly thrown away your military career, those you had called family, and your old life, all to spend the rest of your days with your fated.

You didn't regret it one bit.

While your old friends may have thought it weird to partner with a member of a completely different subspecies, you wouldn't have it any other way. Donovan was powerful but careful with you, stern but always fair, intelligent but straightforward with his explanations, thrilling but tender behind closed doors, and so much more to you. Needless to say, you only wished you had met him earlier, rather than waste your years climbing the ranks.

The group in front of you moved forward as the squirrelish guards let the grumpy merchant into the city. You shuffled forward as well, remembering the reason you were sent here in the first place.

Newridge, a city built like more of a fortress than anything else, had caught Lord Donovan's attention a few weeks before. It was built in the narrow valley between two opposing escarpments and if controlled, would grant easy access to several kingdoms just ripe to be conquered. The strategic position wasn't actually what had caught his eye, but rather the presence of a powerful entity or source of magic.

With all the supplies that would be needed to sustain four monsters for a month or so, and no desire to wear everyone down right away, the journey from the Dark Fortress had taken the majority of three days. Travel had been slowed down even more on the third day, so as to not attract unwanted attention from the city or other travelers, and another day was dedicated to setting up a secret camp in the wilderness outside the walls.

Which was how you found yourself standing in line with half a dozen other travelers hoping to get into the city. Some looked like they intended to do trade with local merchants and others you could tell would be moving on in the morning, likely to a more hospitable city for their business. Thankfully, it looked like the guards were processing people at a fast enough pace that you would be in before nightfall, but as long as you weren't forced to wait in the rain, you were happy.

~ ≈ V^ᴥ^V ≈ ~

"Name?" the guard muttered, barely sparing you a glance as you finally reached the front of the queue.

"give simple answers to any questions you're asked, nothing more, got it?" Reven growled. "The less reason they have to be suspicious, the better.

The spellsword seemed especially grouchy today, but you paid him no mind. Your attention was currently divided between him, the resident assassin giving you a suitable makeover, and the subtle clinking as the tank, and your third companion, worked on cleaning Mr. Grumpy's chainmail.

You opened your mouth to respond when Dirk clicked his tongue and tilted your head to the side. "at least stay somewhat still, or i might poke out your pretty eyes by mistake," he chided, rubbing a bit of dirt into your temple. "be a damn shame if i did that, huh?~"

Thankfully, you didn't need to scold him because Maul let out an annoyed huff. "shame ya never shut up." He straightened and leveled the assassin with a stern look before adding, "but feel free to risk yer own neck an' see what happens..."

"Akela Dogera."

You had been practicing how to make your voice sound rougher, almost harsh, to add another level to the simple hunter persona. Of course, the name was fake, but still believable since you knew of several canines with similar last names.

The guard scribbled your "name" in the ledger next to him. "What's your business here, mutt?"

"To sleep in an actual bed tonight before traveling to Lowswitch Kingdom," you answered with more sass than necessary.

"You and everyone else." The guard finished writing and waved you through the gate. "Just keep your nose clean or we'll have to throw you in the Newridge dungeon."

You nodded and stepped into the city, mildly surprised they hadn't wanted to search your bag or question your choice of weapons. Maybe they were tired of harrassing travelers today? Hopefully Reven would have as easy a time getting in as you had.

Taking a moment to look around, you noticed a small market with a few stalls set up not far from the gate, a couple of citizens milling around, and most importantly, a tavern. Heading inside, you were relieved that the establishment wasn't very busy and bought a room for the night. After that, you settled at a corner table with a drink to wait for your partner.

Over an hour passed before the spellsword finally trudged into the tavern. He looked completely different and yet, you would recognize him anywhere. You didn't know how Maul had managed to get all the dust out of the chainmail, but even Reven's red cuirass was cleaner than you had ever seen it. He wasn't wearing his hood at the moment and his mismatched eyelights were a dull white colour. You didn't even know he could change the colour of his magic like that. Interestingly, he was also wearing an amulet with a crossed gavel and axe. While it took you a minute to remember that the symbol belonged to Rytos, the deity of justice, you were more intrigued why Reven would have chosen it.

You supposed his disguise was actually pretty good, despite being what he wore every day. He looked like a battle weary paladin and you couldn't help but wonder if this was what he used to look like before everything that had happened to him. Still, you waited a couple minutes before meandering over to his table, making it seem like you were headed to the bar.

"Didn't expect to see a holy man in a den of iniquity like this," you remarked.

He lifted his skull, giving you a look that was equal parts boredom and resentment. He just seemed so tired and done with the world. After a moment, he made a bit of a show of taking in your leather armour.

"didn't expect to be accosted by a mongrel dog while i'm trying to drown my demons," he growled. "surprised the guards even let you in..."

His comments seemed unnecessarily mean and you wrinkled your snout in annoyance. "Take it easy. I was only going to offer to pay for your drink, as thanks for your service of course."

Reven raised a bonebrow but said nothing.

"Meet me upstairs later," you whispered before resuming your trajectory to the bar.

~ ≈ V^ᴥ^V ≈ ~

A subtle knock was the only indication that your partner had decided to come around. Thankfully, you had been waiting and quickly let him into the small room you had rented.

Reven sort of brushed past you, letting out a quiet grumble in response to your greeting. He dropped heavily onto the bed, rubbing at his skull.

You closed and locked the door so no one could disturb the two of you. Cautiously, you crossed the room, pausing in front of him. "Did you have trouble getting through the gate?" you asked carefully.

Reven grumbled and shook his head, not making eye contact with you.

You bit your lower lip, wondering what could have happened to make him so irritable. "What's bothering you? Did I say something wrong?"

He sighed, "no, not you. it's just...been a rough day." When you remained silent, he looked up and you noticed his eyelights had returned to normal: red with a ring of cyan in his left.

"my lv is acting up," he grumbled. "it takes a lot of concentration to suppress my magic like this. i just can't wait to leave as soon as possible..."

Well that certainly explained why he had been snappish all day. You knew he had a lot of LV but not exactly how much. Definitely more than you had since you didn't experience LV attacks, just increased urges for EXP.

"Maybe you should rest for a bit. We can investigate the city in a few hours when there's less eyes on the streets anyways."

[bzurk]

dog eat dog world

You stalk through the decaying remnants of humanity, a ghost in a world gone feral. Every step is muffled by the eerie silence that has settled over the earth, bearing witness to its downfall. You have become a nomad, constantly on the move in search of a glimmer of civilization. As the days blur into nights and back again, you cling to the hope that there is still safety somewhere, waiting for you to find it. And find it you do. You'd rather face a thousand zombies.

You stalk through the decaying remnants of humanity, a ghost in a world gone feral. Every step is muffled by the eerie silence that has settled over the earth, bearing witness to its downfall. The air is thick with the stench of decay and smoke, a constant reminder of the destruction surrounding you. You are not alone in this desolate landscape; your loyal four-legged companions pad silently at your side, their senses sharp and ready to protect you from any lurking threats.

In the early days of the apocalypse, chaos reigned supreme as society crumbled and humanity showed its true colours. As a woman, you faced not only the ravenous undead but also the predatory living who sought to exploit weakness wherever they could find it.

In the turmoil, you found strength, protection, companionship. Trained in combat and personal protection, your canines had become more than just companions; they were your lifeline, your guardians. Your dogs sensed danger before you did, their growls and barks a warning system that kept you one step ahead. And when the danger was human, their presence was a reminder that you were not to be trifled with. In the right hands, they were a weapon, gnashing teeth and pure muscle. With each passing day, your bond with them grew stronger, and your pack expanded as you encountered abandoned dogs during your travels. These new additions integrated seamlessly, creating an ever-growing arsenal of loyal guardians.

Settlements come and go, offering brief respite before the road calls you back when unease and distrust prickle beneath your skin. You move from one to the next, never staying long enough to become anything more than a fleeting memory. Your eyes are always scanning, assessing, the instincts honed by years of military training and survival now serving a different kind of war. Each new place is a potential haven or a deadly trap, and you navigate them with a mix of caution and confidence, your dogs at your side, ever watchful.

Distrust is your armour, forged in the crucible of combat and sharpened by the betrayals you've witnessed since the world fell apart. You’ve learned the hard way that trust is a rare commodity, often paid for in blood. Your instincts, once honed in the field, now serve to keep you and your pack alive in this wasteland.

You have become a nomad, constantly on the move in search of a glimmer of civilization. But until then, you rely on your military training and hardened instincts to keep you and your pack alive in this harsh world. As the days blur into nights and back again, you cling to the hope that there is still humanity left somewhere, waiting for you to find it. Until then, you’ll keep moving, keep training, and keep surviving. For in this new world, you are not just a survivor; you and your pack, your army - are a force to be reckoned with.

In this hellscape, trust is rare, and loyalty is everything. And you’ve got them in spades.

Winter grips the world in its icy embrace, turning the landscape into a frozen wasteland. The sky is a perpetual grey, a heavy blanket of clouds that never seems to lift. The sun, when it does manage to pierce through, is a pale, distant orb that offers little warmth.

Winter is always tough. The frozen ground makes survival a daily struggle, as game becomes scarce and the cold seeps into your bones, exacerbating the aches and pains in your older dogs. Weeks had turned into an agonizing blur, as monotonous as the white sheets of snow.

Each step is a fight, the ground hard as iron and covered in a thick blanket of snow. Your boots sink into it with each footfall, making progress slow and laborious. You move through a dense forest, the trees stripped bare, their skeletal branches reaching out like gnarled fingers. Snow crunches under your boots, each step a reminder of the bitter cold that gnaws at your bones.

Your breath comes in visible puffs, mingling with the cold air. Your two remaining dogs are by your side, their breaths visible in the frigid air. Their fur is thick, but even they are not immune to the biting cold. You can see the fatigue in their eyes, and the way they shiver slightly despite their endurance. But they press on, loyal and determined, their eyes always scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger.

Food is scarce. You haven’t seen game in days, and the rations you carry are dwindling. Each meal is a sparse affair, shared among the three of you with careful rationing.

(The dogs always get the bigger share. Their ribs are getting too pronounced. You worry for them in the cold.)

The hunger gnaws at your stomach, but you push it aside, focusing on the task at hand.

The forest is a maze of shadows and stillness, broken only by the occasional crunch of snow underfoot or distant howl of wind. Every rustle or snap sets your nerves on edge, but your dogs serve as vigilant sentinels. Their ears twitch and their noses sniff the air, sensing danger long before you do. They’ve never led you astray before.

Your hands are numb and your face is raw from the biting wind. You pull your coat tighter around you, but it does little to ward off the chill, pocked with holes and pushing threadbare. The dogs press close to you when you finally rest, their body heat a small comfort against the freezing temperatures.

The morning creeps in, a menacing cloak of grey and cold that blankets the forest in an eerie shroud of fog. Hastily, you pack up your camp, erasing any evidence of your presence before setting off on your journey once again. You knew there was a base out west. Visited it once, even - before the world collapsed.

As you trudge through the changing forest, everything seems to grow thicker and denser, the trees looming overhead like giants. But there’s a sense of purpose, a feeling that you’re getting closer. You had to be.

Suddenly, Rex's ears perk up and his nose twitches with urgency. Dino follows suit, her body tensed for action. Your heart races as you freeze, listening intently for any signs of danger. At first, all you hear is the howling wind whipping through the trees. But then, faintly but unmistakably, you catch the sound of human voices murmuring in the distance.

Hope flares in your chest, but you temper it with caution. You move forward slowly, your dogs at your side, every sense on high alert. The voices grow louder, clearer. You catch glimpses of movement through the trees, the glint of metal, the outlines of figures.

You crouch behind a thicket, peering through the dense branches. Your heart is a drum in your chest, each beat echoing in your ears. The dogs are tense, their muscles coiled like springs.

As you cautiously approach, the figures become clearer in your sight. Two individuals, clad in military gear, move with practised precision and alertness. Their weapons are held at the ready, prepared to fire at any potential threat. Your eyes scan their faces, searching for any hint of familiarity or recognition, but they remain strangers to you - their expressions firm and guarded. The leader of the pair, a burly man with a grizzled beard and sharp, calculating eyes, is easily recognized when he speaks in a commanding hush that is barely audible over the howling wind.

