#will upload to ao3 later

[ectojyunk]

For that ask game - how does Hydaelyn feel about Aro? Like... Venat met this guy once for a few days in the past and decided to hang everything on him being her hero. And then Hydaelyn actually finally gets to that point, and maybe he's not what she actually expected, or something. You know?

Venat reveals herself one last time as a hazy projection during Aro's sojourn in Garlemald. Emet-Selch is not the only one with memories about Azem's past. (Snippet below)

"And… have fun on your hunt."

Aro froze in place and turned back to face the figure of Venat. The wind howled outside the crumbling cabin- a snowstorm was coming. But never mind that, why would she say such a thing?

"What do mean by 'my hunt'?"

The Lady of Light tilted her head questioningly, "Is that not what the game is called? Between you and the Prince?"

Aro furrowed his brows, it wasn't surprising that Hydaelyn knew a lot about him and the world… but something about her words and the way she said them didn't feel right with him.

"I think you are mistaken. It is not a game I partake in- not anymore, anyway," he said with his voice becoming low near the end.

"It is not?" Venat put a hand to her chin, closing her eyes in thought, "That is… surprising."

After an moment which seemed like a year to Aro, she spoke up again. "It is a shame then, that you will not take joy in the challenge I set up for you. But do not worry, the aether I imbued in that child will return to me when you strike him down. And I will usher his soul to the Sea as gently as I did with the others."

The wind, the creaking of the walls and floorboard of the cabin seemed to stop for Aro. It was if time stood still when he understood what Venat was talking about.

"Y-you… made him like that?" he asked, his voice quivering for the first time in years.

"No. He was to be a vessel for the light, like Minfillia was," Hydaelyn turned her gaze towards the window, watching the first bits of snow fall outside, "Alas, Emet-Selch noticed my involvement and my plan was stopped short before I could fully establish a connection between him and the Mothercrystal…"

Aro felt a dark pit in his stomach forming, something was deeply wrong. Yes, Hydaelyn's words made sense, but if what she said was true… if her hold on Zenos had failed, what was the "challenge" all about?

"It worked out in the end," Venat turned back to Aro, "He has provided you a suitable challenge. Ones you oh so love to solve… Or you did, as I knew you… as did your many incarnations on this world. This… is the first time you seem dissatisfied with my work. I fear that maybe, I do not know your heart any longer."

A dark and irrespirable feeling clawed at Aro; his mind pleaded him to run and stop questioning Venat. He didn't want to hear her any longer. But he had to. He had to.

As if she read his mind, she took a step forward and ever so slightly leaned down, "If you do not wish for it is this lifetime my child, I will stop my gifts for now, or indefinitely, if that is the course your soul takes." She seemed… sad. "But it is a shame. For I cannot take my biggest gift back. This world. It was to save our people, yes… But it was also my gift to you."

Aro slumped forward and put a hand on the beam next to him to steady himself- it let out a silent crack drowned out by the raging storm outside. "What on earth are you saying… That this world, the entire Star, was a gift from you? For what? You thought I'd- that Azem would want…"

Venat straightened, her voice taking on a more neutral tone, "I realize that you sympathize with Emet-Selch's views and world. Our old world. But the you I knew, the you that I have seen reborn over millenia had one strong desire. I never would've imagined you straying from that desire…"

"What desire!?" Aro spat. "What desire could I have possibly had to warrant such a wretched gift!"

The howling got louder, the storm almost felt like it would tear the house and everything in it into shreds. Neither of the occupants cared.

"Why, it is the desire to serve your Seat. The seat of Azem. I have ever guided you to fulfill that role," Venat circled around the shaking room, her words somehow overtaking the screams of the wind, "And what better gift could I give you as a mentor, than a world of suffering, of mire, of plague, of war and countless problems… all for you to solve. A never-ending journey for my most diligent and beloved pupil."

Her smile. It was sickening.

"You. You're not. You're not Venat. You are but- It. Hydaelyn— You have become this. You must have. A primal- as a primal you… you took her wishes and. Like all over other primals…" Aro stammered, the mess of babbling words did not reach Hydaelyn, whether because of the storm or that she simply ignored him, he did not know.

"The Seat of Azem became less and less active over the course of our history, for it was our duty to teach our people how to solve their problems on their lonesome. Hypnos came to realize that one day, our Seat would not be needed. Oh… I could tell how sad you felt when you shared the news with me, despite saying how happy you were for our people-"

"Stop talking. Stop. Stop!"

Aro put his hands over his ears as they folded against his head. He went low on his knees, seeking to almost disappear from existence somehow.

Hydaelyn bent down to her knees, waiting for Aro to lift his face. Hesitantly- Aro looked up and his eyes widened. He was mortified.

It was not the smile that disturbed him this time, but the reflection in her eyes.

"I hope… In time you realize how much this gift meant to us, to all life on Eitherys as well," she said, but he wasn't listening.

He saw himself as Azem reflected in her eyes. His lips quivered as he spoke "What did you do…"

Venat did not answer, Azem did not answer and Aro… had no answers as to how the three of them had become humanities greatest saviours, and its greatest villains.

[sarcasticscribbles]

That's all folks!

All 14 Poll Avatars are done! Thank you so much for making these with me! I can't express enough how happy I am over the response for this project, I had so much fun designing the characters and connecting with a bunch of you guys! I've uploaded all statements to Ao3 if you'd like to read through them, otherwise @alukardtheabysswalker have voiced all statements and put it on a playlist for you to check out!

This has been super fun, and I'd love to hear from you about these guys, any questions or thoughts! (From TMA Poll Avatars; October 2023, to January 2025)

[turtleplushi]

Art for chapter three of Hate Me Not :))

Maybe go read it if you haven't already hehe

[momo-t-daye]

...okay, so I suppose Christmas in 1995 was on a Monday and if the winter break is generally two weeks long and starts on the weekend before Christmas, then maybe the first Occlumency lesson (on a Monday evening) was on the 8th of January and Severus Snape was not yet 36 years old, but, ah, time is wobbly etc.

Has Severus taken the role of "Godmother" faster than Harry has managed to adapt to Sirius' revelation/declaration? Maybe, yes, probably. Does Voldy demand student drama and gossip from Severus? Yes.

Part Two

[crow-aeris]

star gazing

Tim kicked his legs up, taking in a deep breath as the stars glimmered above him. It was a rare for gotham to have clear skies, and rarer still for it to be dark enough that stars appear. Usually, with a view like this, he'd have his camera in hand to record the memories forever... but that wasn't the case- at least not for tonight, that is.

He'd been benched due to an injury a few days ago that still left his bones and muscles alike aching.

"What's a birdie like you doin' all alone?" a rough voice rumbled above him.

Despite the gravel digging into his back, Tim leaned forward to see Red Hood approach.

"Hey, Jason," he greeted with a subdued tone, "shouldn't you be on patrol?"

"Shouldnt you be at home?" the older huffed, disengaging his helmets safety before taking a seat beside him.

"Mm," Tim hummed disinterestedly, the night quiet and still.

"Okay, what crawled up your ass and died?"

He rolled his eyes, keeping his eyes fixed on Altair, the star glittering peacefully from its perch as Aquilla's eyes, "It's nothing, okay? Just leave it. If I go back to the manor, will you finally leave me alone?"

"Whatever," Jason scoffed, but the two lapsed into an easy silence.

Eventually, dawn creeps in on little cat feet, and Tim is reminded of a poem.

""Fog creeps comes on little cat feet-""

"Fog, by Sandburg," Jason replies instantaneously, twisting his head to pin Tim with his turquoise eyes tinged with intrigue, "never took you to be a poetry buff, birdie."

"Never took you to be such an annoying asshole, Hood," he huffed back, though his words lacked any substantial heat, "but no, I'm not a poetry buff, or whatever. I just remember snippets from what my mom used to read me, but never the entire thing."

