#thanks for the prompt spire!

[tanzdoesthings]

Birthdays

for the Ancient AU. Five Pebbles and Seven Red Suns celebrates a birthday.

a gift for @ardienothesieno !

“I thought you didn’t do birth-cycles?” Pebbles said as he tilted his head and looked to Suns. His cup clinked against the smooth table, drink sloshing a bit, letting the ice clink against the straw. The room was filled with the low hum of conversation, casual and yet refined. Suns fit in better than Pebbles ever did.

They sipped their drink, as poised as the cycle they met, embodying a silent holiness that Pebbles could never dream of achieving. “No, it is not my usual style,” they reply, “but it seemed valuable to celebrate.”

Void below. What is he supposed to say to… this? All of this! Seven Red Suns taking time out of their busy schedule just to take him out to lunch? He’s an artist and lab tech, for wyrm’s sake, and yet they continue to meet, discussing anything under the sun, and then lower as well. Religion, philosophy, paintings, life, their work on the lifeblood of their civilization. Turning Spires is activating soon, and they’re here. Celebrating his birthcycle.

“Pebbles?” they prompt, bringing him back to the moment. “Is everything alright?”

He nods, taking another sip of his drink. “Just thinking about all that’s happened.”

They raise their glass in agreement, tipping it towards him and then taking another sip. “It’s incredible, really. We always wonder if the cycle has us trapped, and here we are, celebrating it.”

“Tradition, I suppose,” he contemplates, holding the cup on the table.

Suns seems to have noticed the oddities, to his dismay. “We don’t have to celebrate here, you know. I thought it would be nice to take you up here, but you seem… uncomfortable.”

“Thanks for stating the obvious, Suns,” he bites back, harder than he really meant to.

Smoothly, always elegantly, in a single motion, Suns sets their cup on the table, taking Pebbles by the arm and pulling. He almost falls, but manages to keep step with his friend. They travel down the elevator, out onto the street, moving between the flowing crowd.

It takes until they are standing in front of the rolling door to Pebble’s workshop that he realizes what Suns is doing. “Hey- I thought you said no work today!”

Suns unlocks the door. They’ve known the code for many cycles now. “Where do you keep your paints? And an apron, preferably.”

Little Pebbles, standing in the doorway where he was left, stares. “You want to paint?”

“It’s your birthday, yes? You enjoy doing this. I want you to show me.”

It takes another moment before Pebbles snaps back into action, collecting two aprons and moving to hang his mask on the hook- until he remembered Suns was also there. Should he take off his mask-? It would be more difficult to paint with it on- would it be weird?

Maybe it would, except Suns had moved behind him, taking an apron in one hand and holding their own mask in the other, hanging it. Oh. He tries to stop thinking, pulling off his own mask and hanging it side by side. They are smiling at him- have they always been? Their eyes are so vibrant- focus. Paint. Cans are pulled from the cabinet, nozzles fitted and set in front of a blank wall in the workshop.

“It will take some getting used to,” he says, picking up a red can and shaking. “Keep your hand moving, or else the paint will pool and drip.” A piece of paper is handed to Suns, and they reach down to pick up another can. Purple.

They shake it as well, trying a few sprays across the paper. The first two drip, but the third is relatively even. Pebbles watches, and void below is it different having Suns in this workshop. They’re tall, he’s always known this, but even without the mask Suns towers over him. He nods at the test sprays, pointing to the wall.

“We start with a sketch. This will get covered up later, but it’s good reference.” He takes a deep breath, stepping up to the wall. Scholar symbol. That will do. It’s bubbly and big, and Suns moves to add some pearls in around the character.

“Is this good?”

He’s always painted alone, this is so different. It’s good. “Yes, very. I like the way it frames the subject.”

Five Pebbles gets into the rhythm of painting. Shake-shake-shake, spray. Step back, see the big picture. Next color. Repeat. Suns works on the pearls, and they almost glow on the wall, colors weaving together. They’re picking this up well.

“You’re quick,” Suns observes, adding gold to one of the pearls.

“I’ve done this for a long time,” he replies.

More painting. Outlines are added, highlights giving emphasis to the shapes. Suns steps back at this point, letting their friend finish the work.

He steps back, dropping the near-empty canister on the ground. “Well. We did it.”

“Thank you Pebbles.”

“Oh-“ He really had needed to get something on this wall, this had just been a good excuse to-

Suns puts their hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

He nods. It was still so surreal to see Suns without their mask, but there they went, picking the cans up off his floor. He hastily followed, putting caps back on and throwing out the empty ones. It all cleaned up quickly, and they both returned to the cabinet to put away the cans and aprons.

“It’s a shame we must wear these bulky masks and not be able to properly appreciate all the artwork on the walls.” Suns states as they pick up their mask, inspecting it before putting it back on.

“Yeah.”

Suns glances to Pebbles. “Let’s get home. It’s been a long day. Oh- send Moon my regards! I’m still writing a response to her last message,” they laugh, standing and walking to the door.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure she knows.” He follows suit, closing the door behind the two and locking it.

Many cycles later, when he’s running for his life, he’s going to come in this workshop, looking for supplies. He’s going to see the mural, made with the one who set him up to fail. The burns on his hands, his face, all from the void fluid that Suns gave him. And he is going to swallow his despair, and run.

Run far away.

[cookierunauprompts]

I’m not sure if this is how I should ask for prompts so I apologize in advance! Could you do and AU where the Beast Cookies practically adopt a kid? Like this mid teens child lives with and is smothered with affection around five literal deities and that’s just a Tuesday to them. Thanks in advance!

-Sleepy Cupidromantic <3

hey so i decided on a baby instead because i thought it would be funnier. I hope you don't mind!

Requested Prompts #24 - ✦

" Burning Spice Cookie, what is that?" Burning Spice looked at the baby on his hand. " Well, it's a baby." " I can see that," Shadow Milk stated, " Why is it here?" He asked with a display of his arms. Yes, the baby was not something planned, nor was it any of theirs, but Burning Spice had it now... for some reason. " Well, it was in the wilderness," Burning Spice began. " Mhm," " And it was alone," " Well, pretty stupid of their parents to leave a baby out in the wilderness but-" " And everything was on fire!" " ... I beg your pardon?" Shadow Milk crooked up an eyebrow at Burning Spice, looking at the baby. " So you mean to tell me... That there was this random baby surrounded by fire, and you decided to pick it up and take it HERE of all places?!" " What else was I supposed to do?!" Burning Spice argued back, " Leave the baby there?" " Take it to an orphanage or something! You do realize that we are currently the WORST five people to take care of a literal baby!" Shadow Milk argued back. " I vote we keep the baby." Mystic Flour cut in. " WHY???" " It pisses you off, and I think that that's funny." Mystic flour said, cracking open a smug eye. " Of course you do." Shadow Milk groaned. " Well, it's still three against two-" Silent Salt raises a hand. " That better be a question and not a vote for the baby." It was not a question. " I also wanna keep the baby, it could be fun." Eternal Sugar popped in, raising her head from her cloud. " You do realize we'll be the ones who have to care for it, right? And, oh I don't know, we might accidentally crumble it?" Shadow Milk argued back. " We're literally the size of mountains compared to this tiny little thing! One wrong move and it dies! Did any of you think of that?" Silent Salt raises his hand, again. " And you still want to keep the baby." Shadow Milk asked, glaring at the helmet-clad cookie. Silent Salt nodded. " It's four against one, Shadow Milk Cookie." Mystic Flour chimed in, " That means we get to keep the baby." " Fine! Okay, we keep the baby!" Shadow Milk reluctantly agreed, much to the elation of the other four within the room. Realistically, Shadow Milk believed, the baby wouldn't last more than a few days if left in the care of the others. Maybe a week or two with Silent Salt, but only that. So, of course, primary care of the child would fall to him. Because only the Spire of Truth and Deceit had accurate defensive measures in place to prevent people from getting to it's main rooms with ease and- God dammit.

[saintmurd0ck]

Congratulations, rhi!! 🥳

86th st

Prompt: “why are you really here? to mock me? to... make me hate you more?” “no. none of that. i came to be a friend, because it really looks like you need one right now.”

Character: Matt Murdock

Also, I don't mind if a confession or smut is involved somehow 🤣

glass ceiling

join my sleepover | main masterlist

pairing: matt murdock x vigilante!reader

warnings: canon typical injuries, brief mention of religion, angst, tinyyyyy confession

a/n: ok nonnie i couldn't fit the smut in cause matty low-key friendzones you in this prompt butttttt enjoy the mini confession 💗 thank you so much for participating !! (ps this is low-key unedited but hope you enjoy nevertheless)

There’s a coppery tang to the air as you drift  in and out of consciousness, akin to a wave receding upon a shore. Your eyes shutter open, unable to take stock of exactly what you’ve injured, but at least you have a faint idea of where you are, and how you ended up in this position. 

“Ow,” you wince, twisting onto your side, desperately trying to staunch the gash above your eyebrow. The pain in your side has faded to a dull throb, but a quick glance at the blood pooling beneath tells you the cut is anything but superficial. 

It’s a balmy night, but the wind dries the rivulets of sweat on your skin in cold increments. The cement rooftop is even more frigid underneath your spent body, seemingly siphoning your energy with every sawed breath. Anything remaining of your once ironclad resolve ebbs to a bare whisper. 

The constant ringing in your ears blots out your efforts in concentration, rendering your attempts to move, to sit up, utterly futile. You know your neurons stopped firing the second your assailant decided that this was the end, except the asshole didn’t even have the decency to finish the job. To make sure you wouldn’t come after him.

It was your luck he was cocky enough to leave you up here. 

You wiggle your toes, but even that action makes every muscle and bone in your body scream for help. The cracks in your defense widen to a chasm, and so you resort to basics. To your default programming.  

“Please,” you grit, jerking your chin up to the light-polluted sky, “make it quick.” 