A spark of hope ignites in your chest, spreading warmth and vitality throughout your body. It's clear from the amount of gear they carry that these two must be from the base: winter camouflage fatigues adorned with plate carriers and vests full of ammunition and supplies. Knives glint in the fading sunlight, guns strapped securely to their bodies. You easily command your dogs to stay put before cautiously moving closer, using the dense cover of the surrounding trees to hide your approach.

It would be stupid to sneak up on them, these men armed to the teeth. It would also be stupid to approach plainly, only armed with the bolt-actioned rifle strapped over your back and a handful of assorted knives. People are rarely kind.

The decision is made for you when a deep growl carries on the wind, animalistic and familiar. You whip around, but it’s too late. A third man, dressed similarly in military gear, emerges from the shadows behind you, his face covered and devoid of any emotion.

Before you can react, he strikes, his muscular arms coiling around your neck and waist like a deadly serpent. He pins one of your arms to your side with ease, his grip unbreakable as you struggle against him, you raise your legs and kick off the tree in front of you, but he hardly budges.

You manage to twist your head and whistle between quick breaths, a sharp, commanding sound that cuts through the air. Your dogs spring into action through the snow, their growls turning into furious barks as they charge toward the attacker.

Their unexpected arrival catches the assailant off guard, loosening their grip for a split second. You seize the opportunity, twisting your body and throwing an elbow into his ribs. He grunts in pain, his grip slipping further. You twist and writhe, using every ounce of your training to break free, but the man is strong and well-trained himself. His grip tightens again, but you keep fighting, knowing that giving up is not an option.

You kick back, aiming for his shins, and manage to connect. He stumbles, and you press the advantage, turning and driving your shoulder into his chest. For a moment, you’re almost free, but he recovers quickly, his arm snaking around your neck, pulling you into a headlock. You gasp for air, your vision blurring slightly from the pressure.

The dogs are barking furiously now, their growls a low, menacing rumble. You struggle to stay on your feet, twisting and turning in his grip, but he’s too tall and your boots barely skim the snow. He’s trying to get you to the ground, and you know that if he succeeds, it’s over.

You can hear the snap of jaws, accompanied by a consistent growl. You both go down in a tangle of limbs, the snow cushioning the fall. You thrash and kick, trying to break his hold, but he’s got the leverage now, tossing aside one of the dogs and you flinch violently when you hear a splitting crack and a loud yelp. His legs wrap around yours, locking you in place, and his arm tightens around your neck in a full-body hold.

One dog skids to a halt by your side, their teeth bared and snapping at the air, muscles taut and ready to spring back in. You can see the other rise slowly in your peripheral.

The two of you are locked in a tense stalemate, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, his arm around your jugular and your dogs poised to strike should he move.

“Call them off,” he growls into your ear, his breath hot and ragged, yet still steady, unphased.

You can feel your strength waning, the cold seeping into your bones. The man’s grip is unyielding, his hold like a vice. Your dogs circle, their eyes locked on the attacker, ready to pounce at your command.

“Fuck you, let me go!” You screech, but it comes out more of a winded rasp, wheezing from your chest. He squeezes harder. Your dogs snap at his legs in warning. He doesn’t even flinch.

“Jesus,” the sharp sound of a new voice cuts through the tense atmosphere, causing your struggles to cease instantly. Footsteps crunch heavily in the snow as two men emerge from the trees, their weapons drawn and pointed at you and your captor.

“Call 'em off,” demands the older of the two, his gruff, gravelly voice rumbling like a predator's growl. As his piercing gaze meets yours, you can feel the weight of his intense stare bearing down on you.

Your eyes briefly flick to your dogs, then back to the two armed men in front of you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you assess your options. Three against one are not great odds, but you know your dogs would protect you with their lives if necessary. You hesitate, weighing your choices. Concede and hope for mercy, or go down fighting and take your dogs with you.

In a split-second decision, you whistle short and sharp and immediately the two dogs drop to their bellies, acknowledging your command. The pressure around your neck eases as your captor's grip loosens, but his arm remains firmly in place. You can breathe more easily now, but the threat is still palpable in the tense atmosphere surrounding you.

“You bit?” The beast behind you rumbles, his voice deep enough to vibrate against your back even through the numerous layers of gear separating the two of you.

“No,” you spit, trying to claw at his arm to release yourself.

“Fuck were you doin’ sneakin’ ‘round, then?”

The arm around your neck moved, lithe and constricting, slithering over your skin until his hand rested against the nape of your neck and shoved at the same time he bent at the waist, thrusting you up and over. You fell easily, face-first into the snow, and he moved with you agilely, sitting atop the back of your thighs with a strong hand holding you in place. His free arm divested you of your rifle and its sling before sliding over your coat, emptying pockets and pouches.

Your eyes threatened to well up, stung by the cold winter air and shame. His hands invaded your coat, cold gloves patting along your sides, your back, your waist, diving into your back pockets and ridding you of any defence. You felt violated. Bare.

“Just precaution.” The older man spoke up again, pocketing all your discarded gear. “We’ll get everyone indoors, then we’ll talk, eh? Not safe out ‘ere.” He gestured with his gun, “On your feet.”

You didn’t have much of a choice when the man behind you hoisted you to your feet.

You follow the three men through the snow, your dogs walking closely by your side, their eyes still locked on your captors. The wind bites at your face, but the adrenaline coursing through your veins keeps you warm. The older man, who had pocketed your gear, leads the way, his steps sure and steady despite the uneven terrain. The man who had subdued you walks behind, constantly reminding you of your vulnerability. You wouldn’t get the upper hand again.

The sight of the old military base was both imposing and a relief. The tall, reinforced fences were topped with razor wire, and makeshift barricades formed a secondary layer of defence. Guard towers stood sentinel at each corner, their silhouettes dark against the grey sky. Two armoured vehicles flanked the main gate, their hulking forms a testament to the base's preparedness.

The base itself was a blend of old military structures and hastily constructed fortifications. The buildings bore the marks of battle and survival, their surfaces pockmarked and weathered, but they stood strong, defying the chaos beyond their walls.

As you approached, the only person visible was a guard at the gate, a solitary figure bundled in heavy winter gear. He stood ready, one hand on a lever that controlled the gate, the other cradling a rifle. His eyes scanned your group with a mix of wariness and curiosity, suddenly lighting up when they landed on the dogs.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he muttered, “pickin’ up strays, Captain?” A dry chuckle escaped his lips as the man signalled for your group to approach.

Once inside, the difference is stark.

A sense of order and security replaces the cold, harsh environment of the outside world. You're led to a small building, where the older man gestures for you to enter.

"Inside," he orders, his voice leaving no room for argument.

You step into the building, your dogs close behind. The interior is sparse but functional, a stark contrast to the desolation outside. A table and a few chairs occupy the centre of the room, and a map of the surrounding area is pinned to one wall. A small battery-powered heater hums in the corner, offering a welcome respite from the biting cold.

"Take a seat," the older man commands, pointing to a chair at a small table in the centre of the room. You hesitate, your eyes flicking to the door and back to the man. "Now," he adds, his tone brooking no dissent.

You sit, your dogs positioning themselves protectively at your feet. The man who had subdued you remains at the door, his eyes never leaving you. The older man takes a seat across from you, his expression unreadable. He studies you for a moment before speaking.

"I'm Captain Price," he says, his voice measured. "These are my men, Gaz and Ghost. We don't get many visitors out here, especially not ones with your kind of... companions." He nods towards your dogs. "So, let's start with why you're here."

You pause, weighing your options. There's something unsettling about the way they look at you, a predatory gleam in their eyes that sets your nerves on edge. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. "Need food," you say.

Price leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "And you thought you'd just stroll up to our base, unannounced, with your dogs and expect us to help you out of the kindness of our hearts?"

You meet his gaze, refusing to be intimidated. "I would have offered to trade," you say, your voice steady. "All I need is some food and supplies to get through the winter."

Price raises an eyebrow. "And what makes you think we'd be interested?"

"My dogs are well-trained, as you’ve seen," you reply. "They're valuable. They keep out the infected. Hear ‘em from miles away, smell them from even further."

Price leans back in his chair, considering your words. "Valuable, sure. But so are people. And right now, we have to be careful who we let in."

You nod, understanding the unspoken threat. "I'm not looking for trouble," you say. "I just need to eat and feed the dogs."

Price's lips curl into a semblance of a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "We’ll see about that," he says, his tone laced with something you can't quite identify. "You’ll stay ‘til we make a decision.” He stands from the seat and it scrapes across the floor in a piercing shriek. It does nothing to distract you from the sheer height of the man. “Clothes off,” Price orders, his voice cold.

You squawk indignantly.

The captain draws a sidearm from his belt, placing it in the middle of the table, effectively killing any defiance you may have had. You grit your teeth, but there’s no way you or the dogs could take these men and possibly even more outside. Trying to buy time, you ask “Why?”

“Gotta make sure you’re not bitten.”

You swallow down your pride and reluctantly peel off your layers of clothes, your cheeks burning crimson as the room heated up in more ways than one. You stop and wrap your arms around yourself when you stand in only your underclothes - a tank top, bra, panties, socks and boots.

Ghost and Gaz’s eyes never waver from your form. You’ve never felt more vulnerable in your life, but Price’s gun is still on the table just within his reach and his eyes rake up and down your form, as if he were assessing livestock.

“The top and your shoes and socks too, love. Underwear can stay.”

You slowly peel those off too, your hands too shaky to move much faster. Your teeth chatter and your fingers are impossibly cold against the fragile skin of your stomach when you peel the tank top up and over your head.

Your stomach clenches as Price’s eyes travel up and down your form, taking in your lean muscles and malnourishment, the dark circles under your eyes. You refuse to break eye contact, even when the brute of a man from the forest circles you like a vulture, lifting your arms and prodding at your frozen skin. You turn and scowl at him when he kicks your legs further apart.

“I’m not fucking infected. Can I get dressed now?” You snap through chattering teeth, arms wrapped tightly around your torso when Ghost has finished his inspection.

When it’s over, Ghost straightens up and nods. “Clear, sir.”

Price's gaze flickers to your dogs. “And the...”

"I assure you," you cut in, "they haven't been near any infected. We haven’t let any come close."

Price purses his lips in thought. "Fine. Get dressed."

You pull on your clothes with haste, relieved when they cover your nakedness once more.

"Take her to one of the empty rooms," Price instructs. "Make sure she and her dogs are secured."

Ghost nods, his grip firm on your arm as he leads you out of the room. The dogs growl low in their throats, but a sharp command from you keeps them in check. You follow Ghost down a dim corridor, every nerve on edge.

He opens a door, pushing you inside. The room is small, bare, with a single cot and a bucket for basic necessities. There's a small, barred window high on one wall, allowing a sliver of the cold, grey daylight to filter in. Your dogs settle near the cot, their eyes never leaving the door.

Ghost steps back, the door creaking ominously as he pulls it closed behind him. The click of the lock is a final, chilling reminder of your confinement. You sit on the cot, trying to make sense of your situation, the tension in your muscles refusing to ease.

You can't shake the feeling that there's something deeply unsettling about these men. Their gazes linger too long, their smiles never reach their eyes, and there's a cold, calculating air about them that sets your nerves on edge. Never mind the full military gear. Your instincts scream at you to remain vigilant, to trust no one.

As the hours drag on, the silence of the base is broken only by the distant sounds of movement and muffled voices. You pace the small room, your mind racing. You can't afford to let your guard down, not even for a moment. The dogs rest but remain alert, their ears twitching at every sound.

Night falls, bringing with it a suffocating darkness and the realization that you’re a fucking prisoner. The only light comes from the small window, casting eerie shadows on the walls. You lie on the cot, staring at the ceiling, your mind a whirl of anxious thoughts. Every creak, every distant sound, keeps you on edge, your heart pounding in your chest.

Hours later, the door finally opens. Price enters, flanked by Gaz. He carries a tray with some food and water, setting it on the floor before you.