"..."It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches, and then moves on"."

"...What?"

"It's the rest of the poem," Jason keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the skyline, both the buildings and sky alike were steadily being repainted with the gentle apricots and peachy hues of the rising sun. Both knew that the sun wouldn't make it past a few more hours, and will soon be once more obscured by gotham's near-perpetual smog.

"If you want help finding the names of those poems, you already break into my safehouses anyway, so how about we make your visits productive, hm?"

Tim allowed the silence to fill the air once more, both mournful of the vanishing sun yet appreciative that he could witness Gotham painted as the beauty it was. After a few seconds, he replies, "Since I already do it, might as well."

So when on nights where the nightmares seemed a little too real, and the terrors seemed a little closer than they were, Tim would scurry to Jason's place under the guise of a little poetry lesson.

And bathed in the warm glow of Jason's lamp, listening as his childhood hero gently read from the well worn pages of "The Tale of Beowulf", Tim could not help but to be delivered to sleep.

[applespants]

Muse

Read Chapter 5 on Ao3 Here

Rating: Mature

Fandom(s): Transformers One (2024), Transformers - All Media Types

Pairing(s): D-16/Orion Pax, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Tags: D-16, Orion Pax, Background & Cameo Characters, Pre-Canon, Fluff, Light Angst, Poetry, Slow Burn, Getting Together, Pining, Other Additional Tags to be Added, Not Beta Read

Summary: D-16 is a poet, but he struggles to find the right words. There are days where they come easy, flowing as energon once did, and there are days where they fill his mind so much that he cannot grasp them. 

Orion Pax is his muse, but neither of them know the extent of his admiration. A simple gesture, a simple conversation, even a simple touch is enough to stir D-16’s spark.

As D-16 begins to write his poetry, he finds inspiration and feelings in places he did not initially expect…

Chapters: 5/22

[boyneptunee]

i want to kms but i wrote a cute fic about an antique shop and a cat with one eye instead how bout that

[bi-focal12]

Idolish7 fanfic- Morning (1,210 words)

a friend showed me this clip of Idolish7 and i've been binging the show ever since

this is my contribution to the fandom lol

--

“Iorin,” Tamaki whined, slumping into the doorframe of their dorm bathroom, still dressed in his pajamas. “Where’s my toothbrush?”

Iori continued straightening his school tie in the mirror, sparing an irritated glance towards his team member. “I’m not your mother.”

Tamaki’s head slumped lower on the frame. “But Iorin, it’s not there.”

“Where else would it be?” Iori shot back, thankful that Tamaki’s closed eyes allowed him to stealthily tally up the toothbrushes scattered around the sink. 

Iori’s toothbrush was resting upright in the cup meant for toothbrushes, as was Sogo-san’s and Yamato-san’s. Nagi-san’s- an obnoxiously pink, wand-shaped thing- was beside the cup at least, and Mitsuki’s was balanced on the tiny line of counter ledge the same way he’d done since they were young, and Nanase-san’s was in the shower like a heathen. 

Tamaki’s toothbrush was not there. 

“King pudding,” Tamaki mumbled. 

Iori stomped on his foot and Tamaki jerked to attention with a cry. “Don’t you dare fall asleep!” Iori chastised. 

“But-”

“Either go find it or go buy a new one, but if you’re late getting back I will leave for school without you.”

Tamaki yawned. “I’ll just have a mint.”

Iori frowned. “That’s unsanitary.”

“Then I’ll ask the manager for one.”

“That’s rude.” Iori pushed past Tamaki to exit the bathroom. “She’s way too busy already to go running errands for you.”

Tamaki groaned, letting Iori’s small nudge of his shoulder turn into a slow-motion pantomime of being shoved to the ground. “I just won’t go to school then,” he said, curling up on the hallway’s dirty carpet. 

Iori huffed and stepped over Tamaki’s limp body to make his way towards the kitchen where Sogo-san, predictably, sat at the table nursing a warm cup of tea. 

The mug was halfway to his lips when he noticed Iori’s approach and he paused, smiling. “Oh, Iori-kun. Good mo-”

“Tamaki’s on the ground because he’s lazy and can’t find his toothbrush and won’t go buy a new one and if he tries to leave the house with me without cleaning his mouth I might kill him.”

Sogo-san hardly blinked while Iori explained the situation, and only after a long sip of tea that had Iori tapping his foot on the ground in impatience did he finally say, “You’re not really a morning person, are you, Iori-kun?”

Iori frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Sogo-san smiled gently. “You’re just normally a lot more…level-headed.”

“I’m being level-headed,” Iori huffed, “I went and got you, didn’t I?’

Sogo-san blinked. “What am I supposed to do about it?”

Iori, maturely, resisted the urge to groan aloud and walked (not stomped) to the fridge instead to pour himself a glass of orange juice. As he watched the glass fill with bright pulpy liquid, he mentally recited, it’s good for you, there are antioxidants, it helps your gut and when he felt marginally more relaxed he turned to Sogo-san. Calmly. 

“You manage him for Mezzo, don’t you?”

Sogo-san made a so-so gesture with his head, mouth twisting with uncertainty and what were probably thoughts he wouldn’t dare let escape his polite mouth. 

“So manage him,” Iori demanded, downing his glass in one go and depositing it in the sink where it belonged. He wrinkled his nose at the myriad of cups still littering the counter from yesterday. 

Iori lived with a horde of pigs. 

Sogo-san continued to drink his tea, lightly tapping out the melody to one of their most recent songs on the tabletop with the soft pad of his fingertip.

The clock continued to tick away. 

Iori marched to the chair directly opposite him and stared- maturely and unflinchingly. 

Ten seconds, Iori predicted. 

Sogo-san’s tapping turned more forced, his gaze darting anywhere but Iori. 

Eight…

“He’s not my responsibility, you know.”

Iori lightly tipped his head in acknowledgement, then let his gaze track pointedly over all the empty chairs surrounding them. 

Six…

“Tamaki-kun needs to learn to do things for himself,” Sogo-san pointed out. “This could be a learning experience!”

Iori raised his eyebrow. 

Sogo-san’s mouth twisted. 

Four…

“This isn’t even Mezzo related. Not really.”

Iori scoffed. 

Three…

“Maybe…maybe he’s already gone looking for his toothbrush?” he suggested hopefully. 

Two…

Iori discreetly held his breath, hoping to punctuate the perfect silence permeating the dorms. There was absolutely no toothbrush-related ruffling. 

One. 

“Oh, fine,” Sogo-san sighed, rising unhappily from the table and pointing a finger towards Iori, “but I’m not his keeper.”

“Uh-huh,” Iori agreed lightly. 

“I’m not,” Sogo-san repeated, denial thick on his tongue as he walked toward the bathroom, tea still in hand. 

“And I don’t have a thing for idiots,” Iori murmured under his breath. 

There were still fifteen minutes before he and Tamaki needed to leave for school so maybe he could just shut his eyes for a-

Nanase-san suddenly pulled out the chair beside Iori and shot him a grin far too sunny for the early morning hour, placing two plates of toast down. “You don’t have a what?” he asked pleasantly, sliding one toward Iori. 

Iori squinted in the face of such brightness, then cleared his throat.

“Nothing. Is this all you know how to make?”

Nanase-san’s bright smile melted into a frown. “I told you I’ve never lived on my own before,” he complained. 

Iori took a bite of the offering, pleased. 

“You’re pathetic.”

“I am not,” Nanase-san denied halfheartedly, too used to this particular insult to rise to the bait like he had when they had first formed Idolish7. 

Iori would just have to try harder, then. 

“You didn’t even make anything at all! How’re you gonna stay healthy for the group if you’re skipping meals, huh?”

Iori spared a glance at Nanase’s overly sincere expression to ensure he wasn’t making things up but no, Nanase’s best rebuttal was an earnest appeal to Iori’s health. 