You don’t know who you’re aiming your prayer towards, and you’re foolish enough to believe that someone would care enough to listen, to send an aide, but you hope nevertheless that it catches the attention of some benevolent force, deity or not.

The peals of a police siren shatters your  fantasy, making you whip your head to the side. Instead, it speeds off into the distance, carrying with it any last fragments of survival. 

This is it, you think. This is how I go. 

That’s not what happens, though.

As you settle into the ground, your fingers coming away sticky from the laceration in your side, you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stick up. A warning, maybe, but you’re too fatigued to tell. Still, it alerts you, causing your arduous eyes to widen.

Your head smacks the concrete listlessly, because all you see is the skyline of the city stabbing into the indigo sky, the lights haloing your vision. Jutting out amongst the landscape are the spires of a church, lackluster compared to the twinkling highrises. Your mouth contorts into a grimace at the irony it presents.

The lack of discovery doesn’t explain why goosebumps continue to prickle your skin, or why you hear the rustle of fabric carried with the wind — the sound too soft to notice to the untrained, unobservant ear. 

There. A glimmer of movement catches your eye, a crimson shadow dancing in and out of your sight. 

Out of the vestiges of darkness, a saviour emerges.

Him.

Matt bounds towards you, closing the distance in four short strides. He falls to his knees beside you, hands scrambling to triage your body. 

His expression goes grim, sweat forming a thin sheen along the exposed part of his face as he speaks. “This isn’t good.”

Your weak chuckle turns into a wet rasp. “Tell me the other guy got off worse, at least.”

Matt pauses for a moment, his tongue flicking out at the corner of his mouth. His voice dips to a murmur. “He’ll never make that mistake again.”

You nod slowly, training your gaze on Matt as he takes off his helmet, setting it down on the concrete before putting pressure on the wound in your side. White hot pain blossoms throughout your nerve endings, exploding behind your eyes, but he ignores any markers of your discomfort. 

Gritting your teeth, you lift one of your arms to push the lock of hair that’s fallen across his forehead. There’s an inexplicable familiarity about the gesture, even though you haven’t seen him in months. Even though your final encounter was precisely that: your last. 

“I thought you said I had to get out of your way, Matt.”

“I know,” he says, his face irresolute.

“Then why are you really here?” Your mouth twists into a scowl as you shrug his hands away, blinking away the tears welling in your eyes. “To mock me, for coming back to Hell’s Kitchen? To… make me hate you more?”

Something between disconcertion and indignation crosses his face. “What? No. None of that.” He wrestles you back down, compressing his hand over the wound again. “I came to be a friend. Because it really looks like you need one right now.”

You hold onto his words, acquiescing his comfort, his company, but all that comes out is an incoherently grumbled response, one that pulses in time with your darkening vision. It’s as if the second he showed up, your body has finally relinquished to the tranquility of rest, knowing that despite your past, Matt is someone to be trusted. 

Agony radiates throughout your body as he hoists you up over his shoulder, your heart fluttering at the gentleness of his touches, the soft cadence of his voice. You barely comprehend what he’s saying, but you cling onto “apartment” and “I’ll look after you”, like a beacon of hope. God-sent, if you consider your prayers answered. 

There’s something else you catch as you’re dragged under. He’s talking to you, soothing you, settling you. It feels like he’s explaining something to you, but whether it’s for him to get it off his chest, or simply to lull  you to sleep is indistinguishable. Yet, your attempt continues to listen. 

“I never wanted you in my way,” he starts, slowly becoming a jumble of noise, “because I was falling in love with you.”

But you’re too tired to contest him. To ask if he’s confessing that because you’re on your deathbed, or if they’re pointless words, said just to appease. 

“I heard when you called,” he finishes. “I always do.”

[greenconverses]

I suddenly missed your stories and stalked your writing tag for a while and wow, the roman Percy thing goes back to 2013? I was around only for the 2016 wave. Anyway, just passing by to tell you that 1) your fics are amazing; 2) your commitment to the story is awe spiring and 3) the universe, the characterization, all the little details you put on roman!Percy au is one of the most amazing things this fandom has ever created, up there with burge art.

So thank you. For sharing your creativity (and ur smut writing skills hehe) with us. Thank u for not giving up on the story and surprising us with an update when we least expect It. You're amazing and i hope life has been treating you kindly

Hi! Thank you for your kind comments.

Yes, I guess I did start growing seeds of the roman!Percy AU back in 2013. You can thank the inbox prompts I was filling at the time for that! I probably pulled some aspects of what would it really kill you turned into from whatever pieces of those ficlets I didn't get around to finishing.

I have been considering putting those little prompt fics as part of the roman!AU collection since they're not too off the mark. Maybe I'll get around to it in December.

[jedidragonwarriorqueen]

summary: Callum's nightmares have changed again

tags: angst, little bit of comfort, nightmares, references to violence

word count: 1,136

Gritting his teeth, Callum presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It’s not like nightmares are anything new . They’ve been his stupid brain’s favorite way to process emotions and experiences since the uncertainty of life after his birth father died, since moving to a castle more immense than a four-year-old could imagine. Since his mother left for war and never came back. Since the battle of the Storm Spire. But this one . . .

for the Rayllum Bad Vibes Rodeo 2023 event, prompt two, "possession"

read on AO3!

Thanks as always to my fantastic beta, @arnieb95 💙

[kanerallels]

Finally, I have a fic worth posting for @jacensyndullaweek! (although I do have one thing that I'm gonna end up posting late that I want to share)

Prompt: Culture/Heritage

Rating: G

Read here on AO3!!

1. Sabine

“Are you sure Ezra’s gonna be okay with this?” Jacen frowned at Sabine as they headed into the cockpit of the New Dawn.

“Rule number one of art as a Mandalorian,” Sabine said. “Never ask. Just do. Unless it’s Hera’s room. Then you ask. Besides, the Dawn needs a little brightening up. No ship should be entirely gray.”

The boy wavered for another second, then grinned. “Okay, cool! Where are we starting?”

“That’s more like it.” Sabine paused, turning in a circle. “That wall,” she said, pointing. “You start there, and I’ll start on the other side.”

“What should I paint?” Jacen asked as she passed him the box full of small finger paint cans she’d bought just for this— it was a good place to start for a beginner.

Pulling out her paint guns, Sabine said, “Whatever you want. If you don’t know, start with a feeling. Or something you know. Just don’t hesitate. When you’re doing graffiti, you need to be confident. Got it?”

Jacen nodded, his eight-year-old face screwed up into a serious expression as he pulled out green and blue paint. “I got it.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

2. Zeb

“Okay,” Hera said, pinching the bridge of her nose. Zeb recognized this expression— she’d worn it about a thousand times while lecturing him and Ezra back in the day. “Run it past me one more time. How in the name of the Force did you break your arm, Jacen?”

Wincing, Zeb said, “It was an accident, I swear.”

“It was!” Jacen agreed earnestly, struggling to push himself upright in the hospital bed and wincing slightly. Hera pressed her lips into a straight line— never a good sign.

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Kanan offered from next to Hera. His expression was serene, and he brushed a gentle palm against Hera’s arm, which seemed to calm her a little bit.

“Right,” Zeb said. “So, I was talking to the kid about some of the old sports they had back on Lasan.”

“And there was this one where the greatest warriors would jump from rock spire to rock spire, show off their climbing skills,” Jacen said, his eyes gleaming. “So I asked Uncle Zeb to show me—”

“—and he asked to try it out—”

“—and I fell,” Jacen concluded.

Throwing her hands in the air, Hera said, “And you didn’t even think about the fact that Jacen could get hurt doing that?”

“Well, Lasat cubs usually didn’t,” Zeb offered. “I guess I forgot that humans have more fragile bones. No offense.”

Kanan let out a choking noise that Zeb immediately knew was a snort of laughter, and hastily disguised it as a cough. Hera shot him a sideways glare, but her expression softened a few seconds later as she sighed.

“Thank you for trying to teach Jacen, but you do need to be careful. Next time, maybe start with something a little easier? Or make sure Kanan or Ezra are there to catch him?”

“Absolutely,” Zeb agreed. 

As Hera turned to talk to the approaching doctor, Jacen leaned towards Zeb. “Can we try it again when my arm gets better?” he whispered.

“Only if you get better at not falling,” Zeb whispered back. “I don’t want your parents to skin me alive.”

“Deal!”

3. Kanan

“Hey, Dad?”

Kanan lifted his head, pulled out of his meditation trance by his son’s voice. Tracking him to the doorway to his and Hera’s room, he waved for him to come in as he said, “What’s going on, kiddo?”

He heard Jacen move into the room and drop down into a similar posture in front of him. “I’m doing this school project— we’re doing family trees,” he explained. “And I need your help.”

Kanan chuckled. “With this family, I’m not surprised. Where’d you get tripped up? Miss an aunt or uncle?”

“Nah,” Jacen said, his matching grin clear in his voice. “Grandparents, actually. I got Grandpa Cham and Grandma Eleni on Mom’s side, but I don’t really know any on your side.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Kanan said, “Well, you and I are in the same boat there, actually. I never knew my biological parents.”

“Okay— so should I just leave it blank?”

Kanan frowned, stroking his beard. “You could,” he said slowly, turning the question over in his mind. It might have been easier just to leave it that way. But the point of these family trees— he assumed— were that the kids didn’t forget where and who they’d come from. The people who’d shaped their lives before those lives had even really begun. “Let me show you something,” he told Jacen, getting to his feet.

He knew the layout of the room well by this time, and it was a matter of ease to step over to the shelf nearby and pull down one of the holodisks stacked there. Turning it on, he let it rest in his palm and held it out to Jacen. “What do you see?”

“Um, two people— a man and a woman. Looks like they’re posing for a picture,” Jacen said. “The woman has braids, and she’s laughing. The guy’s more serious, but he’s smiling a little. He’s taller and bald, looks like he has darker skin than the woman.” He paused, then said, “They’re both wearing Jedi robes. Are these—”

“The woman is my master, Depa Billaba,” Kanan said, turning off the holodisk. “And the man is her master, Mace Windu. A friend recovered this holo for me a year or two ago. It’s the only thing I have left of them.” Reaching out, he pressed it into Jacen’s hand. “They are as close to family as I ever had.”