"Eat," he orders, his voice flat.

You sit up, eyeing the food warily. Your stomach growls, but your trust in these men is nonexistent. You take a tentative bite, watching Price and Gaz from the corner of your eye.

Price leans against the wall, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on you. "Tomorrow, we'll discuss what you can offer in exchange for our hospitality," he says. "Until then, get some rest. You'll need it."

With that, they leave, the door locking behind them. You finish the meal, every bite a reminder of your precarious situation. The dogs settle back down, their trust in you unwavering, but you can't shake the feeling of being watched, of being judged.

As you lie back down, exhaustion pulls at you, but sleep is elusive. The shadows in the room seem to move, and the silence is oppressive.

The unease grows with each passing, torturous hour. There's something predatory in the way they look at you, as if they're sizing you up for more than just your usefulness. You can't shake the feeling that you're walking a fine line, one misstep away from disaster. In this place, surrounded by walls and soldiers, you are anything but safe. You know that trust is a luxury you can never afford. Not here, not with them.

[tonydaddingham]

edit 16/04: pouring one out for the bullet theory, you were fun whilst you lasted babes x

okay ive remained sceptical about the 'something in the mouth' thoughts making the rounds but you know what, i love a batshit theory (exactly how batshit, remains to be seen - im fully prepared to eat my words) as much as anyone, so let's take a look.

first off, i truly just thought it might have been a wee bit of slobber. that's fair, right? saliva on aziraphale's tongue, catches the light, whatever. but it's the frame before that one that has me wondering how much weight the theory has:

because in that first one, just as aziraphale's mouth opens, you can see that there is - what looks like - a dark, round object. it doesn't match the surrounding colour and texture of aziraphale's tongue, and then in the next few frames it catches the light in the same exact spot. the highlight is also curved, in such a way that, yeah, it definitely looks like a metallic object.

i know im not breaking new ground when suggesting it contains memories. idk if the object itself is:

a bullet from the rifle in 1941 (although i do doubt it; the calibre it would take would be rather unwieldy to hold in your mouth like this? plus: copper plating - this looks to be steel)

a pistol round from the hitherto-unseen derringer (more likely than the above, and in terms of potential significance of s3 would fit rather nicely in with a 1941 spec of mine regardless: potential crowley discorporation but. it's purely hypothetical), or

a ball bearing (which seems like it would just be a bit anomalous in terms of what props we've seen so far, but who knows. and i feel like if any prop was going to be at most risk of being swallowed accidentally, it's this)

but my current favourite is the derringer round so far. which would indicate that if - big if - crowley were discorporated in 1941, he could potentially have the bullet on him that 'killed' him, so to speak, for the time that follows afterwards.

i'll come back to what memories would be contained within it in a sec, because first, there's the question of whether aziraphale accessed them. if this theory is true (im fully taking this all with a pinch of salt, idk how i actually feel about it yet), i think aziraphale probably accessed them right then and there, as soon as crowley kissed him.

as soon as crowley kisses him, aziraphale looked mighty confused - arguably because of the kiss itself (im predominantly in this camp for the moment), but also possibly because he's just been volleyed something in this wild-ass game of tonsil tennis - before he begins to relax into it. potentially, as he relaxed, that could be when the memories first begin to 'play'.

and then we have the video below - sharpened and at 0.2x speed - that captures after the kiss breaks:

there's a moment, after his mouth presumably is handling around said object and sliding it under his tongue, that his expression clears, and - im sorry, but i'll die on this hill - instead takes on a look of betrayal. it's almost a realisation, a near instantaneous revelation. so let's say he does access the memories during the kiss, has been 'watching' them since the kiss first made contact/the object switched over... what would make aziraphale take on that expression, and react in betrayal and with an 'i forgive you'?

well, i have my thoughts, but let's go back again to the kiss itself. y'all remember this, right?

it suddenly feels a liiiiittle more deliberate that a) aziraphale would reach for crowley's wings, and b) the camera would capture this particular angle. maybe it's not, but again - humour me a sec.

so in terms of what the memory is? that crowley would place inside said object, would make aziraphale reach for crowley's wings, and result in aziraphale's initial upset and then expression of betrayal? the damning "i forgive you", and crowley's responding look of dejection and resignation, followed by "don't bother"? the memory that crowley would see fit to impart in the context of aziraphale choosing to return to heaven - the memory that would fit the scenes that have come before the kiss?

im wondering if it was the fall.

aziraphale sees crowley's fall, responds in sympathy and sadness in the back touch, but then perhaps remembers now/knows now the potential part crowley had to play in it.

now, it could be crowley's own account of the fall that he watches, sure. but we haven't seen that as a possible mechanic in the show - being able to access someone else's memories. we've only seen gabriel accessing his own. but that doesn't preclude that it's possible. however, that would suggest that crowley himself now can't remember his fall etc, which would be weird and potentially open too many loopholes.

alternatively, as others have put forward and would be logical, crowley accessed the records whilst in heaven and found that aziraphale's memories were incomplete. that, for me, would be the more plausible, because im not convinced that aziraphale does remember the fall. he makes references to crowley having 'been an angel once', and that he remembers 'the angel you were', and frankly it's all a little loosy-goosey. it would make wider narrative sense, too, that aziraphale can't remember - heaven doesn't want dissent to become an institutional problem, after all; so what do you do? you wipe away the crucial information that would give the angels any ideas in rebelling just like the fallen did.

if crowley did in fact have something to do with the genesis of the rebellion in heaven, instigated it or played an active, crucial part in it... and aziraphale can't remember that... maybe that is where the 'i forgive you' originates. and why crowley would reply with 'dont bother'. he attempts to make aziraphale understand why he can't go back, and why aziraphale shouldn't go back either, but all aziraphale can now concentrate on is the part that crowley had to play in it... the part that, for good reason, crowley has kept from him all this time.

again, idk how i feel about all this, but i do have to eat humble pie on my initial reservations about the narrative value of the theory and admit that it's compelling. especially as it would have aziraphale return to heaven with full understanding as to what heaven did in cause of, leading up to, and in response to, the rebellion - knowledge that presumably the metatron does not know he has... dangerous for the metatron especially, when you consider that he may have had a bigger hand in it than aziraphale previously thought.

[skulkiee]

HI

Part niiine of the siren au :D

we would charge as a pack, you could never hold us back, we are fierce and grew with each battle

"Screw this competition!" Antinuos snarls, grabbing the bow out of the hands of Eurymachus, "We've been here for hours, none of us can string this, we don't have the power!"

Polites watches from his perch on the throne nervously as Antinuos throws the bow down to the floor, kicking it away. He watches Odysseus dart towards where the weapon has fallen.

"Screw this damn challenge! No more delays! Can't you guys see we're being played?" Antinuos turns to look at Polites over the axes, "This is how she holds us down while the throne gets colder, while we slowly age! How she holds us down while the boy gets bolder, where the hell is our pride and our rage?"

He turns back to the other suitors, a cruel grin on his face, "Here and now, there's a chance for action, here and now we can take control!"

Polites shudders when the other men take up their leader's chant, and when he stares out at the crowd he finds he can no longer pick out his friends. Just dangerous men who think he is someone else, someone they do not like all that much. (Someone they believe they have some sort of right to.)

"And friends, the prince is still merely a boy, we will hold him down while we slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith and his bones! Cut him down into tiny pieces, throw him into the great below, where he is only the ocean and i will know!" Antinuos is laughing. This man is laughing, "It shall be easy!"

Polites stands up, staring down at the man from the raised platform that the thrones sit upon. He is glad that Hyacinthus changed his appearance before the suitors took it into their heads to kill Telemachus.

"And when the deed is done," Antinuos turns and meets Polites' gaze, "The queen will have no one to stop us from taking her love and more!"

Polites drops his disguise a little, letting his fingers sharpen into jagged claws, blood-red scales trail across his body slightly. He lets his eyes darken to their normal red, rather than his sister's pale green.

"And then we'll hold her down! I will not let any part go to waste!" Antinuos takes a few steps towards Polites, and suddenly he realises how much of a dangerous position he has put himself in, trusting only in his family to be faster than this horrible man in front of him.

Antinuos walks closer, and the other suitors seem to crowd in too. Polites lets his pretense drop a little more, taking comfort in the spines and spikes and scales and claws that come with being a siren. The shouting soon grows in enthusiasm until it's a proper chant.

It only falls silent when Antinuos stops dead in his tracks, barely a meter away from the platform that holds the thrones, barely a meter from where Polites stands, weaponless, an arrow in his throat. Polites drops his mask fully then, and Antinuos' eyes widen in shock as the siren lunges forward, wrapping his claws around the arrow head and wrenching the weapon out of the man's throat viciously, spilling blood across his dress, staining it the same colour as his scales.

That's what people pay for hurting his family. Polites learnt it in the Trojan war, learnt to kill to protect what was his. He learnt it again with the pod, to kill for his and their survival. Killing the man before him is incredibly easy compared to those, especially when he knows what he planned to do to Penelope, what he planned to do to his sister and his nephew, Telemachus.

"For thirteen years I've suffered every punishment and pain, from the wrath of Gods and monsters, to the screams of comrades slain." Polites looks up and grins at Odysseus, who poses a menacing sight, bow strung and drawn in his hands, stood on the table above all the suitors, "I come back and find my palace desecrated, sacked like Troy, and worst of all, i hear you dare to touch my wife and hurt my boy!"

Polites watches panic spread through the suitors as they see Eurylochus, Elpenor and Perimedes walk to stand beside Odysseus, weapons in hands, and Epolenep, Hyacinthus, Cleito and Alope step out of the shadows, scales and fangs and claws and eyes glittering with a certain danger and hunger in the flickering torchlight. He watches their panic mount when they realise their weapons are gone, hidden and locked away.

"I have had enough!" Odysseus fires the arrow into the tightly packed crowd, hitting some random suitor whose death is barely noticed. The hunt has begun, and the men who decided they would take what was not theirs have realised that they are no longer the hunters.

Polites laughs as he plunges into the dark halls of the Ithacan palace with his pod, chasing down the suitors, letting his siren side take over entirely.

The bloodbath has begun, the king of Ithaca is home, and he's brought a few friends with him.

I am very happy that i have gotten to the Ithaca saga :D

This one is a bit shorter because i highly dislike Antinuos and the words that he speaks

@acpola01 @ghosthazard @corvisclouds

[rubysunnday]

Someone asked me for my gif colouring tutorial - this is a day I have been waiting for.

I’ll start by saying that there is no right or wrong way to colour gifs. It’s entirely dependent on the show, scene, character and the giffer. Over the years I’ve followed many gif tutorials (I’ll link my favourites at the end) and I think I’ve finally settled on a colouring routine (?) that works for any gif. 

This tutorial presumes you have a basic understanding of how to make a gif and that you know how Photoshop works. I use Photoshop 2024 so things might differ depending on what version you have.

Shall we begin?

First thing I do once I’ve cropped, made my gif and sharpened it is to adjust the curves. 

I always set the white point and the black point using the eyedropper tool. This adjusts both the brightness but also the RGB layers (red, green and blue) and begins colour-correcting the gif. 

I then do another curves layer and I use the auto-correct curves button. This automatically adjusts the curves and brightens the entire gif. 

Once I’ve done my curves I move on to the levels. I increase the black point (the first little arrow as you look at it) and the grey point (the middle arrow). The black point deepens the darker areas of the gif. The grey point can either brighten the grey areas or darken them - I tend to brighten them.

Then I adjust the brightness and contrast to make the whole thing brighter and deepen the colours. 

The channel mixer is a new discovery I made (I didn’t make it, I just found a tutorial that did). It helps to colour-correct the gif and make it less orange/blue etc. If you’ve seen Shadow and Bone (namely season one) you know how green and orange some of it is. This layer helps to combat that and make it a more natural colour. 

For this gif, because it was all a bit yellow/orange, I decreased the reds and greens and increased the blues. I only go up or down by one or two - if you go too much in one direction or the other it’ll begin to change the colour of the entire gif rather than subtly correct it.

To colour-correct a bit more I use the colour balance layer. Again, I decrease the red and increase the blue. I tend to stick to going up in fives on this layer. +/- five tends to do what I need it to regarding colouring. 