How cute. 

Iori cleared his throat. “How could I cook with Tamaki-kun making such a fuss?”

“What? Tamaki’s still asleep in the hallway.”

A spike of irritation shot through Iori. After he’d gone through all that effort to get Sogo-san to solve the problem, too. 

“He better not be. I’ll kill him.”

Nanase-san laughed, unfairly awake and amused at such an early hour. His right hand rested comfortably on the back of Iori’s chair. “You’re not much of a morning person, are you?”

Iori was…not sure what kind of a person he was, yet. 

Still, he knew he found delight in giving Nanase-san a hard time and, mature as he was, Iori couldn’t see a reason to give that up when it made him feel so pleasantly warm. 

Iori shrugged carelessly, tucking away any hint of the smile he felt growing in his chest. “Maybe I’d be cheerier if you didn’t burn my toast.”

“What?” Nanase-san exclaimed. “No way! I didn’t burn anything!”

Iori stared at him blanky until Nanase-san began to fidget, his cheeks taking on a bit of the color Iori worked so hard to see everyday. 

“Well,” Nanase-san mumbled, eyes darting away, “you ate it anyway so it couldn’t have been that bad.”

Iori rose from the table and placed his empty plate in the sink, where it belonged, lips curling upward only with Nanase-san at his back. 

“I’m very polite, Nanase-san.”

“Polite my ass.”

[littlebittyhollowbugs]

Trial by fire: Tale of the Mantis Lords

The newly appointed lords of the mantis tribe continue to honor their agreement with the kingdom of Hallownest, keeping the beasts of Deepnest at bay.

The task growing more difficult, as their enemies grow stronger,

And as the eldest and youngest's plans begin to clash.

Chapter one (5k words)

Read below the cut~

Oriana glides down the walls, with her bone crafted claws and two sinew baskets filled with goods from the hunting grounds strapped onto her back.

The second and third born children of the mantis tribe's ruler glide down behind their sister, each carrying a basket of her own.

"Ori look out! You'll land on a sporg!" Siara shouts.

"I'm not so easily fooled!" the eldest of the three laughs after hitting the bottom level of their fungal framed village.

She then takes off fast as a wind scythe in the midst of battle.

Determined to leave her sisters as far behind her as is necessary in order to be crowned victor of their homeward bound race.

"Ori your basket's slipping!" The second born shouts again, another attempt to slow her down or distract her.

The supplies she carries are strapped to fit.

She sprints onward.

"If you wish to best me, you'd have a better chance utilizing your feet rather than your mouth!"

She can hear her sister let out a winded scoff somewhere behind her.

She chuckles. Her sisters are determined but not so much as she.

She is still surprised with how quick her legs can carry her.

It wasn't long ago the wings that she relied on since birth had been ceremoniusly clipped.

The hind-wings that is, and now her indigo fore-wings wrap over her shoulders like a cloak billowing in the wind behind her.

"I was simply testing your wit sister." Siara's voice becomes clearer as she catches up, still breathing heavy and apparently more determined than Oriana had anticipated.

"Obviously I intend to win!"

Oriana picks up her pace just before Siara can pass her.

Bounding over shrooms and dodging pikes bearing the faces of their greatest foes.

These remnants of once mighty beasts directing her home to the champions court.

The lowest level of the mantis territory boardering the caverns of Deepnest had long been reserved for the strongest of warriors.

Oriana's lineage had proven to be the mightiest and thus had borne the responsibility of leadership these past four generations.

She and her sisters had recently completed the trials that would determine whether or not they are worthy of residing in the court themselves.

Having been trained since birth, and at last proving herself to her mother, her mentors, and the tribe, she is immeasurably proud to call the place her home.

And she's almost made it back.

Almost won the race.

"Wo- aah!"

Oriana halts upon hearing her youngest sister, Biana, cry out.

Then,

SNAP

WOOSH

The sound of a trap set into motion.

She spins on her heels, allowing Siara to catch up with her.

Far behind them Biana is pulled into the air, tangled in a rope net dangling from the shellwood gates of the cavern.

"Biana!" Siara gasps and follows after Oriana who is quick to put to rest their competition in favor of assisting their sister caught like a beetle in a web.

"Hold on Bia!" Oriana finds where the lever was set and carefully pulls down the heavy rope.

"Do you fare well? Is anything broken?" Siara asks.

"No no I'm only a bit tangled up."

Upon being assured that her sister is unharmed Siara nearly bursts into laughter.

"Oh you find this humorous do you?" The captured one grumbles.

She wriggles out of the hunting trap after having been settled on the ground.

Oriana helps to unravel the rope.

"What fool would place a trap along this passage?"

Siara's laughter dies down at that query, and both sisters turn to her adorning knowing glares.

Siara, the newly appointed captain of the hunting team, had a special knack for building and placing traps.

"Really Siara? Here of all places? That is especially reckless of you." The eldest chastises her.

"You told me they were to be placed along the northwestern boarder!" Biana speaks.

"They are well designed though." There is a hint of pride in her tone.

Biana often assists Siara in perfecting her traps.

Truly there is very little that the sisters do not participate in equal with one another.

"I heard rumors of dirt carvers breaking in from a tunnel below here.

Besides, you were running off of the path."

"Barely!"

Siara sighs. "Very well. It may have been bad placement."

"Young lords!"

Two messengers from the court ahead sprint toward the sisters and halt to bow.

The sisters are swift to lend them their attention.

"Welcome back." The first greets them. "Your mother has asked that you meet with her outside the training grounds without hesitation."

Oriana nods. "We will meet with her straightway."

Any demand of their mother's is to be followed by the same reverence that any humble basket craftsman or shroom gatherer might offer having being called upon by a queen, or lord in this instance.

Not even the daughter, and future successor of the tribe's renown leader is exempt from such formalities.

She gestures for her sisters to follow.

"Allow us to take care of the supplies." The second messenger speaks.

"Very well."

~~~

"An upper claw attack, might prove advantagous in an instance where you had not been held at lance point, young one."

Timono glances up at his mother from where she had only a moment ago cornered him in their practice duel.

She chuckles as she rubs her chin where he had landed the strike a bit harder than he had meant to.

Then she settles her lance-nail on the ground and takes his tiny and cracked claws into her hands.

"If I was a beast or weaver you would have made for quite the feast by now."

She lifts him up.

Not yet of age to spar without the aid of his wings, the Mantis Lord's youngest child and only son, flies back from corner to center of the sparring ground.

The standard setting consists of even ground, two walls to grip, one lined with claws, lances, and scythes, and a cage wall to prevent the dishonorable act of fleeing mid-challenge.

This most unique training center in the champions court had been equipped with several settings. with the pull of a bone-crafted lever the floor could open and reveal a pit of spikes below. Shell-wood walls of varying lengths, and adorned in spikes of their own could be added to the ring. Other obstacles included swinging blades, captured sporgs, and a blackout setting.

That last of these designed to prepare scouts and warriors when traversing their enemie's kingdom below.

Timono had been hoping to practice in a more advanced setting.

His mother had promised him that he would, soon enough.

He wonders how soon...

Had he disapointed her with that last-second attack?

She doesn't appear to be so disappointed...

"Maybe we would have gone down together." He suggests.

"If you had been a beast, better that we both go down."

She considers his suggestion.

"Better you never fight alone." She replies. "So that you may rely on your companions to aid you when forced to surrender.

Hold out as long as possible until then. Refrain from reckless strikes."

He flies just before her and bows his head.

"Yes mother..."

He peaks up at her.

"But mother I was fighting alone."

She pats his little head.

"On the battlefield you won't be.

And you'll be practicing alongside your sisters soon enough."

"My sisters?"

He flutters up in excitement.

His triplet sisters being a few years his superior, did not often practice alongside him, despite his many attempts at convincing them to do so.

He has been training day and night, wishing he had not a moment to spare, in order to catch up with them.

With his mother, the lord and champion of the tribe overseeing almost all of his training it is not a surprise he has already come so far.

"Do you believe I could best them?"

"Perhaps. In time." She tells him.

"You still have much to learn.

Besting them aside,

I'm quite positive you will soon be ready to aid them in their training."

She leads her son to the gates.

"Your sisters have learned to rely on each other completely, and you rely on them.

They now must learn to place that same confidence in you."

"They say I'm too young."

She halts before exiting the grounds and he stops beside her.

"You are a bit younger, and still not as strong.

But you contain the spirit of a fighter the likes of which I've never seen Timono."

He cannot deter a beam of pride, upon receiving the accolade.

"And after you've come of age to pass the trials, and have proven your might, nothing more will come between the four of you."

He's dreamed of that day since the day his sisters had begun dreaming of their own victory in passing the trials of pride.

Now all of their dreams have come true.

He is next.

He'll catch up with them soon.