Jacen was silent for a moment, and Kanan waited, knowing his son was thinking. “Thanks for showing me, Dad,” he finally said.

“Any time, kiddo.”

4. Ezra

“Why are we going here again?”

Ezra glanced at Jacen, who was bouncing on his heels with impatience. “I thought you said we were going to do Jedi stuff,” the fifteen year old pointed out.

“We are going to,” Ezra said truthfully. “We’re just making a stop first.” Looking both ways, he started across the street, keeping one eye on Jacen as he followed him. The kid had finally outgrown his habit of forgetting to look before he leapt— mostly. At the very least, he looked both ways before he crossed the street now.

He was still willing to throw himself headfirst into situations, though, not unlike both of his parents. That included Jedi training, and Ezra knew that he should be just as excited as Jacen was for this.

And he was, really. He was just also pretty sure Kanan had chosen wrong, and that his old master should be training Jacen himself. 

But that wasn’t the point. Right now wasn’t actually about that. Right now was about visiting somewhere he hadn’t been since he’d gotten back from the Unknown Regions, and showing Jacen a new piece of Lothal.

Turning a corner, he spotted the old warehouse. Even just the outside looked different than it had in the years during the war— no guards, and the door was wide open.

He looked at Jacen. “Did your mom and dad ever tell you about this place?” When the boy shook his head, Ezra explained, “During the war, this was where the main black market congregated, particularly around Life Day. I used to come here all the time— mainly when I was by myself, but I came with Kanan and the others a couple times.”

Starting towards the entrance, he continued, “But Lothal doesn’t really need a black market any more— so now it’s just a regular one. One of Lothal’s hidden treasures. I thought you should see it.”

They stopped at the entrance together, and Ezra took in the familiar sights. He recognized some faces— the elderly owner of the stall selling woven blankets, the Gotal who pretended not to notice when he’d stolen a few kebabs every now and then— and noticed others missing. 

The war had changed everything, but they were putting it back together, slowly but surely.

He looked at Jacen, who was taking in the place with wide eyes. “So. Lunch, then training?”

“Sounds good,” the boy said with a grin.

5. Hera

“And you’re sure you’re ready for this?” Hera checked as she, Kanan, and Jacen headed towards the small building awaiting them.

Her son gave her a grin. “Mom, we’ve talked about this like twenty times now. I’m seventeen— I’m ready. You got your tattoos way younger than this.”

Wincing at the memory of the needle’s sting, Hera said, “I know. That’s why I’m checking. I don’t want you to do it just because someone said you couldn’t, like I did. It was terrifying—”

“And you were like eight,” Jacen pointed out. “Of course that would be terrifying. But trust me— I want to do this. I already got Dad’s looks, and I want to honor your side, too.”

Kanan, who’d been silent thus far, spoke up. “He’s right, Hera. Besides, he’s almost eighteen. Even if you put your foot down, he’d only be delaying it for a couple months.”

Letting out a sigh, Hera said, “I suppose I can’t argue with that.”

“Nope!” Jacen said cheerfully. “Besides, you let Dad get the tattoos.”

“Your father is a full grown man,” Hera said. “And incredibly stubborn, I might add.”

Kanan let out a snort. “I think we all know who the stubborn one is in this relationship, Captain Hera.”

Grabbing the door handle, Jacen said, “Yeah, I know better than to get involved in this argument. Come on— Ivri’s already inside!”

Hera followed his nod to where Jacen’s friend, the half-Mirialan boy with a perpetual smile, was waiting for them next to the Twi’leki tattoo artist. “Alright,” she said reluctantly.

“Go ahead, Jacen,” Kanan told him, catching hold of Hera's arm. “Your mom and I will catch up with you in a minute. Don’t choose anything obscene or too embarrassing while we’re gone, okay?”

Grinning, Jacen said, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

As he ducked inside, the door swinging shut behind him, Kanan lifted an eyebrow at Hera. “What are the odds of him listening to that?”

“Well he has your genes, so about fifty-fifty.”

“Harsh.” Kanan paused, then said, “You okay about this?”

Unable to hold back a wry smile, Hera said, “You know me well, love. But… yeah, I am. Mostly. It’s just…” she looked through the window where Jacen and his friend were chatting with the Twi’lek. “Our little boy is growing up,” she said with a sigh. “It’s strange.”

“You’re telling me,” Kanan said with a sigh. “At least he’s less likely to shoot himself into the Unknown Regions than the last one is.”

Hera snorted with amusement. “He’d better be, or we’ll be having words.”

“I believe it.” Offering her his arm, Kanan said, “Shall we?”

Taking a deep breath, Hera looped her arm around his. “Okay. Let’s do this.” She let him lead her into the tattoo parlor, trying not to think about just how much her son was growing up.

We’re proud of him, though, she thought with a twinge. And he’s still our son. 

+1. Trill

(set a few weeks before the last chapter of Disproving The Love At First Sight Theory)

Jacen sensed it as soon as Trill woke up. Generally speaking, he wasn’t terribly skilled at sensing living beings— not the way his dad or sister were, and definitely not the way Ezra was. His master was one with the living Force in a way Jacen never had been.

But this didn’t seem to be true for Trill, for whatever reason. Jacen could always sense it when she woke up, and could track her pretty easily throughout the ship. It was like he was attuned to her, more than he was to anyone else.

Sometimes he wondered why that was, but since he was currently living in close quarters with not only her, but also the galaxy’s nosiest Kalleran, he decided not to spend too much time on it.

It was about ten minutes after she woke up that she made her way into the New Dawn’s kitchen. Stifling a yawn, she said, “Morning— what’s that smell?”

“Good morning,” Jacen said cheerfully. “Remember that mysterious package I… picked up on Cantonica yesterday?”

Trill arched an eyebrow at him. “You mean the one that you stole from the hotel and smuggled out under your poncho?”

“That’s the one,” Jacen said. “But the people there are corrupt and tried to kill us like four times, so it doesn’t count. Anyways— behold! Our new waffle maker!”

He flourished a hand at the maker, which stood on the counter, emanating the delicious smell of cooking waffles. Trill frowned at it, then directed the expression at Jacen. “You stole a waffle maker?”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing here,” Jacen told her. “Remember, they tried to kill us. But also, yeah. Now we can have waffles for breakfast!”

Settling at the table, Trill swept her loose hair out of her eyes, and Jacen tried to pretend like his gaze hadn’t followed the movement, and lingered for just a moment. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s so important about waffles?”

The iron beeped, and Jacen turned towards it. Rolling up his sleeves, he flipped it open and started to remove the waffle with a fork, responding to Trill’s question as he did.

“It’s a family tradition. My dad makes the best waffles in the galaxy— Uncle Zeb makes the second best, tied with me. We always used to eat them whenever my mom would get back from a dangerous mission, or before Ezra and I would leave, or any special occasion like that.” Maneuvering the waffle onto a plate, he slid it towards Trill. “And I guess… I wanted to share that with you. If you’re interested.”

She looked surprised, in that way she always did whenever Jacen said something like this. It was the kind of surprise that made him think maybe, just maybe… she’d stick around. 

For a minute, Trill held his gaze, then offered him a smile. “I— I am. Thank you.”

Don’t read into it, Jacen ordered himself, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at her smile. Aloud, he said, “Good. Cause I have a feeling Kasmir’s gonna be here soon, and he’ll be hungry. So you’d better get started on that waffle.”

“Will do,” Trill said, hopping up to grab a fork. Turning back to his work, Jacen felt himself grinning. Starting out a day with waffles and Trill? It really couldn’t get much better than that.

[justanotherconfusedman]

Thanks to @a-roguish-gambit for giving me the prompt that I spired me to write this! Had to do a bit of research on the cowboy genre.

Basically, Gambit is a werewolf and he and Logan are trans vampire hunters. Rogue is a vampire that happens to make Gambit lose all his bets on her.

Anyways read it!

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

Chapter 1: Proposal (Waiting for Heartbreak)

Are you ready for some fake dating???? Summary: When Essek's mother insists that it's time for him to marry, he thinks he's doomed to spend the remainder of his life in a loveless marriage. That is until Caleb volunteers to pretend to be his fiance until Essek can find another solution.

The green lights of Rosohna illuminate the streets, despite the darkness, it isn’t yet evening. As much as Essek Thelyss is fond of his homeland, it takes talent not to lose track of time in a perpetually dark city.

That is why he can’t say how long he’s been standing looking out at it. From his tower, he has a rather excellent view of the sprawling city, the tallest spires to the streets that run below. The man he used to be would stand here thinking of all the ways he would claw his way to the top. He would dream about one day living in the highest tower, for everyone to look up and know who he was. 

Now, older and wiser, the city is nothing spectacular. It is just as fucked up as every other city on Exandria. At least that’s what he thinks at this moment.

The reason for his melancholic thoughts is held in the letter held in his hand. Summons from his mother. When he first read it, dread filled his stomach like lead. 

Deitra Thelyss is a severe woman. There is no warmth in her message, just a command to her eldest son, bidding him to an audience with her. He reads over the words once again, just to be sure of the words. He is not mistaken. 

The reason for his mother’s summoning is unclear. She gives him no clue in the wording of the message. It could be den business, he tells himself. It could be as simple and boring as that. But a shrewd voice in his head reminds him that he is keeping many secrets. It is entirely plausible that she has found out about one, or all. 

This could be an ambush. He could be taking one step along the plank, putting his head in the noose. 

Essek swallows thickly and tucks the note away, pulling his mantle more firmly on his shoulders. The Shadowhand doesn’t need to fear his mother nor his den. The Shadowhand has no secrets to keep. 

Pushing his hair out of his face, Essek allows himself one more breath before floating down the stairs to the entrance of the tower. He doesn’t give himself time to second guess his actions before he opens the door and floats out onto the street.