And finally I adjust the vibrance by five or ten just to make the entire gif pop that bit more.

Here's the gif before and after!

It's made a huge difference and made the entire gif seem a lot brighter and less yellow.

And just to prove it works no matter what - the left side has been coloured the right hasn't. The difference is noticeable, especially on Yennefer.

Tada, colouring tutorial! Whilst the numbers vary from gif to gif the order and layers used remain the same. 

Here are some useful links to other tutorials. These are like my bible and I swear by them! 

Gifmaking for beginners by @hayaosmiyazaki (the holy grail of tutorials for me)

Gif Making Guide for Beginners by @saw-x

And this tutorial by @aubrey-plaza goes into more detail about the channel mixer and how it actually works!

Any questions don’t be afraid to ask :)

[cursed-spectre]

My MD AU stuff: Digital Makeup Tablet

Description

It consists of 4 items. The tablet, a pen, a cable, and a page of memory sticks that can be slotted in and out. Each memory stick corresponds to the various visor colors a drone can have.

There's a few buttons on the tablet.

Reset all changes: Wipes all changes made to a visor, bringing it back to factory standard.

Change to eraser: Changes the pen to erase rather than draw. Pressing the button again changes it back.

Comit changes: Keeps the changes made with the tablet on the drone's visor. After disconnecting it, the visor will still reflect the changes made.

Usage

The drone connects themselves to the tablet using the cable included with it and inserts the corresponding memory stick for their visor's colour.

They can then use the tablet to isolate certain elements such as eyes. When using the pen to draw on the tablet, it will be reflected on the drone's visor in real time.

Because it selects parts of the visor such as eyes and not the visor as a whole, things like as drawn eyelashes or wings will stay as part of the drone's eyelights when moving, blinking, etc.

When finished, the drone can use the tablet to commit the changes, which will keep any additions made on the drone.

Inspirations:

While there wasn't a lot in V's nest, there were some personal items, namely a pair of glasses, a digital makeup set, her prom dress, and a knife sharpener. Because of course, it was V.

From chapter 9 of @dronebiscuitbat's Oil Is Thicker Than Blood

And this fanart I found ages ago

@wolfesona since you seemed to want these.

[soopsiesdaisies]

i mean, technically, (y)our marriage is saved - 5

Chapter summary:

Rhys, emboldened by Feyre having allowed physical contact, amps up the teasing. Feyre allows that too, but not without readying herself for going home.

Read on AO3 + Tumblr chapters overview

General warnings: Rhys, 7.3k

~*~

The next morning I didn’t wake as much as I just dragged open my eyes, head pounding, not having slept one wink. 

I’d been thinking all night—about the upcoming war, my return to the Spring Court, and these last two days I’d spend with Rhys. It’d left me unable to fall into the slumber I needed even with my ever-present night terrors, the worry and dread gnawing at me; Nuala and Cerridwen seemed to correctly clock my sluggish demeanour as exhaustion and quietly set out my clothes, lined the bath with soaps and oils. With Rhysand back from wherever he’d gone, I was expected to have breakfast with him again. 

The bathwater was warm. I sank down until everything but my nose was submerged and simply floated, eyes closed. My fingers twitched and I imagined heating them until the water did too, hot enough to burn me, as though the pain would drag me out of my funk—but nothing happened, so I sat up with a sigh, accepted the washcloth from one of the girls, and began to scrub at my once sweaty skin. My hair I massaged firmly until the muscles lining my scalp loosened and the petty little tension headache decreased to dismissible levels. 

By the time I climbed out, Nuella and Cerridwen were gone and Rhysand had not yet summoned me. I dried off quickly, twisted my towel around my hair for the water to soak up, and tugged on the underwear they’d curiously left for me in the bathroom rather than on my bed. I then padded into my bedroom, none the wiser, and promptly felt my heart drop out of my arsehole at what greeted me. 

“What are you doing here?” I demanded shrilly.

“I figured I’d fetch you so you don’t get lost,” Rhysand said, blinking big, innocent eyes at me. He was lounging on my bed like it was his own, obviously comfortable. “I wouldn’t want you to get lost, wandering my halls for the foreseeable future. What kind of horrible host would I be if I let that happen?” 

“A better than you are now,” I shrieked, furiously searching for my clothes. “Leave, Rhysand!” 

“But what if you get lost?” 

“I won’t get lost if I refuse to leave this room for the rest of the week!” Dark blue fabric folded on the armoire caught my eye, and I hurried towards it, snatching it from the lacquered wood. I tore the towel off my head and slipped into the sundress, heart thundering. “How dare you—I was bathing!” 

“I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re concerned about,” he replied, audibly amused. “You were covered—in underwear, mind, but still. I can assure you I’ve seen far more skin of many, many females—”

A burst of emotion I couldn’t place engulfed me so forcefully that it came out in a menacing, rumbling hiss; the room sharpened, turned simultaneously more colourful and colourless, and my gums itched like something mad. Rhys gaped for less than a second before his expression turned so pleased that I flushed from head to toe and stumbled towards the dressing table, desperate to see what, exactly, had made him so smug. 

My veins still thrummed with the lingering remains of the foreign feeling, so much so it almost hurt, but it swiftly faded to make place for my own shock. The mirror reflected something unrecognisable yet undeniably me—eyes a shock of electric turquoise, pupils slit and fangs elongated to thick and sharp weapons of ivory. I looked darker, more shadowed, more fiery. 

It startled me so much that the change melted away, and I was left staring at my familiar though reddened reflection, panting and reeling. 

Fae, I thought frantically, I’m fae. This happens. It slipped out. 

With a breath meant to steady me, I opened one of the drawers of the vanity and took out the obsidian comb I’d been using.

“It’s… it’s uncouth,” I insisted eventually, teeth gritting at the gleeful little giggle he let out. “Rhysand, you can’t just walk into someone’s bedroom—”

“I thought you were already dressed,” he protested. “Dressed, and sulking, most likely…”

“You,” I began, venomous, and I dragged the comb through my hair, unmindful of the snags. “You—”

“Me,” he agreed, swaggering closer until he stood behind me and was able to peer at my reflection over my shoulder. “I know I’m very handsome, but there’s truly no need to be so embarrassed. We are mates, after all.” 

He grinned then, a gleam of sharp, daring white, cockiness spilling off him in waves. My answering glare didn’t even make his smug, stupid face falter. 

“I figured we could use the walk up to talk before eating,” Rhys added. His hand reached out, closing around my trembling wrist; the other plucked the comb from my suddenly limp fingers with infuriating ease. “I want to hear all about your progress.” 

“Go to hell,” I groused, but I didn’t bite his fingers off when he began to carefully comb through my wet hair. 

Rhysand’s grin hardened for a few seconds. “I’ve already visited. Not my preferred travel destination, I tell you.” 

I only glared. Rhys, for he was the most self-centred male I’d ever met, only let his grin morph into a small, smug smile and continued to run the teeth through my hair, careful not to pull at any tangles he came across. Eventually he put the comb down and bent at the waist, rummaging through the opened drawer and taking out that peculiar silver hairbrush. 

“Mor told me you’re doing really well,” he said, as he began to brush. “Reading, writing… I heard you’ve been trying to shield too. Obviously she can’t tell whether it’s any good, but I’ll be putting it to the test today.”

My lack of reply didn’t seem to deter him. 

“Doesn’t it feel good?” he questioned. “Becoming more capable, more independent. Judging by what Mor tells me, you’ll be able to plough through novels by Nynsar, perhaps earlier.” 

Nynsar, one of the minor fae holidays Amarantha had deemed unnecessary and subsequently banned from celebrating. It was months from now; the first to be celebrated in fifty years. 

My jaw tightened. “That’ll still be a while.” 

“‘A while’ in human terms is nothing in our immortal existences,” Rhys said smoothly, still smiling. I looked at his face, the small amount of concentration that the tightness in his muscles revealed, and stayed quiet. “You’ll only need to keep at it. Practise until it becomes second nature.” 

“That’s what Mor said too,” I muttered. 

Rhys beamed. “Mor does have a tendency to be correct.”

He continued brushing, smoothing my hair back over my head until he seemed satisfied. Then he leaned down again and fetched a ribbon. 

Something in me — and I wasn’t certain whether it was just how our relationship should be, or if it was the bond urging me along — wanted to… untether him. The confidence that seemed to be written on his bones was familiar, yes, but I wanted him to lose his balance for once. 

“Mor…” I started, hesitating, before I continued in a rush of breath: “Mor also said you have the wingspan of a fledgling.” 

Rhysand froze for about two breaths. Then he shook himself, gritted his teeth into a tense grin, and said, “Mor doesn’t know what she’s talking about on that front.” 

“She doesn’t?” I asked, heart pounding and body tensing with the urge to giggle. “I don’t know, when I saw them they didn’t look all that impressive.” 

He tied half my hair back with sharp movements. “I assure you that they are.” 

“Hmm. Well, whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

“They are. My wingspan is absolutely above average, and—” he halted, jerked his face up, and stared directly into my eyes. “You’re teasing me.” 

I tilted my head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“You are,” he said, pure, unfiltered glee spreading all over his face. “You’re teasing me.” 

“To reiterate,” I replied, “whatever helps you sleep at night, Rhys.” 

He grinned and bowed his head again, sweeping my hair over my shoulder. I could feel his fingers brush my back; he was fiddling with the lacing of the bodice. 

“You absolutely were teasing me, and that will aid my rest tremendously, thank you very much.” He tightened the bodice, tied the laces in what I assumed to be a little bow. “Where are your shoes?” 

“Somewhere in the room, I suppose.” I shifted and turned, placing both my hands on his chest and staring up at him. “I’m sure your humongous brain can figure it out.” 

His eyes glittered like stars. “You wish for me to pick out your shoes?” 

“Do I have more than one pair? Just grab my shoes, if you’re so interested in their whereabouts.” 

Rhys grinned at me—not lewdly, not feline, just a normal grin of genuine amusement. He reached up to put a lock of hair behind my ear. I graciously allowed it. 

“There are at least five,” he said. “Flats, heels, boots made from leather and boots made from fur. They’re in the armoire.” 

I slipped past him without a word and made my way to the armoire, opened it. And yes, there—on the opposite side of the wedding dress, low and beneath sweeping fabrics held up by hangers, sat six pairs of shoes. 

I snatched a pair of brown leather sandals and pushed the doors closed, walked to the bed to put them on. They were strappy and had a plethora of horrible little silver buckles that I did not know where to attach. 

“Need any help?” he asked, as I struggled. Upon looking up I found him staring at me with that same grin, hip resting against the vanity and arms crossed. “It’s Summer Court fashion, but you’ll find I’m rather proficient in helping beautiful females slipping in or out of clothing—be it from my Court or not.” 

“I’d rather gut myself,” I said sweetly. 

Rhys’ grin widened further, eyebrows jumping up. “I just don’t want you to hurt yourself trying to fasten them.” 

“It’s a shoe,” I snarked, struggling. “How would I—”

“Just let me do it,” he said magnanimously, all self-important and puffed up like a peacock. He walked forward and went down on one knee, gripping my left foot by the ankle and resting it on his thigh. Then he briefly looked up, smiling slyly. “I don’t just kneel for anyone, you know.” 

“I know it’s difficult for you, but please just shut up and fasten them.” I gritted my teeth and crossed my arms, looking away. My cheeks had grown hot again. “Your massive ego shouldn’t be inflated further for risk of exploding.” 

“I’ll have you know my ‘massive ego’ is incredibly stretchy and can take at least double of what it is now,” Rhys said. The tips of his fingers brushed over the top of my foot and I had to bite my lip to not jerk it away. He could not know I was ticklish. “There. Next foot, please.”

I hesitantly stretched my leg. Rhys yet again snatched my ankle to hold it still, but had to slip the sandal on this time like I was some sort of faerie Cinderella. Mercifully, he remained quiet as he made quick work of the straps and buckles. 

“Done,” he said, “take a good look at the pattern so you’ll be able to replicate it later. I can’t always be there to put your shoes on for you, Feyre darling.” 