~~~

Oriana waits beyond the training ground gates, both of her sisters at her side.

Guards placed along the nearest walls.

Their mother had been training with their youngest sibling once again.

Outside of her regular duties she seemed to dedicate all of her time to that cause.

She had instructed each of her children, all of their lives, and had gifted them with the greatest among the warriors ranks to mentor them when she could not.

Oriana, as the first of the triplets to hatch, was to be honed into the perfect example of a mantis warrior. This task fell upon her mother and mentors within the very moment of her birth.

It has long since been tradition for the rulers firstborn daughter to be given advanced training in order to keep her family line upon the throne.

But her mother had three daughters, and believed each deserved the greatest that she could possibly give.

She believed that her son deserved the same.

No sons of the tribe have ever been granted such advanced training.

No sons had ever been expected to fulfill roles only the strongest could bear.

Not that little Timono was expected to bear any immeasurable responsibility...

Still Oriana took notice to how much value their mother had placed in the act of instructing him.

He is younger.

Smaller.

Less graceful.

He needs her guidance more...

"My daughters."

Having sent Timono to rest for the time being their mother greets her three eldest with a nod of acknowledgement and respect, before beckoning them to follow her.

The Lord of the mantis village stands tall and lean, she wields her lance-nail, on which the proverbs of her people have long been engraved,

And settled over her antennae the symbol of her leadership, the traditional headpiece that allows her a powerful horned silhouette.

This headpiece and the title of mantis lord have always come hand in hand.

To this day, beetles from the pale being's kingdom or beyond it are occasionally surprised to discover the leader of their tribe is female, the title of lord belonging to the male gender among them.

Within the mantis species that misconception would be impossible to make, the lords have always been female, from the first to last.

As the women have always carried the advantage in terms of strength, the determining factor of leadership.

It was the beetles themselves who had given the first of the lords their title.

Hundreds of years ago, the mantis that had lead their people to this territory had adorned a pair of beetle horns cut from the head of her mightiest opponent, and this symbol of victory had confused the common bug.

She, was mistaken for a he, and was renknown for being the lord of the mantises.

The title stuck.

For generations all those who have been bestowed the title have worn it most honorably.

"I have been taking note of your progress since completing the trials." Their mother speaks and Oriana is focused on nothing short of every word.

"Each of you has proven to be remarkable not only in the area of your strength and agility.

You cotian focus, wisdom and accountability." She proclaims with a sincerity that will impress Oriana all her life.

She stands taller.

Her mother is truly proud...

"You are most honorable representatives of our people." She affirms as they traverse the champions court, prompting all whom they pass by to pause and bow.

"Oriana, my firstborn, I have trained specifically for the task of one day claiming my throne."

Oriana gives a gentle nod, as her mother continues.

"Though after pondering the future of our people, and having witnessed the inner strength that each of you possess." She stops before the entry of the throne room.

"I have come to the conclusion that a change should be made concerning the rule of our tribe."

"A change?" Oriana questions, still she remains composed.

Their mother turns to face them.

"The three of you were born together,

I wish for you to rule together,

And alongside myself."

"Together?" Siara is the first to respond. "All of us?" She cannot stifle the shock in her tone.

"That has never been done before..."

"I have proposed that a mantis lord council be established." Their mother explains.

"A Quadrumvirate."

She turns and lifts her arm, gesturing for her daughters to enter into the throne room before them.

Oriana is the first to follow the unspoken command.

The room representing their tribes vigil, built before the gates of Deepnest now holds within not one, but four towering thrones, the three most newly constructed stand not quite to the length of the original, but are otherwise identical.

Each of the sisters gasps upon taking in the sight.

Oriana's gaze is fixed upon the thrones and cannot easily be swayed.

This is no idea or suggestion.

Her mother is entirely intent upon there being a council of lords.

Upon her daughters ruling at her side.

After all of this time, she truly believes they are ready...

All of them.

She turns to her sisters. Siara had taken Biana's hand.

She herself can hardly still her racing heart.

How must they feel?

It is the greatest possible honor,

And none could be more deserving of such.

Her sisters.

Always at her side...

Their mother comes in from behind them.

"When I retire from my position Oriana will take my place as head of the council." She continues.

"Still each of you will oversee the tribe as one.

Relying on each other's strengths."

Oriana shifts to face her mother and bows before her on one knee, Siara and Biana join their sister in expressing their gratitude.

"Thank you mother." Is all they can manage to say, as they attempt their very best to remain collected while most certainly feeling overwhelmed.

"You have earned this responsibility.

Our people will grow ever stronger under your combined rule." She glows with pride.

"And when your brother is of age and has completed his trials I wish for him to join you on the council."

Oriana glances upward.

Timono a mantis lord?

She is not sure he will ever be strong enough to pass the trials...

Though he still has a few years...

And the guidance of their mother.

Her faith in him appears to be unshakable.

Will that be enough?

Has she not yet told their brother of this enormous expectation?

It seems almost absurd...

In time though,

She reminds herself.

Their little brother may indeed prove himself, in time.

At least for now, she can rest assured that she has more than proven herself to her mother and people.

For so long, from the day of her coming into this world until this very moment, she has been preparing for this,

In the training grounds, hunting grounds, battlefield, and every path she had ever taken, learning from her people, from their written history, from her mother,

memorizing every move her mother had ever made,

And throughout all of this her sisters have been at her side.

It is an unexpected yet immeasurable relief that is all at once overtaking her, knowing that it will always be that way.

A pressure she had not known until now she is finally forced to comprehend as it instantly becomes lighter.

A weight being lifted.

This is all quite the opposite of what she had anticipated she might feel upon at last being bestowed the sacred title of mantis lord.

They shall rule together.

A quadrumvirate.

The mantis lords...

~~~~~~~~~~

~ 3 years later ~

The talons of the monster dig into the earth below and pull its body upward, it bears eight claws on each side of it, sixteen in total, until the front two are speared clean off.

The sharp appendages litter the cavern ground and the garpede roars, then thrusts itself at its attackers.

The sisters disperse in different directions as to confuse the beast who's mandibles snatch nothing aside from the dust now far below Biana's feet.

She and Siara cling to opposite walls and thrust their wind scythes downward to strike the enemy.

Two hits to the backside shell. It's impenetrable.

The underside is incredibly difficult to strike.

If the beast cannot be pulled over,

It must be bound.

Siara unhooks the end of a rope ravelled beneath her wings.

She keeps a manageable collection of weapons on her person.

Hunting rope and a set of daggers carved from mawlek teeth.

The enormous creature tumbles through the dim passage heading for the gate.

The sisters dart ahead of it.

"Catch!" Siara instructs the other as she throws one side of the rope.

Biana takes hold and pulls the end.

After their enemy has made collision the two leap from their positions, pulling the rope around its thrashing form, and tying it down.

The two have practiced this hunting technique before and move quickly though with precision.

Wild Garpedes have neared their territory on occasion, but this marks the first trained attack.

The master of the beast had been targeted first.

A spider who's corpse now claims place atop a mountain of discarded dirt carver shells.

The rest of the spider warriors involved in this sudden attack, had been driven back into the shadows by the lords and champions of the mantis tribe.

Now their final, and greatest foe is caught and crashes onto the stoney ground.

Biana ties together the ends of the rope, while Siara hurries to gather their warriors.

With their assistance they can pull the beast to its backside.

This attempt to break through the barrier utilizing the strength of the giants native to their land,

Siara is almost surprised the spider clan has never attempted it before.

Though, training a garpede could not have made for light work...