When Essek enters the Umavi’s chambers, he finds her standing by the window. 

Deitra’s hands are held behind her back, a passive expression on her face. Her long white hair is pulled back in many traditional braids, some woven through with gems. She looks the same as she has every day of Essek’s life. An unchanging statue. Deitra is an imposing figure, her mantle only broadening her shoulders and adding to her height. 

Her chambers are pristine as always, not a thing is out of place. The room is dark, filled with dark leather furniture and deep blue curtains. Bookshelves line the back wall, ones he knows to be full of den documentation and business. 

“Umavi,” Essek greets, bowing to his mother, “I received your summons.”

Deitra turns to him, her expression not changing as she looks upon him. “Thank you for your promptness.” For as long as he can remember, his mother has spoken to him in this formal tone. Even as a child of only a few years, she spoke to him like any other member of their den. Affection has not once passed between the Thelyss family.

With a broad gesture, Deitra tells him to sit on one of the stiff chairs. He does as told, sitting properly before his mother. He expects her to sit as well, but she doesn’t. Instead she stands before him, towering above him. He feels far too much like a child this way, he’s certain that that is her intention.

Trying not to let his discomfort show, he says, “It is not often the Umavi requests my presence.”

Deitra nods, pacing slowly before him, “It has come to my attention that I have let something pass for far too long without intervention.” 

She knows, Essek thinks, she knows I’m a traitor. He has years of practice in disguising his emotions, his Shadowhand mask stays in place. “What is that, Umavi?”

“Your marital status.” For a moment Essek is dumbstruck. Of all the things that she could have said…why this? Why now? Before he can ask, she continues.

“There have been discussions among the dens as of late.” She folds her hands in front of her now. “Many children of those dens have been wed for several years and with children.” Essek is sure he’s going to vomit. “People are wondering why neither of my sons have found that yet, why they both remain unmarried.”

Finish reading on ao3! Please consider supporting me on ko-fi!

[lcdrarry]

5 May | LCDrarry Double Feature | Fic

see the steeple (trace to the spire)

Prompt: "God's own country", 2017, Francis Lee Prompted by: @orange-peony Author: Anonymous Word Count: 33,857 words Rating: Explicit Warnings: None

Notes: First of all - a huge, huge thank you to my team of beta readers: C, S and D. You all were integral to this fic and also made me feel like my first foray back into writing after years wasn’t a complete dumpster fire. You all spent your valuable time and effort helping me bring this story to life and I am so grateful. Secondly, thank you to the LCD Discord for just being the best place on the planet. Would this fic even have materialized without all of you being the most wonderful, incredible individuals? Probably not. Third - thank you to the mods: Tami + Suzi. Thank you for organizing this and just being the best. Seriously. Peony - I hope you love this fic and it’s what you wanted. If you have watched God’s Own Country, this fic is a love letter to you. And if you’re reading this and haven’t seen God’s Own Country, please watch it!

Summary: Harry’s sure about it being Draco’s fault, just like he’s been sure of any other part of his life. Harry wants to spend a week assisting with the birth of a rare magical creature. He doesn’t want to spend a week at Malfoy Manor assisting Draco with said birth. It’s been seven years since Draco was sentenced to house arrest without magic and now he’s running a farm. A week isn’t a long time, but Harry finds himself distracted by this Draco who is so different from the one he used to know.

Read it now on AO3.

Please help promote the fest by sharing your favourite submissions, so more people can enjoy all the amazing new Drarry works of LCDrarry. Thank you!

Creator reveals are on 15 June.

[echo-bleu]

hi!! if you're up to it, 'indis and nerdanel often went to the theater together, and to the mountain trails; it was good to be with someone to whom grief did not need to be explained.' pls? thank you for the ask!

Thank you very much!!

As I decided it would have to be set in one of my AUs, that didn't leave me with many options! This is in the bark of our bones.

Indis and Nerdanel often went to the theatre together, and to the mountain trails; it was good to be with someone to whom grief did not need to be explained. Anairë had sometimes joined them, especially in those terrible years after her husband’s death, but she had gone forty years ago with the army. There were little news, since. And so, it was together that the messenger found them, quietly ambling back to Tirion after a month-long hike away from all the noise. King Arafinwë was back, she said. His fleet had docked at Alqualondë, and he had brought back with him Lady Lalwendë and three of the princes—two sons of Nerdanel, and one of Anairë. There was to be a trial for the kinslaying at Alqualondë. Indis pressed a hand to her mouth, and embraced Nerdanel, relief flooding her open mind at the return of her children. Nerdanel dismissed the messenger with a nod and hugged Indis back, but as she watched the sun reach the spire of the palace’s central tower, she couldn’t help but wonder. They had all changed so much. Would Maitimo and Makalaurë still be the sons she had said goodbye to, so many years ago?

(The answer is no, but it could have been so much worse xD The third prince to return is Fingon, and the trial is going to be covered in an upcoming fic if my brain ever decides to cooperate.)

Send me first sentence prompts!

[mundanemoongirl]

Paintings and Peace

For @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt #251

This was actually originally part of my wip's first draft but I rewrote the whole thing. It's from Daron's pov. She's trying to help a spirit.

“How was your trip?”

Though her words sounded light, her eyes were heavy. Sweet Irene, she suffered so much yet still was more concerned with everyone else’s feelings. My hands twitched with anticipation of showing her what I found. 

“I brought something for you.”

Irene immediately brightened up. “Really? For me?”

I opened my bag and pulled out the painting of the Nightbeam Palace since I knew it was somewhat familiar to her. She scampered so close to it that if she had skin, I was sure her nose would touch it.

Irene greedily studied every detail, and I could see why. The paint looked much more vibrant illuminated by more than just moonlight. I saw now that the shadows on the palace spires and on the full moon that I before thought were black were actually blue, and the ocean had shades of frothy green in it.

Irene tore her eyes from the painting to look at me. “This is what it really looks like?”

“Yes.”

“It’s just like you described.”

“That is not all.”

I pulled out the next painting. The one with the mansion made of black bricks, imposing in the misty grounds. The dark, roiling sea in the distance a completely different view from the serene waters in the first painting.

“This is where I grew up.”

“You taught yourself to read here,” Irene mused.

“Right.”

I showed her picture after picture of all the different landmarks in our country. Irene covered her mouth. I thought if she could cry she would have.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I’ve known for a while now that I’ll never leave this room. You tried so hard, but sometimes there’s nothing anyone can do right? I’m so glad you gave me the chance to see a bit of the world.”

[verosvault]

🚨SPOILERS FOR FANTASY HIGH JUNIOR YEAR EPISODE 5!!!🚨

Dimension20 "Fantasy High Junior Year"

Episode 5 "Mall Madness"

Timestamp: 1:46:04

Video Length: 4min. & 59sec.

Kristen tries to reach out to Cassandra

Brennan: "Yeah, you can reach out and talk to Cassandra."

Ally: "I don't wanna say anything. Can I just listen?"

Brennan: "You listen."

Ally: "Can I just open up the channel of communication and-"

Brennan: "Listen-"

NOT BRENNAN ADJUSTING HIMSELF IN HIS SEAT!!! 😭😭😭✋✋✋ THAT'S WHEN YOU KNOW IT'S GONNA GET BAD!!! 😭😭✋✋

BRENNAN'S "I'M EVIL" SIT!!! 😭✋

The Amazing Caption Team: "(Brennan exhales ominously)"

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "She is at my side once more.

Ally: "So she is the death?"

Zac: "Is that Cassandra?"

Ally: "That's the- That's the Nightmare King talking about Kalina?"

Siobhan: "No"

Ally: "No?"

Emily: "Cassandra?"

Ally: "Did Cassandra turn back into the Nightmare King and someone is by her side once more?"

Siobhan: "Is Cassandra a lesser god serving a more powerful god?"

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "Do you wish for divinity?"

Kristen: "To serve, or to be, myself?"

I loved Ally's answer there! I wanna dissect that line SO BADLY but I'm too dumb to do that! 😂🤣💀 I don't know how I would! 💀✋

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "You have opened yourself to listen. Do you wish to listen?"

Kristen: "Yes"

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "Good. I shall give you a master you deserve."

Brennan: "Red, crackling light. And a slimy, rotting set of block letters that says "Yes!" with an exclamation mark is shunted out of the portal. (squelches)"

1. I love Zac's reaction! That's LITERALLY ME! 😭✋

2. Brennan's "Squelch" sound was too good! 😭✋

Fig: "We've got to clear this before the party."

Kristen casts banishment on the "YES!" 😭✋

Kristen: "Thank you, kind master. I will cherish it. Who do I serve? Who am I speaking to?"

Lou: *laughs* "Serve?" *Covers his face* 😂😂

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "I am coming for you."

Lou's reaction! 😭😭 LITERALLY ME! 😭✋ It's just so funny that Lou is making that face when that voice is talking to Kristen! Not Fabian! 😂🤣💀😭✋

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "And when I find you, I will break you in a way that none who loved you will recognize the ruin I have wrought."

BRO! THAT LINE!! YIKES!! SHIVERS!! 😭😭✋✋

MYSTERY VOICE?!: "Lean your soul in closer, that I might give you more than words." 😭✋

Ally cuts this off! 😭✋

HOW DOES BRENNAN LAUGH AFTER THAT FR THOUGH!?!?!?!? 😭😭😭✋✋✋

Kristen gets some images of a shattered mall, of fractions of these red glass stars collecting shards of blue astral mall, the corpses of dead wizards floating in astral space, strudel streaming out of a portal endlessly in sort of- oblivion.

Ally makes a Religion check and gets a 19!

Brennan: "Looking at all of this here, you do not feel the presence of another divinity, but yet something divine has happened. I think what you know is that there is some rage working within Cassandra that was prompted by those stars, that was prompted by those shattering things. So, I think all of your questions come back to them. Like- That's what started this. Obviously, it began within Cassandra's chest, though, and you keep coming back to that term, 'I thought you were dead', you hear 'I thought you were dead,' and you look down and see this dead- or- you banished it, but you see the slime left by the dead, rotting god that you summoned in your Freshman Year, and you suddenly remember that the Wizard Synod, the Synod of Spire, this mall, was in the Astral Realm."