I glared at him through my lashes. He grinned back, a cocky tilt to his mouth. 

“Though I do wish,” he added smoothly, “fervently.” 

Arrogant, annoying bastard. I scowled and swung my legs to the side of him to stand. 

“Let’s just go get breakfast,” I muttered. “Before your damn foot fetish has you crawling.” 

I stalked off to the hallway, ignoring the warmth blooming in my chest at his surprised bark of laughter. There was no honour or joy in making him laugh; I was something to amuse himself with, like a jester, like I had been in Amarantha’s Court. Me being Made didn’t mean I’d never been a pathetic human plaything. 

The scramble of footsteps behind me told me Rhys had followed. He was still chuckling when he reached me with his unfairly large gait, hands buried in his pockets as he twirled to face me. 

“You needn’t run,” he said, delighted. “I won’t bite. Unless you ask me to—”

“I’ll bite you,” I snapped, before I could think to realise what that would imply. The utter glee on his face was enough for me to thoroughly regret ever having opened my mouth. “That’s not what I meant.” 

“But that’s what I took from it,” he tittered. “Oh, Feyre, has no one ever told you to be careful how you word things around the fae?” 

I sped up and went past him, climbing the steps by two. Rhys followed swiftly and was next to me in less time than it took to blink. 

“Little girl, do hold your tongue. I know it’s hard when you’re still young—but the faerie knows and the fearie hears, he’ll twist your words laid in his ears….”

I ignored him, scowling, climbing up and up and up to reach that ridiculous open space—

“…he’ll grab you, take your words for truth; shall take your life, and then your youth. The fearie may be so divine, but he’ll snatch you, tell you, ‘now you’re mine’! The fearie knows, girl, so know this: you give your mouth? He’ll have your kiss.” 

I stomped towards the table, near the stretching veranda that offered that marvellous view of the mountain range. It was already dressed with two plates, a steaming teapot, baskets of bread and bowls of cut fruit; I skidded towards my chair, sat, and angrily poured myself a cup of tea. 

Rhys was still singing as he joined me, voice smokey and lilting. 

“The folk of fair, they dance and sing, they’ll offer you food and leisure; but be prepared, and be on guard: eat and be theirs for pleasure.”

“That’s not how the verse goes,” I told him stiffly. “It’s, ‘the folk of fair will dance and sing, and offer you food and joy; but be prepared and be on guard: accept, and be their toy’. Where the hell did you learn it’s ‘pleasure’?” 

Rhys leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand, eyes twinkling. “I changed it to fit our situation.”

“The original fits better,” I said, spooning some melon onto my plate. “According to you I’m Tamlin’s cuddly little stuffy, remember?” 

“But you’re not mine,” he retorted, still twinkling. My scowl deepened. “Oh, don’t be like that, Feyre darling—I’d never just take you for my pleasure. Only if you ask nicely.”

I didn’t know what to even say to that, though my mouth nevertheless opened for a scathing reply. Quick as a whip, Rhys picked up a grape and pushed it onto my tongue. 

“Maybe we’ll include rhyme into your lessons,” he mused, as I chewed in the most aggressive manner possible and shot daggers at him with my eyes. “Yes, that could be fun—faerie Feyre, eyes like ice, won’t you sing a song for me? I’ve sung so much my throat is raw, here on my bended knee…”

Lessons with Rhysand were different from lessons with Mor, in which we occupied a library instead of the alcove-study, and Rhysand spent much of his time staring at me and trying to get a rise out of me. He threw balled paper at my head, wrote ridiculous sentences for me to read out loud and copy — Rhysand is the most beautiful and handsome High Lord, Rhysand is Feyre Archeron’s favourite High Lord, Rhysand has an incredibly impressive wingspan, Morrigan is a lying liar who lies and is always incorrect in her frivolous assumptions — and used the command ‘shield’ as a way to get me to lower or raise my mental wall. Though it was admittedly kind of torturous, it was, much like the lessons with Mor, nothing like I’d imagined my stay at the Night Court to be prior to him stealing me away. 

Instead of counting the hours to my departure in a bare-boned cell, I had been given a lavish suite and was often seated in comfortable chairs; instead of being physically tortured, he simply tried his best at annoying me by being himself; instead of being given gruel, the food I was offered was incredible and delicious and easy to keep down. My clothing was comfortable and clean. I was allowed to bathe and sleep whenever I wished, provided those wishes did not coincide with my lessons. 

Back then I’d imagined Rhysand to sit on his throne or hide in the shadows as he ordered my torture. I’d imagined him watching it happen with a sick kind of glee that fit more on Amarantha’s face than his own. But that fear was entirely unfounded, as my stay so far had proven. The aftershocks of other people’s prejudices and his initial deception had swept me away and dumped me into a vat of sticky, thick anxiety; my fantasies had subsequently run wild after hearing that Amarantha had modelled her Court after his, assuming Rhys was, in essence, just like her. 

Perhaps he was, in a way. Perhaps I simply was his favourite plaything at the moment, and he allowed me a semblance of freedom just to keep me placated. I couldn’t genuinely trust him just yet—maybe never. 

“So,” he said, after reading through the assignment he gave me. I was met by a smile, which I supposed meant that I did well. “Shielding.” 

I did not groan, though I wanted to. 

“Mor said she described it to you as a wall shielding your mind,” he murmured. “She said she’d asked you to practise. I’d like to test you.” 

My shields, that’d still been down at his last command, slowly rose up again. I glared at him and sat back, playing with my pen. 

“Go ahead then,” I said. “Slip into my mind, like you’re so fond of doing.” 

Rhysand smiled a very feline smile. He didn’t move; and still, I felt tendrils of shadow actively slithering across the bridge between our minds. All too soon talons tapped along the walls of adamant I’d raised, questioning and explorative; they scratched along them, still incapable of inflicting any damage. 

The tendrils retreated. “Interesting. You’ve utilised your will.” 

“Outrage is a good motivator,” I replied.

“So it is.” Rhys’ grin widened. “I want to show you something—why it’s so important to have mental shields. Lower the wall for a moment, darling.”

I did, though I did not stop glaring at him. The tendrils entered my mindscape almost immediately, curious, explorative; it almost tickled with how gentle they were.

Then they struck.

My entire body seized, breath caught in my throat and extremities tingling. I was caught, stuck, embraced in a menacing hold of power like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a wolf. It felt like one wrong movement would have me mauled. 

“This is what a deamati like me can do to the unprotected mind,” Rhys said quietly. His gaze was intense, shining, and I wished to glare at him but was too frightened to. “Right now I’m just holding you, but one simple action from me can destroy you. Everything you are, everything that makes you you. It’s why you need to shield.”

I couldn’t speak but nevertheless managed to conjure the image of a massive middle finger to get my point across. Rhys sniggered unsettlingly and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. 

“Now push me out,” he whispered. 

That was easier said than done, I assumed, but I messily attempted to follow his order. The tendrils were everywhere, creeping along the bookshelves and through the aisles, slipping between them and cradling memories like he wishes to take them. I fought back, ripped them from his grip, frantic and panicked; started slapping them away like they were buzzing flies. 

“Come on,” he urged me, “try a little harder. Your walls are impeccable, so I know your will is strong enough…”

It was less like I had endless hands to get ahold of the tendrils and eject them, and more like I erected a force field that steadily grew to encompass my mind and pushed Rhys out. I stared at his face, the excitement growing on it, and pushed, pushed—

The last of the tendrils were blasted back towards the bridge, and I raised my wall of adamant in the same breath before they could even attempt to return. With his hold having vanished, my body slumped forward like a puppet with its strings snipped through—I panted, rubbed at my damp forehead, and flexed my fingers to get used to the feeling of control again. 

“Excellent!” Rhys crowed. “That was incredible, my darling, I simply knew you could do it—now, returning to the matter at hand, why don’t you read me a passage from this book…”

Though I barely had the energy to glare at him, I did so anyway. And I took the book from his hands just as easily. 

The next day, my last full day in the Night Court, I walked — alone — to the hall where we ate together to find Mor sprawled out in a cream armchair and Rhysand pacing furiously. It felt intrusive, as they were obviously discussing something grave, so I purposefully kept my steps loud and audible as I approached. 

“Azriel would want to know that,” Mor said, fiddling with the end of her standard braid. “He—”

“…can go to hell,” Rhys finished snappishly, continuing to pace. His steps were aggressive and long. “And he likely knows already, anyway.” 

“Listen. The last time this happened, we were playing games. We lost then, quite horribly, and that shouldn’t happen again.” Mor’s tone was so serious that I paused for a moment. “We can’t lose again.” 

“And you should be working,” Rhys replied. “I gave you control for a reason.”

Mor’s face tilted up and her eyes squeezed shut for a moment, before she took a bracing breath and turned to face me with a stiff smile. “Good morning, Feyre.” 

Rhys tripped over thin air. 

“Good morning,” I replied cautiously, watching Rhys regain his footing and send me an unreadable look. “Am I interrupting something?” 

“No,” said Mor. “No, I think it’s a good idea that you know this, too.”

Her chin tilted down and her eyes glittered, like she knew something I didn’t. Rhys cursed under his breath and resumed pacing. 

“Just say what it is you came here to say, Mor.”

Mor sighed, her facial expression turning quite grave. “There was another attack—at a temple in Cesere. Almost every priestess was slain, and the trove was looted.”

Rhys halted once more, this time smooth and poised like a wildcat. And then he uttered, in a tone that perfectly revealed his complete and utter fury: “Who.”

“We don’t know,” said Mor. “Same tracks as last time: small group, bodies that show signs of wounds from large blades, and no trace of where they came from or how they disappeared. There were no survivors; the bodies weren’t found until a day later, by a group of passing pilgrims.” 

I swallowed audibly, and perhaps exhaled a little too hard, because Mor gave me a tight and sympathetic look. And Rhys, who apparently had been hanging onto the last vestiges of his control, broke—plumes of utter shadow rose from his back in a terrifying flare before they solidified into flesh. 

They looked as I remembered: beautiful and massive wings, membranous and clawed like those of a bat, in a shade of darkness so intense it was as though they sucked in light. They made him look sturdier, like they belonged in full sunlight or under the pearlescent glow of the night—like he stood differently, somehow. 

“What did Azriel have to say?” he breathed.

“Well, he’s fucking furious,” Mor answered, glancing at me again. “Cassian’s worse—he’s convinced it’s got to be those Illyrian war-bands again, intent on expanding their territory.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Rhys said, amused in a very dangerous way. “Some clans bowed happily to Amarantha the last forty-nine years. Perhaps they wish to see how far they can push me and get away with it.”

Mor hmm’ed. “Cas and Az are waiting in—erm, the usual spot for your orders.”

She gave me an apologetic grimace and I couldn’t do anything but shrug. I wasn’t Night Court, I was the bride of an enemy—it was miraculous Rhys allowed me to overhear as much as I had. Like playing with fire, though I had no idea where Cesare even was. 

Rhys glanced at the open skies from behind the windows, jaw working. The wind was fierce and loud; the clouds were dark and menacing, thundering over mountaintops like an avalanche of ash. 

Good weather for flying, I thought, staring at the wings protruding from Rhysand’s back. But then Mor said, “Winnowing in would be easier.”

Rhys scowled. “Tell those pricks I’ll be there in a few hours.” 

Mor laughed a barking laugh, winked at me, and promptly vanished—like reality itself folded in on her and pushed her out of sight. 

Though I’d seen a handful of High Fae do it, it still surprised me. I gaped at her empty chair for a few moments before shaking myself and carefully stepping closer. 

“How does that vanishing work?” I asked.

Rhys glanced at me and stretched one wing out fully, tip quivering slightly. “Winnowing?” 

“If that’s what it’s called.” No-one had ever explained, neither the theory nor actual act. 

“Think of it as… stepping from one place to the other,” he said. “Like two points on a cloth. One is where you are; the other your destination. Our magic folds the cloth until the two points are touching one another directly, and then we simply step through.” 

I blinked at him. “Can anyone do it?” 