~~~

Pebbles scatter beside Oriana's feet, she carries herself with her usual practiced grace and swift pace, ducking below the low and crumbling walls of a newly formed tunnel that becomes darker the deeper it twists.

Of course one doesn't lead a scouting expedition without the essential tools.

She carries a hand crafted lantern filled with bioluminescent fungus, as to help her see.

This particular fungus populates a good portion of the beasts land, and thus makes for a less noticeable visual aid, than the more commonly used luma-flies.

A dark scouting cloak is draped over her shoulders and her lance nail rests over her back.

She had borrowed a tablet from the teams appointed cartographer, with the intention to map out this new tunnel on her trip back to the fungal core.

She follows the sounds of a caught and released weavers crawl.

The tunnel winds deeper than she would have preferred but not more than she had expected.

She holds to that faint skittering sound ahead of her like a thread,

Pulling her closer to the heart of the land of beasts, and further from her scouts.

She had never before taken such an action.

Trekking into these lands, alone.

For weeks now they had been receiving reports from the shrumal tribe.

As a lord of the waste, she had learned to decipher their messages.

Strange activity in the pit of beasts beneath their domain.

Scouts had been sent after the first report,

And the two disappeared shortly after.

Another party was sent, and similarly never returned.

That's five of their best, presumably lost to the spider clan, who had found some way through the fungal wastes boarder.

Lord Oriana organized her own team, and here she is.

She could have taken the weaver back as a captive for questioning.

But she knows better by now.

Besides the fact that their strange magic makes them particularly difficult prisoners,

The weavers would sooner die than betray their own.

She has seen it happen before.

Her people would do the same...

They have died, and worse,

Several of her people have endured the most dishonorable acts of torture, at the hands of these creatures, in the name of loyalty.

She can only hope the scouts she had lost, did not have to suffer in a similar way.

It must come to an end.

She had let their enemy escape in order to follow it, and uncover their new base.

For this plan to work, she must not get caught.

As to not get caught, she must venture alone.

The noise ahead quiets and Oriana comes to a halt, more abrupt than she had meant.

The slightest hitch of breath nearly gives her position away.

She hears the weaver turn and finds the nearest nook in the cavern to back into as softly as possible.

Then stills.

The enemy draws a bit nearer.

If it sees her she is prepared to attack.

She only hopes the potential commotion doesn't invite the attention of other enemies, that may be lurking not far.

She is too far into the deep...

She remains, holding her breath until she hears the weaver turn back at last.

It continues on its path.

Only then does she allow herself a hint of relief.

She must be cautious.

An entire tribe depends on her successful return.

She carries on.

In moments such as these, when the possibility of defeat, however faint, looms overhead,

Oriana is especially grateful for the creation of the mantis lord council.

The tribe does not depend on her alone.

Her sisters are currently overseeing a threat to the gates.

She has full confidence in them.

For three years they've led alongside her with capability and grace.

Their mother would be proud.

And Timono...

He has not been a mantis lord long.

He tends to be overly excited, overzealous even,

He can be terribly naive...

Still,

She must retain their mother's faith in him.

He will grow,

He will be a great leader himself one day.

He is proving that possible now.

While she leads the scouting expedition and their sisters hold off an attack at the gates,

He maintains his position in the throneroom, watching over the village without their aid.

A task he has been bestowed for the very first time today.

She can't allow herself to be overly concerned.

She must have faith in him.

~~~

"To unleash our power through transedence,

Offer a gift in turn.

Fail and face the mystics vengeance.

Implement and earn."

The youngest lord reads over the words of an ancient tablet he carries, one last time as he glides carefully down the walls of a chasm tucked deep within the fungal forest.

Far away from war rooms and throne rooms. Far beyond the hunting grounds,

Hidden in the very outskirts of the tribes territory.

Hidden so well and for so long, only few know the place exists at all.

He leaps onto a floor flooded in bone.

The dim little mound illuminated only by the light that the mantis had let in, upon breaking open a long locked entry way high above him now.

"Kiorin was right about everything else.

He must be right about this too..."

Timono tucks the old shaman stone tablet away and trades it for another record.

He looks it over again.

One of the oldest records of their tribe, carved on well-worn shellwood.

It keeps some detail of their ancestors arrival in this valley, and most notably, is the only written recollection of the being whom the shrumal people had worshipped centuries ago.

A shrumal 'god'

Or being that claimed to be.

The manties did not honor any of their weak-minded neighbors chosen divinities, with such titles.

This being had been their leader once, whom they believed was also their creator and craftsman of the fungal waste.

It was slain by the first of the mantis tribe.

A supposed diety, who had met its demise at his ancestors claws,

A mighty tale, once renowned throughout the tribe,

And exists now only in the form of whispered legend.

This last record of it has been kept secret by the lords of the tribe since the pale being's arrival.

After learning of the record for the first time himself, Timono had thought to use it, to empower their people.

Remind them of their strength,

And the fragility of those who bear the title of God...

His sisters forbid this idea be put into action.

They insisted it stay hidden.

But what use is anything hidden away for eternity?

If his people can not benefit from the old recount, perhaps the owner of this similarly forgotten mound might...

And he will gain something for their people in exchange.

"Yes. This will make for a fair trade." He decides.

A mantis lord is honest within their dealings.

Their honor remains, even when dealing with cast off magicians...

Even when said magicians, also happen to be,

long dead.

Bone masks crack and shatter under the weight of the mantis lord, who approaches the shaman's tombstone lying in the center of the mound.

Having been seperated from her strange kin, The stone was placed by a mantis.

Kiorin.

Timono hadn't been told this directly, but it wasn't difficult to put the pieces together.

Her grave was instantly recognizable as crafted by one of his own.

And Kiorin, the tribes eldest healer, widely considered village eccentric,

And a friend, almost mentor, to the young lord, had informed him of this shaman, whose power still lingers, even after death.

He suspects that he knew her in life.

Though unable to utilize spell casting himself,

(A practice that would likely have had him banished from the tribe even if it were possible.)

The old mantis held much knowledge, that could only have been obtained through a creature like this.

Timono kneels before the mark of the old shaman's departure.

He places the gift, (the gift Kiorin judged would please the shaman) beside her staff leaning against the stone.

Then he waits.

...

Now what?

He is still a moment, though he rarely stills for long.

"I've brought you what you asked for."

He speaks, as he gets back on his feet.

He speaks to the dead...

How foolish must he look?

At least no one is around to bestow him the title of fool.

The way they have Kiorin.

An elder of the tribe who should be respected.

He has seen what that healer can do.

He is unorthodox certainly but he is no fool.

He trusts his old friend.

This will work.

"Is there something else I must-"

Before he can finish the splintered masks beneath his feet begin rumbling.

As the ground quakes he backs away from the planted offering and leaps to the wall, he steadies himself there and watches as a burst a soul erupts from the center of the mound.

A flash of white floods the chasm and dispels an instant after.

The surge nearly knocks him down, but he is able to more carefully land himself after the sudden intrusion.

He looks back at the grave.

The record he had placed is there no more.

The flood of white had claimed and replaced it.

Now flickering above the sight of the trade, is his promised power,

Taking a most peculiar form.

The form of a void-black flame...

The tablet within his travel bag begins to glow, and he is swift to pull it back into his claws.

The inscription has changed.

"For your gift, the shaman fire.

An undeaftable flame.

Your foes will face the ancient ire,

That only you can tame."