Zac: "When Cassandra was saying, 'I thought you were dead,' would she be talking about 'Yes!', or is that something else?"

Emily: "I think so"

Ally: "She knew very much about 'Yes!'"

Murph: "That's why she, that's the example of-"

Emily says that the rotting "Yes!" means that Kristen's god turned into toxic positivity!! 😂🤣💀

Ally just laughs! 😂🤣💀

Ally: "I think so. Oh no...okay, okay..."

The Bad Kids wanna go find Ragh to talk to him about this maybe. 🥲

Brennan: "As you say that, I don't think it would be intuitive that it's "Yes!", because "Yes!" slid out like a dead, flat joke."

Ally: "Okay."

Brennan: "You think whatever that voice was slid 'Yes!' out to you and said, 'I'll give you a master you deserve.' and it was like a- you know what I mean? It's like- It's like a humiliation. It's like 'Here's your god.'"

Ally: "So when she said, 'I thought you were dead', it wasn't to 'Yes!'"

Brennan: "It wasn't to 'Yes!', you don't think it was."

[imakemywings]

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Relationship: Maglor/Thranduil, Maedhros/Maglor

Summary: All is not as it seems when Thranduil enters the ancestral Feanorian estate, but he fails to fully comprehend the scale and nature of the risk. If he's very lucky, one day he might even get to leave.

Response to this kink meme prompt.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

Photo credit to Zach Lezniewicz on Unsplash.

Next chapter >>

_______________________________________________________

I. Introduction

The ground had grown terribly uneven; the carriage jounced about as its wheels careened through ruts scored deep into the dirt path from generations of use and absence of care. The coals of the heater had died long ago, and the further they traveled, the less Maglor seemed to speak. The amiable jabber with which he had filled up the many hours since they sailed from Mithlond had died miles back. But at last, after most of the day, he said:

            “How are you feeling?”

            It was an almost clinical question.

            “Well,” Thranduil murmured in response, not tearing his eyes from the bleak, colorless landscape passing by outside. Scrubby, nearly leafless little bushes dotted the roadside here and there, but otherwise very little seemed to grow, and the sky had been the same dull gray since they had secured this carriage and driver three days ago on the outskirts of the Swanhaven. The only building they had passed in the last three hours had been a dilapidated old shack playing home only to a murder of crows.

            “I know it has been a long journey,” Maglor observed. “And under…regrettable circumstances. You’ll be able to rest at the house. We’re almost there.”

            Thranduil said nothing. He could not be termed a great conversationalist himself, and he found Maglor’s demeanor as they neared his ancestral land somewhat worrisome. It was not like Thranduil to be hasty, and it troubled him to think that perhaps Maglor believed they had made a mistake. They had left Greenwood in such a rush.

            “Wretchedly cold in here,” Maglor complained, rapping his knuckles against the window frame of the carriage and nudging the dead heater testily with his toe. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to that. The weather here is ghastly.”

            Thranduil at last turned his eyes from the scenery and, removing his hands from the folds of his cloak, held them out to Maglor, who stared blankly in response. The ring Maglor had given him glinted sharply on Thranduil’s finger: red diamond and gold, an old family heirloom, Maglor had told him.

            “Yes?” he said.

            “Your hands,” Thranduil said. Maglor let go of the walking stick he’d been fiddling with and almost tentatively extended his hands. Thranduil shifted to sit on the edge of his seat and took one of Maglor’s hands between his, gently, finger by finger, easing off his black leather glove. He did the same with the other, laying them both on his lap, then clasped Maglor’s hands between his own, skin on skin, pressing the dim heat of his palms against Maglor’s icy fingers.

            Maglor stared.

            Thranduil stiffened slightly, trying to feel out a misstep.

            “Warmer?” he asked softly, grasping each of Maglor’s hands individually before letting go and returning his gloves.

            “Yes…thank you.” Maglor in his bewilderment tugged his gloves back on and went on staring, before a particularly sharp jerk of the carriage turned his attention to the window. “Ah. There it is.”

            As they rounded a hill Thranduil could see the dark spires looming up as the beast of a house lumbered into view.

            “Formenos,” said Maglor. “I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment.” He did not sound excessively sympathetic about the notion.

            “Why would it be?” Thranduil asked.

            “It’s rather old,” said Maglor.

            “I am sure it is quite well.”

            The carriage creaked and groaned as it was hauled over the clay-heavy soil of the property, the soggy unpaved drive sucking at its wheels. Maglor observed the approach of the house dispassionately, and jumped out as soon as the carriage came to a halt. Almost as a second thought, he offered Thranduil a hand out.

            “My family has lived here since my father’s exile,” Maglor expounded. “Formenos was the house he built to show that nothing would deter him from his greatness. He’s dead now, by the by, though we never did recover a body. You may hear the locals refer to it as Crimson Peak.” Thranduil froze as Maglor withdrew his hand, staring up at the dark house, which seemed to pierce like an arrow shaft the pale, unbroken sky around them.

            “What?” he asked, a hoarse note in his voice. Maglor cast a glance over at him from where he was overseeing the unloading of their luggage.

            “Crimson Peak,” Maglor repeated. “It’s the pejorative nickname the locals have given to this place.”

            “Why do they refer to it so?” Thranduil asked quietly, pulling his cloak a bit tighter around himself as he continued to look up at the warped towers, the dangling eaves, the missing window sills. One window on the left side of the ground floor looked like someone had thrown a brick through it.

            “My grandfather was murdered here,” Maglor replied bluntly. “It was apparently quite the wretched scene, though I never saw it. Mother and Father and Maedhros did, but Mother wouldn’t let anyone else in after she’d seen it. It was a closed casket funeral. Maedhros said—ah, well. Perhaps I shouldn’t say such things, should I?” He chuckled and hitched a smile on his face which he hoped looked genuine. “I wouldn’t wish to give you nightmares your first night in your new home!”

            Thranduil reached for his case, but Maglor waved him off.

            “Nodien will take care of that,” he said. “Let me show you in.” He offered Thranduil his arm and after a brief pause Thranduil took it, and allowed Maglor to lead him through a courtyard bristling with dead vines and untrimmed brown grasses bursting through the stonework, and up to the front doors, easily more than twice as tall as Thranduil himself.

            “Here it is,” Maglor said with manufactured cheer, throwing open one of the oaken double doors into a main hall so shrouded in shadow it was nearly impossible to get a look at it from the front step. Maglor took Thranduil’s hand, intertwining their fingers with a smile and a vice-like grip. “Welcome home, husband mine.”

[beatrice-otter]

Fic: Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

fandom5k authors have revealed! So I can reveal what I wrote. First of all, thank you to my recip violet_pencil for having some great prompts, that was lovely. It's such a help to get an idea that inspires me, but which I also know my recip will also like. The relationship and pairing sent me in a direction I'd never considered before, and also I think in the process I figured out a bit more of why the Prophets are the way they are and why Sisko is important to them.

Title: Self-Fulfilling Prophecy Author: Beatrice_otter Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Characters: James T. Kirk, Benjamin Sisko Written For: violet_pencil in Fandom 5k 2024 Rating: Gen Length: 5,787 words Betaed by: Greenygal

On AO3. On Squidgeworld. On Ad Astra. On Dreamwidth. Rebloggable on Pillowfort.

Benjamin Sisko was watching the heat death of the universe. Benjamin Sisko was helping the Bantaca Spire be erected in B'Hala. Benjamin Sisko was trying to comfort Kasidy over his entering the Celestial Temple, and failing because he could not collect enough of himself in one time and one place to give her the attention and care she needed. Benjamin Sisko was watching Cardassian soldiers use tractor beams and force-fields to remove the Orb of Harmony from the ruins of the monastery at Choddosh. Benjamin Sisko was in the Celestial Temple, teaching the Prophets about linearity for the first time using baseball as a metaphor. Benjamin Sisko was watching Kai Kira direct the Vedek Assembly to begin considering her successor, because she was going to retire to the monastery of Basyo Ume in nine weeks. Benjamin Sisko was watching the star that would one day be named B'hava'el coalesce and begin to burn.

Benjamin Sisko was no longer corporeal, but he had a headache anyway.

"The Sisko is overwhelmed."

Ben turned to face the Prophet who had once possessed his biological mother. "Yes," he said.

"Why?" she asked. "The Sisko is no longer linear."

"But I am," he said. "Not as linear as I once was, but … if I had left it behind completely, you would not be wearing that face, or speaking."

The Prophets had no language; they didn't need it. Individuality, like linearity, was something the Prophets didn't quite understand. They needed language no more than the different spores of a fungus needed it. What one knew, or thought, the others could sense as part of themselves.

"The Sisko has many tasks to perform," the Prophet said. She studied him. "The Sisko is doing them well. Yet the Sisko is overwhelmed."

Ben thought it through. "I am doing them well—because you see them as I am doing them, in the future, from my perspective."

"Yes," she said.

"You're asking … how is it that you know I am capable of doing things and learning your way of seeing the universe, but am also having problems."

"Yes."

"That's not how it works for linear beings," Benjamin said. "We develop and grow over time. We learn things. We start out, as infants, knowing nothing and capable of nothing. As we grow, we gain skills and knowledge by trying, by failing, by doing things many times until we have mastered a skill."

Ben brought them to the park where his father was teaching him how to throw a baseball. Five-year-old Benjamin had thrown other things, of course, but nothing with the same size and mass and heft. Most of his throws went wild, and Joseph patiently practiced with him, giving him tips, encouraging him.

Ben and the Prophet watched the child he had been over months and years, learning to throw the ball, learning to hit a ball off a tee, learning to hit a ball thrown at him.

"These tasks are more difficult for you because your body is not fully developed," the Prophet observed.