“No, it’s a rare gift.” He shrugged. “You need to be powerful to do it. The more powerful you are, the further you can travel; and the further you travel, the more keenly you feel the fabric of the world brushing past you. Going from one side of the room to another, though, feels like a single step.” 

I rubbed my hands together, then glanced down at my fingers. Licked my lips. “Do you think I’d be able to learn it?” 

I didn’t look up until I suddenly heard footsteps growing closer; when I did, Rhys was so close to me I could feel the heat of his body. 

Silence, save for the muffled roar of wind in the background, swelled between us as he stared at me. His eyes flit over my face, lingering on my mouth, then my eyes. And then he smiled a very small smile. 

“Feyre,” he said, “you know this—I think you can learn to do anything.”

I stared back at him, and for a moment I couldn’t hear anything but my heartbeat in my ears. His smile widened; my own mouth twitched. The jasmine-scented breeze blew his own scent to me, citrus and rain and sea, a freshness that would’ve startled me had it not become familiar to me by now. I hesitantly, carefully, reached out and straightened his already straight lapels. 

“I’m sorry about the priestesses, and the temple,” I whispered. 

His smile froze, eyes shuttering. “Plenty more people will die.”

I continued to straighten his lapels, jaw tight, then brushed invisible lint off his shoulders. It was calming, the motion—prevented me from growing irate, or fearful, or anything other than contemplative. Touching him continued to be inexplicably grounding. Even some of the tenseness in Rhysand’s form dissipated. 

He let me overhear the conversation, I decided, because he wanted me to know. He needed me to, if only to reiterate our conversation from two days prior: Hybern and the threat it is. 

Plenty more people will die. 

“So… I know what Illyrians are,” I continued, “but what did Mor mean with ‘war-bands’? Are they groups of soldiers who’ve deserted?”

“All Illyrians are warriors, and in all technicality they ought to be loyal to me as their High Lord,” Rhys said, teeth baring into something between a grimace and a menacing grin. “Even more so because I’m half Illyrian myself. However, some of them don’t quite like me as I banned a few of their traditional Illyrian practices. That did not go over well; the males collected their females and children and began to—erm, show their discontent with me. I suppose that ‘deserters’ is an apt description, but ‘murderous rioters’ fits as well.”

“And they kneeled for Amarantha?” I frowned up at him, clenched my jaw in thought. “Are they the groups of fae you’re worried will join Hybern?” 

Rhys inclined his head in what could barely count as a nod. “Yes, some bowed to her. And yes, these war-bands are some of the groups of fae I’m worried about. There are many others, but these males specifically—” his eyes flamed, “—me and mine have been thoroughly enjoying hunting them down, and ending them for their actions.”

Slowly, I finished mentally. My eyebrows raised and I ceased petting him down, merely resting my hands flat against his chest. 

“Was that why you were so busy these last couple of days?” I asked lightly. “Or were you running away?” 

His tight grimace did not fall. “I was busy with many things.” 

“Sure,” I said. “High Lord-things. Of course.”

Rhys nodded, and I couldn’t help but note that he hadn’t given me a straight answer. Lingering embarrassment, perhaps—or just a plain need not to divulge everything to someone who wasn’t loyal to him. 

I drummed my fingers on his chest, played with a button. “Will you be busy again today?” 

“Yes,” Rhys said, a touch strangled. He swallowed; I watched the protrusion around his larynx bob up, then met his eyes again. “I… I need to help. Lead. Give orders.” 

“Of course,” I murmured. “Have you left me any assignments to work through?” 

“Plenty,” he whispered. 

We stared at one another for a few more breaths, and then I nodded sharply and stepped back, my hands dropping to rest beside my thighs. And Rhys stood there, looking a little bit lost before he visibly gathered himself. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Before taking you back.”

I nodded again. Rhys nodded as well, then turned to step out onto the balcony. He rested his foot on the parapet, sending me one last unreadable look over his shoulder. 

Then he jumped off and vanished. I somehow didn’t cry out in surprise; and even if I’d wanted to, it couldn’t even have left my throat before the fright would have ebbed away. He rose up with a twirl, winked at me, and swept off into the curling roll of storm clouds with just a handful of powerful beats from his wings. 

“Show off,” I grumbled, and I stalked off to study all on my own, legs unsteady and jittery with the lingering shock. 

Back in the library, I sorted through the endless little notes he’d left me and parsed through his looping, fancy handwriting—slightly different from Mor’s, but clear enough that I didn’t have too much trouble figuring out what he’d written. There were absurd, egocentric sentences because of course there were, but he’d also written that I ought to practise the solidity of my mental shields. Imagining one other person had the key, or was allowed to phase through, for example; reordering my thoughts and placing the wall in a different section, so that a less practised deamati could be tricked into finding what I wished for them to find, rather than what they wanted to find. The concept was intriguing and made some sense, but mainly if I was locked in a place with one or two daemati and it was wartime. Yet another hint that Rhys expected me to join the fighting. 

He was such a fucking prick. 

But I practised nevertheless, because the strain felt… good, somehow. It felt like running until my muscles were burning. Refreshing, almost. And besides, the note implied that I had to be able to rise and drop my wall while thinking of other things, which left me with plenty of time to mull over the information Rhys had allowed me to overhear. Especially because that implied he wouldn’t necessarily mind it if Tamlin was informed. 

Tamlin, I supposed, and Ianthe. 

Perhaps she’d known the victims. Perhaps she’d already be aware of the murders, by the time I came back to tell. But perhaps, she didn’t know that the temple in Cesare was only one of many attacked—and I thought she should know that. 

I ate lunch alone in my room, then wandered: read simple texts, played with my toes, attempted to rummage through cabinets that ended up being locked. Inside my room none were, and I opened the armoire to stare at the poofy custard mess that was my wedding dress. With the doors opening, tiny little pearls and sequins once more fell tinkling onto the ground. 

It still annoyed me. The sight of it still caused anger and embarrassment to surge high. I’d wanted it when it was picked out; I’d stopped wanting it by the time I was hoisted into it, by the time Rhys whisked me off, by the time he compared it to a cupcake and I suspected, knew, that he was right. 

It was almost time to go back home, the dress told me. I almost shook with it. I wondered, once more, how obvious my hesitation had been—how many people had seen me almost say no, say that it was too soon, say that I couldn’t, not yet. I wondered how I could possibly explain it if it had to be explained. I wondered if the fae of spring would confront me with it, demand answers, in the same breath that they’d demand me to divulge any and all secrets of the Night Court I’d managed to uncover during my stay. 

For some indiscernible reason, that made me angry. That I—that I was useful for show, to have, and useful for potential information of enemy territory. Nothing else. Or — and I scoffed, gritted my teeth so hard it would’ve cracked my human molars — for fighting, as Rhysand had so kindly informed me. 

My right of existence, no matter my species, was contingent on my usefulness to others. It always had been. I’d prided myself on it, once; now, it felt more like a death knell. 

I closed the armoire, bottom lip trembling. Ate dinner alone and took a bath. Dunked below the surface, swam and twirled, stayed in there until I’d shrivelled up into a woman-shaped prune and I could rub the dead skin off my limbs with nothing more than a brief rub of my hand. I washed my hair and oiled it, massaged my scalp; went back under and wondered, as I blinked up, squinting, at the surface, what it would be like to stay beneath the water. 

Night had fallen by the time I was dressed in a soft pair of pyjamas and padded out of the bathroom to climb into bed. It was snowing, and I could smell it, but it felt freeing rather than miserable like I’d expected. And though my sleep was restless, I managed to rise and get dressed before the dawn had fully broken. And the storm had stopped. 

I found Rhys in the same hall we ate in once more. Slouching, he was still dressed in the same clothes as yesterday; his hair was windswept, and he looked tired. I wondered if he’d even slept, if he’d only just arrived—worried for half a second, then questioned why on Earth I cared whether he was okay. 

“Good morning,” I said hesitantly. 

He glanced my way and offered me a brittle smile. Then he took a large gulp from a brown, familiar-smelling liquid in a crystal glass. 

I inched closer and wondered whether I should sit down. “Should you be drinking around me?” 

“Who said I was drinking?” he asked, but he downed the remainder in one go and reached for a refill. “Good morning.”

“To reiterate,” I said, “should you be drinking around me? You got rather… emotional, last time. Revealed a little much.” 

Rhys slouched further. From nearer by, I could see that he’d undone the top few buttons of his tunic; it was rumpled, like he’d slept in them. I doubted he’d slept. 

“Do you want any tea?” he asked. “Maybe a pastry, or some fruit? Or do you want me to deposit you back in Spring like the doll Tamlin believes you to be as soon as possible?” 

I reared back, fire erupting within my chest cavity. “Excuse me?” 

He grinned lazily and raised his glass. “Sorry. Filter’s a touch gone.”

My eyes narrowed, lip twitching as I resisted the urge to curl it. His explanation, or apology, or excuse did not help me become less irate. If anything, I grew even more outraged. 

“If you’re going to be like this then yes, I’d love to skip breakfast so you can… deposit me back in the Spring Court like the object I apparently am.”

He took a few quick swallows and set the crystal down, wiping his mouth. “You said it, not me.” 

His gaze then fell on my outfit, a variation of the first one I’d worn here; it was a dusky kind of purple, this time. I watched as his eyes widened; his mouth fell open, just a touch. I shifted, scowling. 

“Do I need to say ‘please’? Are those the magic words you require?” He didn’t answer, just stared at my exposed midriff. “Rhysand!” 

His whole body jerked, and like a spell had broken, he met my eyes with his own wide and almost guilty. 

“You only call me Rhysand when you’re cross with me,” he whined. “Why are you always cross with me? The colour just looks wonderful on you.”

“I’m cross with you because you’re the most infuriating male I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting,” I retorted sharply. 

But the wording was a mistake, because a smug, feline grin crossed his lips almost immediately. His head tilted, his face exuded arrogance, and then he purred, like a prick: “So it was a pleasure to meet me, was it, Feyre darling?” 

I closed my eyes. Counted to ten in my head, twice. 

“Rhys.”

“Just sit,” he drawled. “Have some tea, have some fruit—or a drink with me, if you need to mentally prepare before facing the undoubtedly disastrous consequences of your sudden absence. A bit of liquid courage, if you will.”

“I don’t need any liquid courage,” I said testily, but I did sit down, like a weakling. I wasn’t sure why I’d stopped insisting — however briefly I had done so — to take me back home, but there was some part of me that felt sick at the thought of leaving. Likely the mating bond, traitorous thing that it was. “Give me some tea.” 

“Anything for the lady.” He snapped his fingers and in an instant, a steaming teapot, two delicate cups, and a basket of pastries appeared on the table. “Summoning,” he explained, at my confused look. “It was already done—I simply made it come here. You sure you don’t want something stronger? I can also add some to your tea…”

“It’s far too early, you prick,” I replied, refusing to be polite. Rhys just smiled at me and poured the tea, sliding the cup over. “Are you really willing to bring me back?” 

“Like I said, anything for the lady.” He inclined his head and leaned back in his chair, lifting his leg to rest his ankle on his knee. The glass was picked back up, balanced precariously between his long fingers. “Just on the last day, of course.”

“Right,” I said, sceptical. Rhys just smiled serenely and took a sip of his drink. “Because I’m a guest.” 

“Exactly,” he said. “See? You’re learning things here.”

I rolled my eyes and snatched a pastry, ignoring how the flaky outside grumbled in my grip. Rhys sipped at his drink, watching me. 

“What?” I asked eventually, through a mouthful of butter and cherry. 

He smiled again. “You look better. Got a bit of colour,” he leaned in, tapped my cheek, “and the marks under your eyes are almost gone. And, of course, your progress…” 

“And the discovery I have magic,” I grumbled. 

He tapped the tip of my nose, grinning widely when I retreated and wrinkled it. 

“Yes,” he said, “good point.” 

He leaned back once more, tilting his head back, and I eyed him as covertly as possible—which wasn’t much, considering a sliver of violet was still on me. Just from a plain observation, Rhys looked much the same as he did at the beginning of the week; just a bit less drunk, but still similarly tired. Looking closer, however, I could see the lines of stress around his mouth and between his neatly groomed eyebrows. 