~~~

Oriana slows and finally reaches a halt where the tangled routes have conjoined in the deep.

The walls open before her and she waits until the weaver whom she follows is far ahead, before turning to peer through the silk-lined opening.

With the entry clear, she slips in and glides along a crawlspace between the wall and rock remnants of the spiders sucsesful expedition to hollow out this cavern and expand.

Once concealed, she lifts her scouting lantern, careful as a carver before springing from the earth.

The hollow appears unremarkable at first glance,

Then she hears the falling of broken stone and the skittering of spindly legs crawling up to the roof of the cavern,

And she lifts her gaze,

There is something up there...

Something unusual.

She steps forward, every step she takes as if the ground beneath her might give way at the slightest intrusion,

From this new angle, she can decipher the scene more accurately.

An outpost. The grandest web crafted structure she had ever seen.

Suspended far above her,

And weavers.

Deephunters and weavers, fulfilling their tasks to guard.

There are so many...

The cavern roof is adorned in enemies.

She steps back, as debris continues to fall from the workings of the outpost overhead,

And shifts her lantern to face the sound of something hitting the ground just before her,

It did not sound like stone.

It cracked as it hit the floor...

She nearly gasps upon finding it.

She remains composed,

And shrinks back into the darkest corners of the cavern, away from shattered remnants of a captured mantis scout.

[mango-mush]

Merry Christmas @bandsaw-art-time

I thought it would be funny if Oliver fell prey to a few "gamer sins" I hope you enjoy!!

“youer walkin’ in circles, mun.” Mr. Drippy pointed out with as much tact as he normally had.

“No, I-” Oliver began, in an attempt to defend himself.

The seed-sprite pointed to a Mushroom in a wordless interruption, Mr drippy nodded along, “The littlie is right, I've seen that Mushroom three flippin times. In'it time to admit youer lost?”

Oliver twisted his old wand, “I'm just looking for chests.” He glanced to the side, eyes falling on a chest they opened a while ago.

“‘Looken for chests,’ he says,” Mr. Drippy said to the little familiar. It giggled softly, rising its not hands up to its mouth.

Oliver ignored the creeping itch of embarrassment on the back of his neck. He's the pure hearted one, this should fall into place soon enough. With a confidence he didn't really feel he started walking down one of the paths.

Only to freeze when Mr drippy called out, “we just flippin came from that direction!”

“Right.” Oliver turned on his heel and continued to not stomp in that direction. “I knew that.”

♡~~~~~☆

Ethster stood straighter as she noticed Oliver walking away from the Great Sage Solomon towards her and Drippy. “I'm split,” He whispered.

She hummed, tilting her head to see around Oliver. Her eye caught on the Lagoon Naiad gracefully floating in the air. It was beautiful and delicate. “I vote for the Naiad, it would be nice to have a healing familiar.”

“Nahh” Drippy intervened, “it's the tidy little Boggly-Boo.”

Oliver tilted his head, curls falling over themselves. “Why?” The ‘high lord’ shrugged. “Fair enough.” He glanced back at the dancing familiars. “The Shonky-Honker is really cute.”

She turned her head to the purple duck-like trumpet and watched it bounce about. It sung itself a little song composed of doo’s and doot’s. She glanced back down at Oliver.

“But,” he shifted his hand to gesture to the Lagoon Naiad, “a familiar that can heal might be useful.”

Ethster nodded, “Let's go with the Naiad, that way we both can heal.”

Oliver nodded. “That makes sense.” He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” He didn't move. He turned back to the Shonky-Honker. “But, I have Healing Touch.” He muttered.

“This is true?” Esther said, meaning it more like a question than an agreement.

He glanced back at her, “And you can play Chirpy Tune.” She nodded along wondering where this was going. “So we both can already heal.”

She crossed her arms and looked down at him. She was starting to figure out where he was going. “Yes.” His eyes shifted again, drawn by the purple familiar's doot-doots. He stepped away from her. “You're getting the Shonky-Honker, aren't you?” She asked.

“Yeah,” he said, continuing to walk away from her.

She wanted to shout, she settled for muttering “Why ask me?” Oliver, of course, didn't hear her.

Drippy patted her knee, “there there.” She sighed, this would be a long quest.

♡~~~~☆

Oliver lay on the wooden deck, breathing heavily. The ocean familiars hit way harder than they had any right to. A sandwich hovered into view; looking up, Mr drippy stood above him.

“Thanks,” he said, tiredly sitting up and reaching up for the sandwich.

“We already went over familiar types and weaknesses, yeah?” Mr. Drippy said as Oliver took his first bite. The young wizard nodded, lettuce clinging to his chin. “Tidy, why are you using the Mite?”

Oliver wiped his mouth, said “he's my familiar,” as explanation and took another bite.

Drippy propped a hand on his hip and looked at him with immense disappointment. “It's proper weak against water. you know that, right?”

“I believe in him.” Oliver smiled, standing again.

Mr Drippy, lord high lord of the fairies sighed. Kids, man. What can you do?

♡~~~☆

“You know I can heal you?” Esther asked mid fight. Oliver missed a few defenends and wasn't looking too good.

“Huh?” He asked dazely “What do you mean?”

“Just say the word,” She said, reading her finger over her harp.

“Oh,” Oliver's head lolled to the side “Uh, word."

She began to play her song, As she did Swaine saddled up beside them. “And you haven't had me steal anything, my gun’s getting rusty.”

“Oh. Right.” Oliver nodded, “sorry. You both just go mental, ok?”

Swaine turned to Esther with a shrug. She shrugged back “Do you mean go all out?”

“Sure,” Oliver said distractedly as he cast healing touch on himself.

♡~~☆

“You remember what I said about me healing you, right?” Esther asked, looking down as the savior of her world stuffed sandwich after sandwich into his bag.

“In his defense,” swaine began, standing beside her. “We did kinda get wiped out twice on the boat.”

“That's not fair,” she started, turning on him. “I was out of mana, and it's not like you were much help!”

She sighed, looking back down at Oliver. He had to kneel to be at eye level with the fairy whoms stock he was empting “besides, that was a cross continental voyage. This is a short walk to check on Drippys mom.”

“You never know, we might not get another opportunity to stock up,” Oliver said. At some point during their conversation, Oliver switched from sandwiches to coffees.

“Alright, fine.” Esther sighed.

♡~☆

“Quick!” Swain shouted, “I need healing!” He got no response. He took a moment to glance away from Hurly, Oliver was a few feet away focused on his mite.

“Oliver,” he said, taking a step and a half. “Hand me a sandwich or something.”

“Uh,” Oliver glanced away from the rapidly multiplying jellyfish. “Esther, can you heal him?”

She turned to him, midway through cheering on her familiar “What? Uh.” She withdrew her Shonky-Honker, eyes still locked on the two boys. “Sure?”

Swaine nodded, having Hurly withdraw to rest while she sang. He felt a bit better, enough to send Hurly back out, but not well enough to feel confident. “Still hurting,” He complained pointedly.

“Sorry,” Esther said, beginning another song. Before she could finish lighting struck from the sky and took his health straight down to zero.

♡☆

One rough fight, two phoenix feathers, and three apologies later; they all sat around the cat's cradle in a semicircle. Swaine crossed his arms, turning his nose up at Oliver's overly apologetic expression.

Ethster sighed, “I just don't get why you didn't heal us, your bag is filled with provisions.”

Oliver looked down, fiddling with his wand. He muttered something they couldn't make out. Mr. Drippy sighed, “we can't Flippin hear youer muttering, mun!” He said, propping his hands on his hips.