"True," Ben said, and moved them to the Academy gym where he had learned hand-to-hand combat. "But when I learned to fight, I was at the peak of my physical prowess. Adult but young, strong, dedicated—I'd done running and weightlifting and other sports in high school. And still," he nodded at his younger self, "you see how I struggled. How much time and effort and practice it took me to learn how to do it. Academically, it was the same. I learned a great deal in my time at the Academy—because I studied. Because I practiced using the knowledge."

They watched him in flight simulators, in classrooms, and finally in holodeck models of various ships learning to fix everything from hull breaches to fluctuations in the warp core. "When I started with the practical engineering scenarios, I knew the books backwards and forwards, because I'd spent months—years—preparing and learning everything I could about ships. Even so, learning to translate that to practical action took time, and repetition."

"The Sisko has had time to learn here," the Prophet said. "The Sisko has all of time to learn here.

"But all of it at once."

The Prophet studied him. "You want something smaller. Simpler. A … 'beginner project.'"

"That would be very helpful," Ben said.

The Prophet took them to a place that was like the Celestial Temple, but smaller. It, too, was outside of time and space; it, too, was anchored to one physical location (though that physical location traveled through the galaxy and would one day pass beyond it). Still, it was more tightly bounded; the connections to time and space were weaker. And it was … simpler. It was alive, but it had no sentience.

The Prophet observed the place she'd shown him, and he could sense her affection for it. And her frustration. Very like the way his sister Judith had looked at her dog Sadie when Sadie had chewed up her slippers.

There were people in the simpler anomaly, but they were not like the Prophets. They could not see it for what it was.

"How did they get in here?" he asked, scrutinizing them. "They're not from here, they're linear. Corporeal." Although not very linear; they tended to replay the same few events, time after time. Whole worlds in a bottle, visions that they could not always tell from reality.

"This ribbon does not have the capacity to make its entrance safe for things and beings of matter," the Prophet said, pointing out the great rip in space and time that was the point where the infinite interfaced with the finite.

Ben studied it, and saw the problem, and also realized that he knew this anomaly. Not from his time in the Celestial Temple, seeing all of space and time, but from a report that had crossed his desk three years into his time on Deep Space Nine. It had been flagged for him because of a few superficial similarities to the wormhole, but the most interesting thing about it had been … "Kirk," he said.

James T. Kirk had come out of the Nexus to help Picard save the Veridian system, and died in the process.

So what, Ben wondered, was he doing still in the Nexus after that point? The Prophet's attention had turned elsewhere; Ben could have asked her or any Prophet, for they were all connected to each other and to him.

But this was meant to be a learning experience, and Ben thought he would rather figure it out on his own. He dove into the Nexus, and was relieved to find that while it was infinite and nonlinear, like the Celestial Temple, it was at least a smaller infinity. Ben could wrap himself up in it and be slightly less overwhelmed.

There were Prophets here, too, though it was not their home. It was … a place of retreat? Regeneration? And they liked it best when the Nexus responded to their desires, not the desires of the corporeal, linear beings trapped inside it.

Ben's job, he realized, would be to clean it up. Put the linear beings back in the linear world, and hopefully arrange things so that they would stop falling into it. Or being killed by it.

He had all of time and space to work with—and this time, he had the opportunity to actually talk with the great Captain Kirk without having to worry about the Department of Temporal Investigations. Ben entered into Kirk's environment, and breathed a sigh of relief as it helped him gather all of himself into one moment and setting.

Kirk was sitting at a campfire, drinking a cup of coffee. He was older and stockier than he'd been when Ben had gotten his autograph at Deep Space Station K-7. He was not alone; Ambassador Spock was with him, and another man Ben recognized after a moment's contemplation as Doctor Leonard McCoy.

Neither man was actually there, of course; these were phantoms of Kirk's own mind given form by the Nexus. Kirk watched them bicker, and there was a hunger in his eyes.

Ben studied him with senses he had not possessed as a corporeal, wholly-linear being. This was not all of Kirk, he realized, but rather a fragment of him, left behind when he had left the Nexus. Kirk knew where he was, he knew none of this was real; he knew that he was alone. Given his limited perception of the Nexus, that wasn't enough to free himself.

Ben gave himself a physical body and stepped forward through the trees to the edge of the clearing.

"Hello," he said.

Kirk looked up. His companions continued their conversation, like holograms set to limited interactions. "You're new," he said. "Are you real?"

"I am," Ben said.

"You've got a Starfleet badge," Kirk said. "If you want me to help save someone or something from the Nexus I'd love to, but the last time I tried it didn't actually work. We tried to leave the Nexus and nothing happened."

"But it did," Ben said. "You and Captain Picard left the Nexus and saved Veridian IV, although you died in the process. The problem is, the Nexus is not so easy to leave. Part of you remained here."

Kirk wiped a hand over his face.

Sisko gave him a moment. How much time had it been, subjectively, for Kirk? Did he feel like it was only moments since he'd met Picard, or had he felt the years in between?

"I'm glad it worked," Kirk said. "Although part of me wishes Picard never came and told me where I was. Being trapped here was a lot nicer when I didn't know it was a trap and none of this was real. I don't suppose you have a way out of here?"

"I do," Ben said. "It's complicated, and I'm trying to figure out the best way of handling it."

Kirk waved a hand, and they were in a briefing room done with mid-23rd-Century aesthetics. Kirk himself was younger, in a gold tunic, just as he had been when Ben first met him. "If there's one thing I've got, it's time. How can I help?" He gave a wry smile.

Ben took a seat at the conference table. He could think this through on his own, of course, but it would be more interesting to do it with Kirk, and get the legend's perspective. If his adolescent self could see him now, he would be so jealous. "I'm Captain Benjamin Sisko, former commander of space station Deep Space Nine, near a planet called Bajor. I've been … adopted into a group of noncorporeal energy beings called the Prophets, who live outside of time and space and experience it all at the same time, instead of in a linear progression from one moment to the next."

"Sounds confusing," Kirk said, with the knowing air of someone who had met more than his fair share of strange things over the course of his career.

"It can be," Ben admitted. "But it means I have a much better understanding of the Nexus than you do, and can manipulate it to get everyone trapped here out of it."

"So what's the problem?" Kirk asked.

"The problem is, I'm still a Starfleet officer, sworn to uphold the Federation charter and Starfleet regulations … including the Temporal Prime Directive." Ben spread his hands. "But the Temporal Prime Directive was not designed for beings who experience time in a non-linear fashion."

Kirk cocked his head. "It assumes that you're from a specific point in time, and shouldn't change anything before that time. But if you experience all of time at once …"

"… then that doesn't work," Ben said. "Either nothing I do is temporal interference, because I'm from every bit of time I'm affecting; or everything I do is temporal interference, because I am outside of time."

"If you take all of us in here and drop us off back in the real world, no matter what time you do it, we're going to change things merely by being alive again." He looked off into space, and Ben remembered Dulmer and Lucsly's revilement of him. What had Kirk learned in those seventeen separate temporal violations?

"I could make it so that you never get swept up into the Nexus in the first place," Ben said. "But what would change because you lived? I have no idea, and you didn't live your life on a small scale—even in retirement, you could well change something major. But that applies to any point I drop you off at. Or I could take this fragment of you here, and reunite it with your whole self as you saved the Veridian system … but then you'd die."

"I don't mind dying for a good cause, but I'd rather not die if I have a choice about it," Kirk said wryly.

"And I'd rather not kill you," Ben said. "I might be able to reunite you in such a way that it changed things just enough that you wouldn't die then, but it would change things from the perspective of the time I became nonlinear—which is, I suspect, the point the Department of Temporal Investigations will use as their reference, when I return to linear, corporeal existence."

"Department of Temporal Investigations?" Kirk asked.

"That's right, they didn't exist yet in your time," Ben said. The DTI had been a fairly late development, with breaches of the Temporal Prime Directive handled by the regular Federation legal system, at first. "Lucky you. They're a department of the Federation—not Starfleet—that exists to police time travel incidents. But of course by the time they hear of something, it's already happened. And then they show up and you have to justify every detail of the mission." He shuddered. He'd gotten off lightly.

"Surely they can't be that bad," Kirk said. "It's never fun to justify yourself to bureaucrats, but there's worse things."

"True," Ben said. "But they can put in a report that will kill your career, if they don't like how you handled it, and they have no sense of humor. I was lucky, I only had to deal with them the once, and it was after a mission that had gone off without a hitch." He sighed. "And my career is well and truly off the rails in any case—officially, Starfleet has me on detached duty while I'm outside of linear time, but when I go back to corporeal existence … I'll have to resign my commission."

"Have to?" Kirk said delicately.

"I have … religious obligations, that I put off while we were at war with the Dominion," Ben said. "Even if I could do both, I have to be in the Bajor system, or close to it, and the only post there for a Starfleet captain is the command I had before I became … this." Ben gestured at himself. "From their perspective, I'm gone for … awhile. I don't know exactly how long; it's hard to judge such things, when you aren't linear." Though inside the Nexus, space and time were small and limited enough that he had a better idea. His heart sank; it was going to be longer than he had hoped. "Someone else is given command after I join the Prophets. She does a great job, but I can't just go back to my former command. Which means … resigning from Starfleet."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Kirk said. "I'm sure you're a fine officer."

Ben smiled. "Thank you. That means a lot, coming from you. I don't regret having to leave Starfleet; I almost did once before, and I have much better reasons to do so now. Still … it'll be a change."

"I do," Kirk said. "Regret having to leave Starfleet. Well, I regret having to stop serving on starships; I've been an admiral, and while I can do the work, it's not for me. I'd rather be retired than chained to a desk. But I've had a purpose all my life. Important things to do—exploring, taking care of my crew, serving the Federation. Reasons to get up out of bed in the morning, reasons to feel satisfied and accomplished when I go to bed at night. Things that matter. Things that are worth doing." He sighed. "I'm sure it'll be worse in the future. In my own time, I have my friends. In the future—well, they'll all be dead, except maybe Spock, depending on when you drop me off."