Maybe, I thought, or likely, he doesn’t want to bring me back. 

I didn’t dwell on that though, because I didn’t exist for Rhysand’s happiness. I ate my pastry and drank my tea, wiping my hands on my trousers when I was finished. Then I stood. 

“Shall we go?” I asked. 

“So soon?” Rhys whined, but he threw back the remainder of his drink and climbed to his feet, stumbling only a little. He walked closer, hands in his pockets, and smiled tightly. “Very well then. You don’t want to wait for Mor?” 

“I—” I started, realising I’d honestly forgotten about her promise. But I shook my head. “Do you have a piece of paper? And a pen?” 

Rhys’ hand emerged from his pocket with just what I asked for. I eyed his form suspiciously but took the objects, then leaned over to the table to carefully write a goodbye message. Just an apology and a promise I’d see her the next time, if the bargain wasn’t broken by then.

I straightened up and Rhys grabbed my wrist, pulling me against him almost immediately. He leaned in even closer, nose against my temple, like the alcohol allowed him to. Said: “Ready, then?”

His breath reeked of the liquor he’d been drinking and I wrinkled my nose again, but my words came out amused. “You sure you’re up for winnowing?”

“I’ve winnowed far less sober than this and arrived in one piece, if you must know,” he replied promptly. “And you’d know.” 

I pulled a face and he chuckled humourlessly, tugging me a little closer. 

“Alright,” he said, “hold on tight.”

And the world faded into a whirl of darkness and wind, a trip through realms made only less terrifying by the steady, warm line of Rhys’ body against my own. I clutched at him almost against my will, pressing tighter, and his forehead dropped to rest against my hair. 

The solid ground and sudden blast of light was just as disorienting as winnowing itself. I blinked and squinted was my pupils acclimatised to the assault of sunshine, my hand still gripping Rhysand’s bicep. The manor, a monstrous behemoth of sandstone, rose up in my peripheral; there were flagstones beneath my feet, sturdy and weathered. Birdsong and sound of wind brushing through the leaves of the ancient oak tree next to us told me he’d taken us to the edge of the manor’s gardens.

The air smelled sweet, cloying, like roses. My tongue felt almost too thick for my mouth.

I cautiously stepped away from the High Lord next to me, looked at him. He appeared out of place here, too sleek for the romance of the Spring Court—all sharp, black lines against the rosy and soft backdrop. He didn’t belong here. The crooked smile he sent me, stiff and brittle all at the same time, told me he knew it. 

“Good luck,” he whispered, leaning in to brush his mouth over my temple. “You’re going to need it, Feyre darling.”

He released me, stepped back—and was gone, in an overly dramatic swirl of lingering, smoke-like shadow.

[velarisbynight]

Speckled in Stardust

Mor x Elain

Prompt 1 for @starfallweek : Rumour has it, stardust increases attraction, and Character A could really use some help right now…