He was only slightly louder this time, they all had to lean in to hear. “I was worried we would need them later.”

“We needed them right then!” Swaine snapped. Dying hurts. Alot. He deserves to be a little petty, as a treat.

“‘m sorry,” Oliver said for a fourth time.

Swaine sighed, puppy eyes always worked on him. “It's whatever. Just don't do it again.”

“I won't,” Oliver said with a ghost of a smile, “I promise.”

♡

[cs-cabin-and-crew]

I WAS WRITING ON AO3 LIKE TWO NIGHTS AGO MESSING WITH MY MORZAN FANFIC!

BUT I DONT KNOW HOW TO WRITE ON THERE SO I WAS JUST TESTING THINGS AND ACCIDENTALLY POSTED IT COMPLETELY UNFINISHED WITH ONLY LIKE 5 SENTENCES!

I DELETED IT AND CALLED IT A NIGHT.

BUT APPARENTLY I DIDNT DELETE IT AND SOME USER KINDLY CORRECTED ME ON HOW TO TAG FANFICS ON AO3.

IM SUPER GRATEFUL THAT SOMEONE HELPED A SISTER OUT, BUT WHAT THE HELL AO3??? I THOUGHT I DELETED IT

Hebsiwnuaksnwinsiwoqmhs

[bangtanagan]

to end up at the sea

minimoni + sentinel/guide au. 2.1k. for @/trueto7 on bluesky // bsky

He feels it like the last gasp before drowning, a black wave of water and a gut-clench panic. The nausea comes a heartbeat after, the thick claustrophobic misery of touch and too much, and he straightens up on instinct, elbow cracking into the side of his chair and sending sparks all the way up his arm to and down to his littlest finger. He bites back a curse, cradling his elbow, and the panic gets heavier. Smothering.

“Jimin?” Next to him, Taehyung startles, pen drawing a thick line through his notes. The lecturer down in front keeps droning on, oblivious to the distraction in the back row of the lecture hall. Whatever he’s saying is lost on Jimin, in one ear and out the other. His attention is caught instead on the blackwater terror echoing around his head and between his ribs. It’s hard to breathe. “Jimin-ah?”

“I’m okay,” he says, remembering to whisper. It’s hard when all his attention is turned away from class to whoever it is in the building caught in this horrible feedback loop of overwhelming panic and sensation and pain. It’s hard to remember it’s not his hurt, not his fear. “I’m fine, I just—"

“What is it?”

Jimin takes a breath. Not his fear, he reminds himself, though it’s hard to believe that when his heart is rabbiting and the sensation of drowning is so close. Someone in the building, he thinks, and that—the reminder of space, of distance, of closeness and the world—helps a little. He takes another breath and lets the crash of overwhelmed wash over him and pass on. He knows how to do this.

“I gotta go.”

“Go where? What—"

“Just— Can you watch my stuff?”

Taehyung, bless him, doesn't hesitate to nod. “Yeah, of course. But why?“

“I just…” He’s never had to explain it before, not to someone who doesn't know already. He shakes his head. “I gotta check on someone.”

“Who? Jimin-ah—"

He stands, fingers still stinging, and squeezes Taehyung’s shoulder as he slips down the row of students, too distracted to offer more than a mumbled apology for knocked-over bags and unplugged chargers. Then he’s out of the hall and into the bright, hot lobby of the sciences building, and someone is—

Stop it, breathe, stop it, get it together—

Jimin takes another breath. He can do this. He can follow it, find them. Can’t help if he’s not there. He just needs whoever it is to hold on a little longer.

He takes another breath and closes his eyes, blocking out the sunlight streaming through the wide windows and the chatter of students cutting through the lobby and the buzz of the air conditioning, and focuses on the echo of feeling sluicing through him. Find the line, his mother always says, and Jimin has never entirely understood what she means by that. Right now, he understand perfectly.

He opens his eyes and follows his feet.

There’s a crowd waiting for the elevator so he forgoes it, shoving into the stairwell hard enough that the door clangs against the wall and thuds shut behind him. He doesn’t care; he’s already pushing himself upwards, feet slapping against concrete, breath coming short in a way that’s half exertion and half whoever is on the other end of the tether, reeling him in. It’s nothing like guiding his brother on the playground, or finding his dad across a crowded mall. There’s something urgent about this, a hook under his belly, and it drags him all the way up to the sixth floor labs.

He crashes out of the stairwell and pauses to gulp down air, pushing his hair out of his face. They’re nearby; he knows they're nearby. But this close, the fuzzy jumble of a spike is overwhelming—he feels it in his teeth and behind his eyes, and it makes the effort of pinpointing the source twice as difficult.

“Hey,” says a student coming out of a classroom, and Jimin has to blink twice to bring their face into focus. “You looking for somewhere?”

“No, um,” says Jimin. “No. Thanks though.”

“You alright?” asks the kid, but Jimin’s already moving, letting instinct guide him. Down one hall, past brimming classrooms, then down another full of offices, and around a corner—he’s always known the science building was a maze but this is ridiculous—and then he’s down a quieter, dimmer hall, where all the doors are marked with warnings and the lights are mostly off, and somewhere nearby is the sound of—

It’s not sobbing exactly, but it’s close. The too-harsh cut of heavy breathing, air scraping in and out. Jimin picks up the pace, shoes loud against the linoleum.

He almost misses him. He’s curled between some machine that looks like it's from the eighties and a cart full of dusty folding chairs, curled in his makeshift bolthole with his knees drawn up and hands over his ears, head bent low. The surging waves of panic and nausea and disgust crash over Jimin, endless. If this is how it feels to him, he can barely manage how it feels to the boy.

“Hey,” he says, modulating his voice quieter as he kneels down in front of him. His hands shake a little. He's never had to do this for a stranger. “Hey, can you hear me?”

He gets no response save for the same rasping wheeze. Jimin hesitates, then reaches out and touches the narrow sliver of skin peeking out between the boy’s sock and the cuff of his pants.

Immediately, everything gets worse.

For a moment, Jimin sinks in it, swallowed by the maelstrom of touch—shirt sharp-rough-tight, jacket claustrophobic, shoes leaden and crushing his feet. The wall is searing cold and the accidental brush of an elbow against the chair cart is the worst sort of shock, and all of it is endless, a sweeping wash of misery that crashes again, and again, and again. Jimin’s breath sticks in his throat, and his stomach turns over, and his head throbs.

But it’s not his. It’s not his skin, not his panic, not his hurt. He can turn it down. He knows how to turn it down.

His mother always talks about it like dials on the radio, tuning things to the perfect station between the static, but for Jimin it’s never been like that. Jimin’s always felt guiding like dancing—knowing the right distance to extend an arm, or the right amount of weight to put down. His mom says he must be very visual, but he thinks he must explain it badly because it’s not about what it looks like. It’s about how it feels. About making his body the right shape.

Only now it’s not his body, or his brother’s, or even his father. Right now, it’s this boy, coiled up in the hallway like the world itself is out to harm him.

He flinches when Jimin touches him, a new and miserable sensation, but Jimin eases it like a limb, takes the weight away. And then, slowly: the prickling shirt. The stifling jacket. The weight of shoes. He takes the slump of his back against the wall and makes it gentle, slow. Draws out the space between the boy’s elbow and the cart, marking the distance and its absence to make both simpler. Gentler. He choreographs kindness in each shifting sensation, until touch doesn't break or brand. Until the waves settle, and the boy’s breathing evens.

“Hey,” says Jimin again, and this time there’s a stirring of movement, of unwinding, in response. “Are you okay?��

The boy’s head lifts. He has a plain face, except for his sharp eyes, which are glossy with tears. The boy reaches as though to brush them away, then hesitates, then wipes them anyway. He seems almost startled by the ease of it. Jimin is still touching his ankle.