Depending on how long it took Ben to fulfill his mission with the Prophets, and how well he was able to time his re-embodiment, he might be facing similar concerns. He pushed the thought aside, as he had been doing since he had entered the wormhole. There was nothing he could do about it either way, or at least, not until he learned more about the way his time in the Celestial Temple really worked. "I wish I could drop you off back when you came from." He shook his head. "It's not the Department of Temporal Investigations I'm worried about, not really. You see, in my time, we just finished a war with a very dangerous enemy, the Dominion, who not only almost conquered the Federation, but all of the Alpha Quadrant along with us—Klingons, Romulans, Cardassians, everyone. It took a miracle—literally—to win, on more than one occasion. My time with the Prophets is part of the price of that miracle. I can't jeopardize the Federation's survival, and unfortunately seeing all of space and time at once isn't enough for me to accurately predict possible effects to the timeline if I change things in the Federation or its neighbors before that victory. I see all of what is; I don't see very many of the possibilities of what might be different."

"Thank you for your honesty," Kirk said. He cocked his head and gave half a smile. "Well, I've sacrificed more for less worthy causes before. And I deeply understand about consequences you can't foresee even from something that seems like a good thing at the time."

"Oh?" Ben said. "That sounds like there's a story there."

"There is," Kirk said, and told a story about being trapped in the 1930s on Earth, and the horror of realizing that in order to save Earth from being conquered by Nazis, they had to let a deeply good person die.

Part of Ben watched it happen, even as part of him sat with Kirk in the Nexus and listened. Part of Ben reflected that Kirk was very lucky that he and the other two trapped in the past with him—Spock and McCoy, of course—could all pass for white, in 20th Century terms.

"Of course, later on, I realized that we didn't have to let Edith die after all," Kirk said, looking down and off to the side. "We could have brought her with us to the future; that would have stopped her from peace advocacy in the 1930s just as surely as her death did. She would have loved the future. She would have loved to see Earth at peace, with no hunger or want or any of the things she spent her life working to help."

With very little prodding, that led to stories of some of Kirk's other adventures in time, and other adventures in general. Ben thoroughly enjoyed the stories, particularly since he could watch them as they happened, and see the ways in which Kirk shaped the story as he told it.

"So why are you so interested in my exploits?" Kirk asked at last. "It's not that I mind telling stories, and I'm glad to talk to someone who isn't a figment of my imagination for once, but … it's hardly helping you figure out what to do about all of us stuck in here."

Ben shrugged. "The Prophets aren't what you'd call great conversationalists," he said. "And they don't really understand me or my concerns. And it's hard, being non-linear, to talk with people who are experiencing only one point of time—the Nexus makes it easier, believe it or not. It touches all of space and time, but … it's a smaller infinity, than the Celestial Temple is."

"You're lonely, too," Kirk said.

"Yes," Ben said. "When the Prophets took me, I had to leave behind my wife and children, my family, all of my friends—and you know how the officers you serve with become your family."

"I do," Kirk said. "I always knew that everything would turn out fine, as long as I had Spock and Bones with me. And it was true—when I went into the Nexus, I was alone. When I helped Picard stop Soran, I was alone."

"When I went to stop Dukat and the Pah-wraiths, I was alone," Ben said, nodding. "I stopped the Pah-wraiths and sealed them forever in the Fire Caves—they won't get to burn the universe. They'll never be able to do it; the universe will end before they are released. I'll even get to go home to my family and friends, one day. When I've finished my work for the Prophets."

"But in the meantime, you're alone," Kirk said.

"Yes," Ben said. "It's been … pleasant, to sit and talk with someone who understands."

"I'm glad to have been helpful," Kirk said. "But the sooner you get your work done, the sooner you'll be able to go back home."

"It doesn't quite work like that, when you're outside of linear time," Ben said. "But I take your point." He considered the Nexus thoughtfully. "If it had emissions that were just a bit stronger in both radio and subspace bands, more people would see it with enough time to avoid it," he said. "And if I make that adjustment early enough in the ribbon's journey through the universe, that would prevent a lot of the people in it from ever encountering it closely in the first place."

"That would definitely change the timeline," Kirk observed. "Weren't you the one who was worried about timeline changes? What if one of them is a Hitler? Or an Edith Keeler? How do you know how it will turn out?"

Ben spread his hands. "If I prevent them from going into the Nexus at all, that will change history. But it will also change history if I dump them out of it at random points in time—only then, they would be lost decades or centuries or millennia out of their own time. The fact that it won't change the past of the Federation from my perspective before I became non-linear does not mean that it won't change things. What right do I have to make my personal linear lifetime as the basis around which all of space and time revolves? To say that I can't change anything before my lifetime, but I can change things that come afterwards?"

"Either everything you do violates the Temporal Prime Directive," Kirk said, nodding, "or nothing does."

"Yes," Ben said, and realized why he had been so slow to act. Not just here, but with all the other little projects the Prophets had given—were giving, would give—him. "What right do I have to make those sorts of decisions? I'm just one human being. I see all of space and time, but that doesn't mean I understand it, and it doesn't give me any special wisdom. Who am I to make those decisions for whole civilizations of people?"

"You're the man on the spot," Kirk said. "Maybe you don't deserve to make those decisions, but who does? Maybe you're not wise enough to make those decisions, but who is? Are they the sorts of things that your 'Prophets' should be deciding instead?"

"No," Ben said. "They don't understand linear beings. Or corporeal beings. Or singular beings—they're a collective. How could they possibly understand the consequences of their decisions for linear, corporeal, singular beings?"

"Well, then," Kirk said. "Whether you have the right to make those decisions, you may have a duty to, if there's no one else who would be better at it. You'll make mistakes along the way, of course, but that's inevitable. What matters is that you pay attention and work to fix things when you do—and lucky for you, you have all of space and time to do it."

"I suppose that's true," Ben said.

"You know, I've met more than my fair share of beings with godlike powers," Kirk said. "It isn't their wisdom—or lack thereof—that's the problem. And it isn't really their power, either."

"Then what is it?" Ben asked, barely restraining himself from asking for more stories. What he needed right now was perspective, and advice.

"It's their callousness," Kirk said. "When they don't care about what their use of power does to people. That's what does the damage. As long as you're genuinely trying to do your best for the people your actions will affect, as long as you pay attention to their needs and wants and cares, there's a limit to how badly you can mess things up."

Ben thought about that. "I can watch, when I send people home, to see if it changes things for the worse, and if so, how to mitigate it."

"Yes," Kirk said. "And as for being partial, so what? That's part of being alive! Of course you have people and places that you care about more than others. Of course you have times that matter more to you than others. The only things in the universe that truly act impartially are natural forces. Stars burn according to natural principles with no regard for anyone or anything around them. You're not a star, you're a person—and a Starfleet officer."

"You know, I once said something very similar to that to the Prophets," Ben mused. "The Dominion was about to destroy the minefield around the wormhole—" he stopped at Kirk's raised eyebrows, and moved them to a place where they could see the galaxy at a scale Kirk could process. "The Dominion is a fascist empire from the Gamma Quadrant. There is a stable wormhole from Bajor to the Gamma Quadrant, which the Dominion was using to send fleets of ships through to conquer the Alpha Quadrant." As he spoke he made each place glow for Kirk, so he could see it. "The wormhole is also the home of the Prophets, whom the Bajorans worship as gods. We'd had to abandon Bajor to the Dominion, we couldn't hold the wormhole … but we'd managed to mine it so they couldn't bring more ships through."

Ben brought them closer to the B'hava'el system to watch the events around the wormhole, at a sped-up perception of time. "That held them back for a while, they could only work with what ships they already had, and the ships their allies here had. But then they figured out how to take down the mines. We were barely holding our own. If they could have brought through as many ships as they wanted, it would be all over for the Federation—and for Bajor. We launched a fleet in a desperate attempt to get there and retake the wormhole. It almost worked, but we were too late." They watched the battle. Ben felt his desperation and pain and single-minded focus all over again. He watched as all those ships—and their crews—died so that the Defiant could reach the wormhole.

Rather than narrate what happened next, he brought Kirk along to watch.

"What about Bajor?" Benjamin Sisko said, as Benjamin Sisko watched."You can't tell me Bajor doesn't concern you. You've sent the Bajorans Orbs, and Emissaries—you've even encouraged them to create an entire religion around you!"

Corporeal, linear Benjamin Sisko was not aware of non-linear Benjamin Sisko watching him, nor of Kirk's presence, but the Prophets were. They didn't approve of him bringing an outsider to watch this, but they did not disapprove strongly enough to do anything about it.

"You even told me once that you were 'of Bajor'," his linear self insisted, "so don't you tell me, you're not concerned with corporeal matters! I don't want to see Bajor destroyed. Neither do you—but we all know that's exactly what's going to happen if the Dominion takes over the Alpha Quadrant! You say you don't want me to sacrifice my life—well fine! Neither do I. You want to be gods? Then be gods! I need a miracle. Bajor needs a miracle—stop those ships!" It was interesting, the things he couldn't perceive the first time he'd experienced this moment. The Prophets were both more and less powerful than he had believed. More, because he couldn't comprehend the vastness of time in the way they perceived it; less, because he couldn't comprehend what it was like to be a being of pure energy, not merely non-corporeal but never corporeal.

The Prophets didn't understand matter, for precisely the same reason they did not understand linearity.

How does a collective of energy, which has never been connected to matter in any way, destroy a fleet of ships? How do they know what to do?

Simple: get a being of matter, a linear being, and make it part of themselves.

As the Prophets discussed how intrusive and controlling Benjamin Sisko was, what penance must be enacted for his demand that the Prophets change their very nature in order to save Bajor, Benjamin Sisko reached out to the Dominion fleet in the wormhole and began unraveling the atoms that made up the ships and people aboard them.