a/n: a little sapphic affection never hurt anyone 🩷🩷

Word Count: 2k~

~~~~~~~~

Mor eyes the shimmering red coat atop her nails, considering the merits of sliding her teeth beneath their ridge and biting, a habit she hasn’t encouraged since she was a teenager. But nerves seem to be rising in her stomach, regardless of how many times she’s rehearsed and practiced, writing out her points, strategising the different outcomes down to plotting out every exit in the establishment.

From her selected vantage point on the balcony, raised into the night sky, she can spot the sleek figure as she floats, ethereal, between the bobbing bodies, making her way to the door far below. Mor swallows thickly, stomach hollowing out, ears popping as a slight ring sounds from somewhere inside her mind. She glances away, turning on the balcony, taking a deep sip from her glass flute, breathing slowly to settle the increased thrum of her pulse.

She doesn’t have to do this, Mor reminds herself, the strain on her shoulders, the tension in her throat, she’s willingly subjecting herself to. If not tonight, Starfall, then when? When will she grow out of keeping her feelings quiet, when they desire nothing more than to bloom from her chest, blossoming in full, to be looked upon by the one person her heart stumbles around. She’s lived a long life; she doesn’t want it to end with secrets still stored away. Affection left untouched and secluded from feminine hands.

It won’t be the end of the world, Mor reminds herself. She’s had her own heartbreaks and lived to remember their tales, she can face this one female.

Mor pries her tongue from the roof of her mouth, swallowing again, finishing off her drink, settling it on the small, copper-wrought table, a lovely green blue after the metal’s been touched by air, changed and coloured.

Elain is just one female, she thinks over and over. Mor has faced armies, has survived two wars, she can face one female. But in battle she has armour, when fighting she has weapons, armed to the teeth with razor sharp steel and centuries of training. She is a warrior at heart, and it is not in her nature to easily discard her shields. It would be a battle of itself to face Elain as she is, honest and as true as she can manage.

Is she even still capable of doing so?

But her seconds have slipped by, and the familiar scent of lavender is brought along a night-kissed breeze, one that has the golden threads of her hair shifting, a few stray wisps floating up to brush her cheeks as she turns, spotting the elegant figure stepping over the narrow threshold.

Despite extensive training, breathing seems secondary as Mor takes her in.

Elain’s hair is half up, half down, and slightly curled, loose ringlets of burnished gold springing gently over slim shoulders. Her eyelids are dusted with an iridescent pink, dusky and faint enough to not overshadow the natural beauty of her lashes, the smooth curve of her cheeks as they lead to the slight roundness of her full mouth, ever so slightly glossy-looking beneath the silver moonlight. An apricot flush colours the softness of her cheeks, cocoa eyes latching to amber from across the balcony, welcoming and warm.

Mor’s eyes dip to the dress Elain’s wrapped herself in: a diaphanous outer layer of pale pink, the fabric so thin it appears more as a ghostly cover between the outer air and the shimmering dress beneath. It’s comfortable looking, gently hanging from her shoulders, curving around the fullness of her chest, then subtly cinching in a little below without hugging her waist, content to let the dress be the interest rather than her own shape. With sharpened eyesight, Mor can pick out the floral swirls stitched into the skirting of the dress, embroidered in a golden thread that twinkles as Elain moves forward, the fabric swishing lightly over the exposed bridge of her foot, the shoes she’s chosen round and delicate.

Mor wishes she had something more than memory to savour the sight with—nothing will compare to being before her in this moment, witnessing her smooth approach as she sweeps across the balcony.

Elain’s lips curve into a warm smile, and Mor swiftly pulls herself back together, back down from the skies, reciprocating the expression, praying she hasn’t somehow managed to wind up with lipstick on her teeth. Despite Mor knowing the one she’s chosen will not rub off, it would be just her luck for something like that to happen.

“It’s a wonderful sight, isn’t it? Seeing everyone together like this again,” Elain says, coming to a pause a little distance from Mor’s side along the balcony railing. “If you mean drunk out of their minds,” Mor counters amused, “I’m fairly sure Cassian’s already drunk his body weight in alcohol.”

Elain offers a conspiratorial smile, “nonsense, he passed that point an hour ago.”

Mor can’t help the stretch of her lips, that warm, soft feeling that spreads throughout her chest. Like candle-heated butterflies are brushing their pillowy wings over her skin, sweet and delicate. “Starfall will be starting soon, at least,” Mor muses, “I’m sure he’ll keep his wits about him until the last one falls.”

“And then he’ll fall with it,” Elain laughs quietly, unaware of the amber eyes memorising the shape of her smile, the silver-bell ring of her humour.

Again Mor’s heart flutters, but she can’t find the will to draw her attention away, even as she knows the longer she looks, the more likely Elain is to sense her affection, no matter how Mor might struggle to conceal it. But, tonight, Mor reminds herself, she’s not trying to hide it away. She’s made the decision to allow openness, and this is the first step toward that freedom. Doubtless the first of many, but she won’t concern herself with those for the moment. Tonight she will live as herself, allowing the night air to at last kiss bare skin.

So she doesn’t look away.

Even as cocoa lifts to her own amber, the smile fading into something tender, and Mor finds herself swallowing. “It’s starting,” Mor breathes, sounding hoarse even to her own ears. Elain’s eyes sparkle, swirling like a recently stirred cup of tea, fresh milk poured into its depth to splash and swirl with streaks of colour.

Sure enough, the first star winks into existence, pale and shimmering as it grows brighter in the inky sky, speckled with light further away like tiny motes of illuminated dust. A faint greenish gold shimmers in its wake as it falls across the sky, cresting the night with celestial glory. A second follows minutes after, their frequency increasing until the inky darkness of the heavens are alight with the pure glow as stars fall, dripping like tears, twinkling within the night.

“I can’t believe it’s already been a year since last Starfall,” Elain breathes, utterly enchanted by the wondrous display. “I could swear it was hardly a week ago.”

“How the time flies,” Mor murmurs in agreement, eyes settling to the female at her side, heart swelling as she picks out the star’s reflection in Elain’s eyes, the sparks of rapture shooting across the slightly wet surface. Tears, Mor realises. Recognition more devastating as Elain blinks the dampness away, content to live and remember in the moment.

Stardust speckles through the sky, floating down gradually, sprinkling the city in starlight, and Mor prays the tales are true—that if there is even a spec of affection within the female before her that might be reciprocated, it will be brought to her shining surface. Amplified enough to mean something.

“Elain,” Mor says hoarsely, “there’s something I must—”

A star falls from the sky, dropping lower than the rest, dusting the shimmering red of her dress as it splatters on Mor’s hip before stubbornly continuing on its trajectory, whizzing past into the sky, returning to find the others it had come with, rejoining the glittering shower.

Another star dips low though, catching Elain on the shoulder, stardust speckled over the diaphanous fabric, some of the dust smattering the elegant length of her neck, shimmering on her cheek.

Cocoa blinks at her, then rosey lips are parting in a divine laugh, the apricot flush of Elain’s cheeks deepening as she clutches her stomach, leaning over slightly, free hand trying to grip the railing as the laughter pours from her lips like honey, and Mor finds herself reflecting the feeling. Laughter bubbles up from her chest, a little panicked at first before settling back into comfortability, choosing to savour the moment, even if it is at her own expense.

The ringing sound eventually fades, leaving sore lips and flushed cheeks, Elain managing to straighten again, brushing down the skirt of her dress, choosing to leave the sparkle now adorning her slim shoulder. Meeting Mor’s gaze, she smiles one of her smiles, sweet and happy, and Mor’s heart melts a little further into Elain’s smooth palms. “What were you going to say?” Elain questions, closer than before.

Mor falters for a moment, before pulling herself together. “Would you like to dance?” She blurts out, slightly breathless, and Elain blinks in surprise, evidently not having expected it. “There’s no music,” Elain laughs, but steps forward regardless.

Stardust, don’t fail me.

Evening out her breathing, Mor settles her arms around Elain’s waist, the female’s own wrapping over Mor’s shoulders, acutely aware of their proximity. “I’m afraid I’m still unfamiliar with most fae dances,” Elain admits bashfully, head dipping a little, but not averting her gaze. “That’s fine,” Mor answers quietly—there’s no need for raised voices with their closeness. “We can just…” They begin swaying gently, to and fro in slow, lulling movements, small rippling waves rolling in then washing back out.

The moon’s pale light shimmers across the pigment topping Elain’s eyelids, catching on the inviting gloss of her lips, practically twinkling. Mor dares lay her fingers closer to the loose fabric, able to feel soft and supple skin beneath, heat sinking into Mor’s fingertips as they settle together, growing more comfortable, pressing as close as either dares. Seconds tick into minutes, then minutes into longer sections of finely spun time, and Mor takes in a quiet breath as she realises they’re closer than when they started.

Elain’s eyes have fluttered shut, cheek resting on Mor’s shoulder, allowing her to feel the increased pulse that flutters beneath her smooth skin despite her content appearance. Mor’s own beat spikes, how they’re embracing, swaying together gently, allowing the slight breeze to influence their motions.

Music floats up from the street, musicians having brought their instruments outside to play beneath the falling stars, and the two come to a slow—not entirely pausing, but their motions are paced, slightly subdued. Elain pulls away enough to peer at Mor, practically close enough for their lashes to brush, and Mor could swear she feels the air flutter over her cheek each time Elain blinks.

“Are you going to kiss me?” She whispers, refusing to break the gaze, arms remaining wrapped over Mor’s shoulders. Mor blinks, freezing up a little at the boldness, throat rolling heavily, running her tongue swiftly over tinted lips. “Would you like me to?” She breathes, somehow keeping her voice steady.

Elain smiles faintly—more in her eyes than her mouth. “I don’t think friends look at each other like we do,” she murmurs, expression soft and open. Mor’s pulse spikes, a slight tremor running through her fingers as they tighten in Elain’s dress.

Slowly, giving her time to pull away, Mor raises her hand to cup the nape of Elain’s neck, brushing against silky soft ringlets, fingers grazing their loops. Lashes flutter shut as Elain tilts her head, raising herself in quiet invitation. Permission.

Mor doesn’t dare breathe as she pushes her mouth carefully to Elain’s, soft and pillowy lips warm against her own, soaking in the heat and fragrance that makes Mor’s heart soar. She hadn’t dared even dream what a kiss would be like, chaste and fleeting, but altering her foundations as they pull away.

Both Mor’s hands now cradle Elain’s face, Elain’s own hands lightly gripping the shimmering red fabric of Mor’s dress, pupils dilated, cheeks deeply coloured.

“Was that okay?” Mor whispers, pushing back the tremble that’s creeping into her fingertips.

Cocoa eyes twinkle with starlight, and Mor’s heart tightens.

“It was wonderful,” Elain whispers back, smiling.

“Will you do it again?”

[serenescribe]

if the 3 sentence prompt is still open, maybe something with rook interacting w diasomnia somehow? i think about lilias pe card with their interactions a Normal Amount

[✐] ficlet frenzy

“Ah, if it isn’t Monsieur Endormi!”

Rook smiles at the way Silver startles as he approaches him, whirling around to stare at him with bulging eyes. One could almost describe them as bug-like, blown open wide in shocked surprise. “Pardon the intrusion,” he continues, “but I could not help but notice you wandering about the school as though you were a lost lamb.”

“Rook,” Silver greets. There is something Rook recognises well as an edge of unease in his voice, having heard it in plenty of the people he has approached before. Silver shifts, crossing his arms, those exquisite, alluring eyes, hued the colours of the auroras, flicking up and down. “Were you following me the whole time?”

To that, Rook only grins, feeling the corners of his eyes crease as he smiles. Sometimes it is better to let the silence speak for itself, non?

“That deep focus in your eyes,” Rook muses, attention honing in on Silver’s face. “Might I be correct in saying that you are searching for something? Or perhaps even someone?”

Silver’s eyes widen once again, pink lips parting ever the slightest bit. “You… How did you know?” At least, those are the words that spill from his mouth; Rook knows, based on the way Silver’s pupils shift to the side, one hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck uneasily, that what he is really thinking is: Am I that easy to read?

Perhaps not for everyone else, but nothing is impossible for him.

“C’est tres simple!” Wagging a finger in the air, Rook smirks. “You were sporting a look any hunter would recognise: a sharp and searching gaze for one’s quarry.” It is, after all, a look he recognises well; Rook has seen it reflected in his own face, in mirrored images or photographs taken of him. “And what a coincidence!” Rook continues, sweeping on, pressing a hand to his chest dramatically, another held out, palm facing upwards. “I happen to be unable to find our dear little crabapple in the dormitory today, so I’m out for a bit of a hunt myself. Mind if I join you?”

“Well…”

“Might I gander a guess that you are searching for one Monsieur Crocodile?” At the sound of the nickname, Silver snaps to attention, gaze sharpening and fixating upon Rook’s face. Perfect. “A most peculiar prey to be tracking,” Rook sweeps on, “given that his powerful voice usually gives him away.”

“I am searching for Sebek,” Silver concedes, confessing the information. He peers at Rook; “It isn't like him to disappear like this, and he isn’t answering his phone either. Your hunting skills are renowned across campus—”

“Merci!”

“—so would you happen to have an idea where he might be?”

Oh, Rook knows. He knows where the two of them are — Epel and Sebek both, trying their best to be subtle but failing to hide their trysts from the skilled eye of a marksman. Rook likes to compare them to precious little buds, flowers that have only begun to unfurl into bright blooms; they lack the experience of navigating life and love, only beginning to dabble into the tumultuous journey that is l’amour in their first year of school.

They are hiding out at the Ramshackle dormitory, of course. Where else would they be? Rook has known for a while, having tailed Epel there after the boy blurted out the truth upon receiving a thorough interrogation from Rook for breaking curfew multiple times. Similarly, he caught on rather quickly to the fact that Epel’s amour was none other than Sebek Zigvolt through the process of elimination — there were only so many companions their little crabapple had, after all.

But where would be the fun in revealing all this information so easily?

[trohpi]

vaneflower microfic [cross-posted on ao3]

@marauders-rarepair-fics • june 16: emerald • 761 words CW: internalized homophobia

“Let me draw you,” Emma murmurs one day. It’s early morning, sky that pale dusky blue that comes before the sun paints in those orangey pink hues as it rises. The Room of Requirement is dim with the barely-there light that filters through the conjured window.

Narcissa stares at the ceiling, though she can feel the other girl’s warm gaze from where she lay next to her. A mix of emotions sits within her. Love. Longing. Shame. Narcissa swallows thickly around them where they clog her throat, choking her in their intensity.

I love you, she wants to say. It’s ruining us both.

“The others in our dorms will be suspicious if they wake before we get back,” she says instead.

Delicate fingers dance along her arm, tracing patterns of warmth. “Let me anyway.”

She lets her eyes flutter shut, soaks in Emma’s touch, and breathes, “Okay.”

There’s something beautiful in the way Emma’s whole person shifts when she’s drawing. The way her deep brown eyes sharpen with focus, the way her head tilts ever so slightly to the left, the way she pulls her plush bottom lip between her teeth in concentration. It's an entirely different beauty to when she’s playing Quidditch or lounging in the courtyard. No, this is more subdued, more delicate. Narcissa can’t look away, and she’s not sure she ever wants to.

She watches raptly from where she’s splayed comfortably on the bed as Emma sits cross-legged beside her, leaning over her well-used Muggle notebook. A tin of cheap coloured pencils lay open by her feet, though the only one gone is the green pencil. Her brown waves are untidy and sleep-mussed, falling over her shoulder as she tilts her head once more, her face twisting into a small frown.

A rush of fond tenderness hits Narcissa, followed immediately by a twisting of her gut. She ignores it, murmuring, “What’s that face for?”

“I can’t get your eyes right,” she sighs, squinting at the paper before her eyes dart back up to meet Narcissa’s, her gaze searching and intense.

“They’re just plain green,” Narcissa says softly. The other girl only shakes her head.

“No, they’re so much more than that, and this cheap pencil can’t capture it.” Emma drops the stick of green pigment on the bedding.

Narcissa swallows. “How are they more than that?”

“They just are.” She shuffles closer, leaning over her notebook to cup Narcissa’s cheek and tilt her head towards her. “Your eyes are like emeralds, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Emma quirks a small, fond smile. “My favourite gemstones. There’s these little flecks of blue and hazel that make your eyes look just like them. Makes your eye colour richer, more unique.”

And that choking feeling returns with vigour, leaving Narcissa awash with emotions she has no business feeling. She blinks quickly, clears her throat. Says, “Glad you’re here to draw them, then, if they’re so unique.”

Emma chuckles, tucking her hair behind her ear and allowing the first rays of sunlight to illuminate her face, washing her bronze skin in gold. “I’m glad I’m here too.”

Narcissa flushes, a joyful heat filling her cheeks. She huffs and knocks Emma’s hands away. “That’s not what I said.”

Emma laughs, a melodious thing, and Narcissa’s breath catches at the sound of it. She wants to bottle its very essence, wants to hold it close to her soul like a treasured memory. She wants, selfishly, for no one but her to ever hear the music that is Emma Vanity’s laugh. And that’s what Narcissa is, really. A selfish, selfish creature.

“What’re you looking at me like that for?” Narcissa blinks, Emma’s voice knocking her out of her head. She’s looking down at her, messy hair framing her face as she quirks a soft, curious smile.

“Nothing,” she says, and Emma hums.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just thinking that I’d rather like to watch the sunrise.”

Emma smiles again, somehow softer this time, and says, “Me too.”

They curl up together under the messy, slept-in sheets, half-done drawing left somewhere to the side to be finished another day, and bask in the slowly-warming light that slips in the room.

And Narcissa allows herself to think that maybe they don’t need to rush back to their dorms. Maybe, just maybe, their roommates’ suspicions wouldn’t be the end of the world. Maybe they can simply lay here enjoying the pinkening of the sky through the window of their secret room, wrapped in each other’s arms, for just a little while longer.

Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.

[princetorn]

The sunset bleeds transient hues of purple and gold, but Wesley’s knuckles are white where he’s clenched the wheel. Endless highways have twisted back to familiar back roads, tiny towns disappearing to swaths of corn and soy as the plains open up to swallow him whole; though there’s still a few miles from here and that lonely farmhouse, Wesley can’t shake the feeling that his fate has already been sealed. It feels as if he could turn a corner and fall right into his grave. ( Maybe Royce had a point. Maybe Wes should just let go. But he’d rather make sure the bastard is six feet under than wake up some morning with one more hungry ghost. )

"Might see if there's a motel up the road," Wesley announces to the static on the radio. He can feel Royce's presence without looking, a constant welcome chill despite the gore of his appearance; torn flesh that once scared the living to death now creature comfort, each peaceful night only so because he's accompanied by the handsome curve a smile. Maybe the only reason Wesley feels okay at all right now is because Royce is going back with him.

Jesus Christ, he's going home.

"Should lead into town if we keep going." The first he'd reached when he made his escape, the one just past his old city limits. He won't drive through the same town where he went to high school, but this feels close enough — and maybe he's prolonging the inevitable, but he's hoping Royce won't say anything. "We'll drive out to the house tomorrow." He doesn't want to go searching through the fields in the dark.

It was a tomb inside the truck. A steel carcass bloated with stale air, occupied by a flesh-and-bone body and the memory of one.

The atmosphere was thick with unsaid things, but it was not silent. Beyond the thrum of the engine, static bubbled from the radio in erratic bursts, like breath exhaled into a dying receiver. Royce watched Wesley with a quiet, blood-ringed intensity, his dead gaze fixed on the man beside him. Wesley’s eyes, too tired to glint, were locked on the inky river of the road ahead, the pale glow of the dashboard carving harsh lines across his face, illuminating the tautness in his jaw.

From the ether, Royce emerged, settling into the space beside Wesley, his spectral form faint but undeniable. Wesley’s hands gripped the wheel, knuckles bone-white and trembling beneath the strain. The memory of the first time he had touched those hands – how warm they had been against his phantom chill – briefly crossed the hot-rodder’s mind.

“You’re sure about this, Wes? We could still turn back,” Royce murmured, his voice low and steady, like the hum of the engine. He leaned forward, letting his ghastly form sharpen in the dim cabin light until Wesley caught him, just for a moment, in the corner of his eye.

He knew the answer before Wesley’s lips tightened, before the fleeting shadow of doubt was chased from his gaze by the sharp teeth of determination. This was the Wesley he had fallen in love with: stoic, intense, enduring. Royce had tried to talk him out of this madness, tried to remind him of the danger – not just of the farm and its inexplicable horror, but of the old wounds waiting to burst their banks and bleed anew. Yet, here they were, hurtling toward the very thing that had chewed Wesley up and spat him out, the very thing that had once devoured Wesley and threatened to do so again.

Royce could feel the draw of it too, that festering knot of despair and malice clinging to the land’s belly like a parasite.

“You don’t have to face it alone,” he said after a long pause, his voice softer now, raw with a tenderness he wouldn’t hide. He reached out, his fingers brushing the air just above Wesley’s shoulder, close enough to be felt even in his incorporeal state.

Royce smiled faintly, though it hurt to do so. Still the truck rumbled on, and the fields stretched wide and empty around them, the horizon bleeding its last colours into the dark.