This was the penance required: not because, or not only because, the Prophets were upset that he demanded their intervention in corporeal matters. But also because their intervention in corporeal matters could not be done—or could not be done effectively—without him being the one to do them.

The Sisko: human, but with a Prophet feeding him a little bit of their essence to him even as he nursed at his mother's breast. Not enough to be noticeable to other humans or even to himself, but enough that when the time came, he could make the transition from linearity and corporeality into the same sort of being the Prophets were, without losing too much of himself in the process. An interface, between them and the rest of a universe they could see but not understand enough to affect.

Benjamin Sisko demanded the Prophets intervene. Benjamin Sisko was the Prophet who intervened

Ben turned away and brought himself and Kirk back to the Nexus. They had seen what they needed to see—and Ben had done what he needed to do. The Federation was saved. And he knew why he was here.

"I see what you mean," Kirk said. "That was quite a speech you gave." His smile was warm, approving, and Ben smiled in return.

"But what if I go too far? I'm not a god," Ben said. The lingering doubts swirled in his mind, and he feared that if he lost them he would lose too much of his humanity.

"Of course not," Kirk said. "People who want power for power's sake—who want that kind of control over the world and other people—usually can't be trusted with it. If you did want it, Starfleet would never have let you rise to the rank of captain. We've learned from our mistakes. But that doesn't change the fact that whether or not you sought this power, you have it. If you have it … you have a responsibility to use it, and use it well. Not for personal aggrandizement, or to make yourself or the Federation the bully with the biggest stick. But to help people live in safety and harmony, free from fear or want or cruelty. I think you'll do well."

"Thank you," Ben said. "That means a lot, coming from you."

"I'm not surprised to hear it," Kirk said. "I don't think, deep down, you needed me to tell you any of this. You were more interested in hearing my stories than discussing your problem, despite that being why you said you wanted to talk. I've been kind of wondering if you'd ask for my autograph."

"That, I already have," Ben admitted. "I mentioned a previous mission that involved time travel, and the Department of Temporal Investigation afterwards?"

Kirk frowned. He looked Ben up and down. "Deep Space Station K-7! The incident with the Tribbles!"

"You remember?" Ben asked.

"Enterprise had a crew of 430, and we didn't get that many transfers in and out over the course of our exploratory mission," Kirk said. "When we got new faces, those faces stuck around. You didn't. And now I suppose I know why."

"Please don't tell the Department of Temporal Investigation that you remember me," Ben said. "They were upset that I caught your attention long enough to get your autograph."

Kirk chuckled. "I won't. I suppose I'd have done the same, if I'd found myself on Archer's Enterprise. But now I have to know: what were you doing there in the first place?"

Ben explained about Barry Waddle, a.k.a Arne Darvin, and his desire to retroactively make himself a hero by altering the timeline, and what they'd had to do to stop him.

While he was doing that, he altered the Nexus so that it would be easier to sense and avoid … but not so much so as to avoid the incident with the El-Aurian refugees which incited Soran's work and the destruction of the Enterprise-D.

Most of the beings trapped inside the Nexus vanished, never having been there at all. Others remained, and Ben fixed that, too, altering as little as possible while still preventing them from falling into the Nexus. The El-Aurians were the easiest to handle; they were naturally more attuned to the larger space-time continuum than most nonlinear beings, and he could simply re-unite them with the part of themselves who had been rescued.

When all was done, and Ben was finished telling the story of their experience with the Orb of Time, he smiled at Kirk. "Thank you for the company, and the stories, and the advice," he said.

"You're welcome," Kirk said. "Thanks for the rescue."

They shook hands. Ben reunited this fragment of him with the rest of himself, fighting Soran on Veridian III, and shifted things just enough so that he didn't die.

Ben watched, satisfied, as the Nexus continued on its way—now safe from corporeal beings.

He turned to the next project the Prophets had in mind for him.

[violettduchess]

chevalier and prompt 3 🥺❤️

A/N: My first entry for @voltage-vixen and @xxsycamore 's Tis The Season for Love Content Creation Challenge

Chevalier x Reader

Word Count: 754

“I do not understand the need for a Christmas tree in the salon. Your efforts have resulted in a tree as tall as four men in the palace foyer as well as one in the gardens, not to mention the tree we traditionally provide in the town square.” His royal highness King Chevalier Michel is standing in the doorway of the aforementioned salon, watching as you artfully toss handfuls of shiny gold tinsel across branches bedecked with porcelain bells, golden orbs, shimmery iridescent ornaments that look almost like bubbles, and a massive string of white pearls winding from the top to the bottom of the dark green fir.

“Because,” you say cheerfully as gold tinsel flies from your fingertips, “it gives the room a nice, cozy holiday feeling.”

He snorts, crossing his arms across his chest. Clearly he does not share your opinion. Your tinsel has run out and so you turn toward the wooden box resting on the couch, shooting him a look. “Huff all you like but you put me in charge of decorating because you did not want to bother with something so trivial AND because you did not want Clavis booby-trapping all the decorations again.”

“Black nearly had a heart-attack last year when the tree ornaments started exploding,” Chevalier murmured.

You nod, remembering as you open the wooden box and carefully remove the golden star tree topper. “And Sariel was furious at all the green dye in the fountains.”

“Four Eyes is always furious about something,” Chevalier states as he watches you walk back toward the tree you had placed in the back corner of the salon. He must admit, it does compliment the darker tones of the room and you have done a fine job decorating it in angelic white and gold. Now as you approach the tree, a slow grin pulls on the corner of his mouth.

“You cannot reach the top.”

He sounds far too amused for his own good, you think as you assess the tree. The top is rather high but it isn’t like its giant cousins in the town square or downstairs in the foyer. This one is about as tall as Chevalier and you can reach up and push your fingers through that pale, silken hair without trouble.

“Of course I can.” Think tall thoughts. Pine trees. The palace spires. Luke. Slowly, you raise yourself up onto your toes, stretch out your arm, and will the heavy star-shaped golden tree topper to reach the top. Not.....quite.....your toes are beginning to hurt, screaming at you that they have reached their limit. Your arm is starting to shake, a weary soldier with only a few last gasps of air left before it collapses. Just....ugh....a...half a centimeter.....the topper brushes the tip of Christmas tree in the very faintest of kisses. Come on....argghhh.....

And then something hard is gripping your waist, your aching toes leave the wooden floor and your arm manages one final act of bravery as it sets the topper onto the tree before falling, exhausted, to your side. For a moment you are at height with the golden star, floating in the air like the spirit of Christmas itself, suspended above the tree in all of its now complete glory. You gasp softly as the sight, your eyes trained on the star even as you slowly sink back down to earth, your feet coming to rest on the floor once again.

Chevalier’s hands slide from your waist, forward, wrapping around you and pulling you back against him. You lean back into him, admiring your handiwork. Even in the thin winter light pouring in through the arched window, the tree shines, a celestial wonder with its white and gold ornaments, glistening tinsel and of course, the majestic Christmas star at the very top, twinkling proudly.

“Thank you,” you sigh happily as you hug his arms against you, nestling against the wide, comforting feel of his chest at your back.  He lowers his head, pressing a kiss to your temple before speaking. “I was correct in my assertion that you are too short.”

A smile, soft as snowfall, bright as moonlight, crosses your lips as you turn your head to look up at the man you love.

“I seem to fit here,” you snuggle even closer against him, pulling his arms more tightly around your midsection, “just fine.”

He laughs, a quiet sound as smooth and fine as velvet. “That you do.” Another kiss, this time to your cheek. “That you do.”

Tagging: @aquagirl1978 @atelieredux @alixennial @alexxavicry @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesrose @somekidnamedkai @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-mrs-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny @leotoru @kpop-and-otome @queen-dahlia @moonstruck-writing @scorchieart

[timeturner-jay]

writing suggest: the Knight + monster~?

There was a horrible grace to it all, Quirrel thought dimly as he watched the battle unfold below him. The city’s sombre spires and bleak colours lent themselves well to this gruesome dance – as he was watching, his small friend stabbed their dull nail through the neck of yet another sentry, tearing through her in a splatter of orange gore. They didn’t pause, using the momentum to swing down in a vicious arc, tearing the wings right off another flying enemy.

The wounded husk stumbled, clinging to a ledge, and the city’s glum atmosphere seemed to darken even further as the traveller’s short frame was suddenly consumed by billowing shadow, flickering and condensing and lashing out in a burst of brilliant, brutal light.

Quirrel stared, transfixed as he blinked the spots from his eyes, at the place where the infected bug had just been. Not much remained of it, and the scattered pieces of its shell looked ravaged, almost like something had consumed it.

Perhaps it was just the cold temperature of the glass window his hand was resting against, but a chill ran down Quirrel’s spine as his gaze slowly moved to the motionless form of his little friend. They were standing in the same spot they had been in when they had unleashed whatever that had just been, and their sudden stillness made for an unnerving contrast to the violent energy that had possessed them just seconds before. If they even noticed the ceaseless rain that was running down their body, already washing away the bloody evidence of what had just occurred, they didn’t acknowledge it.

And then they raised their head, and Quirrel’s breath caught in his throat as they looked up and right at him, like they knew that he hadn’t left the room with the bench yet, like they knew that he had been watching. Unsettled, Quirrel almost took a step back before he caught himself, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from that hollow, haunting gaze, two dark pits set in a too-pale mask. He felt like he was staring straight into an endless void.

Quirrel had naively assumed his friend to be quite young, based on their short stature, but such a thought seemed laughably far away now. The shadowy gaze that had captured his own felt ancient and unknowable, and the dreadful tension only left Quirrel’s body when the other finally broke their eye contact and turned, vanishing into the city’s darkness without another glance.

He watched them go until they fully disappeared, and then he slumped back down onto the bench, one hand wearily pulling the comforting weight of his hat down over his eyes.

He was certainly glad to call them a friend, Quirrel decided, and a brittle laugh escaped him. He did not want to be on their bad side.

You gave me the perfect prompt to enable my eldritch horror Knight propaganda, so you get an extra long one. <3 Thank you!