“You,” says the boy, voice rough, and then he clears his throat. When he speaks again, his voice is even and deep. “What did you do?”

“I turned it down.” Jimin’s never had to explain this to someone who doesn’t know before. “I— I felt you. I wanted to help.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Have you… Has that happened before?”

“It’s never been bad like that,” says the boy, rubbing at the back of his neck, a faint flush high on his cheeks. “Usually I can deal with it.”

Jimin watches his face shift as he speaks, then shift more as he falls silent, thinking. After a moment Jimin pulls his hand back, slow, and the boy flinches but doesn’t spike again.

“Do you know what it was?”

“I’ve read about it,” the boy says. “Spikes, I mean. I didn’t realize it would be like that.” He blinks and looks at Jimin with newfound attention, his gaze sharp and deep. “You stopped it.”

“I— Yeah.” There’s no point in lying. “It’s sort of what I do.” He doesn’t say that guiding for the boy, for this stranger, felt clearer and more important than it's ever felt with anyone else. “Park Jimin. Third year.”

He holds his hand out, and the boy eyes it warily for a moment before he takes it gingerly. Jimin adjusts his touch minutely, softening his grip, and watches the boy’s shoulders drop in relief.

“Kim Namjoon,” he returns. “Fourth year.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Namjoon-ssi.”

“You too, Jimin-ssi. Do you do this a lot?”

“Not really,” says Jimin, laughing a little at the improbability of it all. He’s still holding Namjoon’s hand, he realizes, but it’s sort of nice. He has a big hand, a sturdy grip now that he’s not afraid it’ll hurt. Jimin’s distantly proud of that, of being able to not-hurt. “Just my brother, usually. You were really loud.”

Namjoon winces and tugs his hand back. “Sorry.”

“No! No, I didn’t mean it like that.“ He frowns, not sure exactly what he meant it like. “I’m glad I could help,” he settles on. “I mean, I’m sorry about whatever triggered it, but I’m really glad I could help.”

“It was just a bad day,” Namjoon shrugs. “Lab was bad. Makes things loud.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It's alright. I'm lucky you were here.”

“Yeah,” agrees Jimin, though he’s not sure luck was the only thing to do with it. His mom says, sometimes, that these skills have a sense of their own. Like they know when the right person is around. He swallows the thought down. “I’ve actually never met anyone else like me. Or, us I guess. I mean, here on campus.”

“My roommate does it a bit,” says Namjoon, which is a surprise. It must read on Jimin’s face, because he shrugs, looking embarrassed. “We figured it out when we both kind of set each other off.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense. You can get a kind of feedback loop sometimes, without a guide for balance.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“Well.” Jimin shrugs, embarrassed. “My whole family is— I mean, we all do it a bit.”

“Oh. So then you know a lot. Maybe you could— only if you want of course—but maybe you could tell me more about it?”

“Yeah,” says Jimin. “Yeah it would be, y’know. Nice to talk about it with someone. If you want.”

“Yeah,” says Namjoon. “I think that would be nice. Maybe somewhere less cramped.”

“Oh,” says Jimin, realizing suddenly that they’re both still crouched on the dusty floor in some back hallway of the science building, and also he’s going to miss the end of his lecture. “Oh, right, yeah. I actually— I have to get back to class, but if you’re around later, we could maybe do coffee? Or, uh, some other beverage of your choosing?”

“Coffee is good,” says Namjoon with the start of a smile. “When are you done with class?”

“In, uh.” He checks his phone and winces. “Ten minutes.”

“I’ll meet you out front after?”

Jimin hesitates. “It won’t be too much? After, y’know.”

“I think I’m okay,” says Namjoon. He flexes his hands and rolls out his neck and gives Jimin a look that Jimin can't begin to read. “If not, I’ve got you, right?”

“Yeah,” Jimin agrees, face warm. He pushes himself to his feet and offers Namjoon a hand, helping him up. He’s tall, as it turns out. Has easily half a head on Jimin, and a dimpling smile, and a warm, firm grip, and in the touch of his skin he feels like the steady, even wash of the sea. Jimin holds on a little too long, and hopes Namjoon doesn’t notice. Namjoon squeezes his hand a little before he lets go, and Jimin thinks maybe he does notice, and that maybe also he doesn’t mind. “Yeah, you’ve got me.”

[thr4shit]

Woop woop random writing time!

Unwanted Eden

Have you ever thought of how beautiful life could be?

This world could be paradise, yet we make it our hell.

The species that runs it is flawed, touched by an evil it raised.

This beautiful world festers as we eat ourselves in from its bulging corpse.

Oh, how we eat ourselves sick, spurred on the disease we created.

We bloat from our cure, that infant sin proliferated.

This world could be paradise, yet we sit in disgust.

This world could be something, if we dared to stand up.

This world could be paradise, yet we lie in wait.

This world could be something, if we tried to speak up.

In the end we are all animal, all natural, all wild.

There is no ruler, just species swayed far from the truth of the garden.

This world is dead paradise, so dance in the sun.

An angel calls down, wings stained from the fall.

Our last call of Eden strikes down upon thee.

This was a flourishing place, so mourn what sinners we be.

[ceiling-karasu]

Jollin and the Festival

The afternoon before the start of the Dano Dragon Boat festival, Nayeon greeted Jollin as he returned home from his rounds, chattering happily as usual. As the spring crops came in around her family farm, the bunny had come by multiple times in the past few weeks to borrow the cart he used for larger courier and mail deliveries around his assigned area of Flower Hill.

Jollin did not mind. Nayeon only borrowed it when she knew he was going to have a light load the next day, or had the day off. And besides, letting her borrow the cart increased the chances of her gifting him a few extra bits of produce as a neighborly thanks, a luxury unheard of back when he was a half-starved laborer in the Weasel Kingdoms.

The entire community seemed to think he was too malnourished for his own good, not knowing that his thinner body and less fluffy tail was due to him being a dormouse scout for the enemy, and not actually a squirrel as they assumed. He dreaded to think about what would happen if they figured it out. Then again, instead of publicly exposing him, they would likely contact the Cherry Valley command center, who would explain that yes, he had actually defected long ago, and was happily being used as bait to lure out other scouts who may have escaped the roundup of the other Tokgasi agents. Or so the hedgehog and squirrel commander had assumed, and continued to believe.

“…I do hope you are able to attend the festival, tomorrow! I just hope it is not interrupted by the Weasel Unit, but surely not even they would be inconsiderate enough to attack a peaceful festival when an international crowd is around. Even I get to perform on stage in the afternoon! I have been practicing in every free moment I get! But I won’t tell you what I am performing. It’s a secret you will have to see for yourself,” Nayeon could hardly keep still as she laughed, bold and shy at the same time.

Jollin could guess that she would probably perform a dance, perhaps in tune to some folk music, or even an opera song. Over the last few weeks, she had taken to wearing a traditional hanbok- or chosŏn-ot, as Flower Hill called them- in every spare moment, twirling as she moved. Even Jollin had noticed her gracefulness, which made her a prime candidate for one of the floating dances performed on the peninsula. He had heard of those, although it had previously been a delicate spectacle reserved only for the weasels and other upper class groups in their mansions and theaters. Granted, she still had to work, so the chima was not as long as to cover the boots, and was not adorned in complex patterns, but she would likely be wearing a proper version at the festival. Still, even he knew not to spoil the surprise, needing to fake some cheerfulness and mimic the excitement of the fools of the country.

“Oh! I simply cannot wait! The Command Center does need me to deliver a few packages tomorrow, but I bet they will need to be taken to the festival anyway,” he laughed. Really, the commanders had already approached him with intel that another Tokgasi agent was to appear at the festival, and wanted him, the supposed defector, to hunt them down. “But it will be getting dark soon! You had best be on your way home so you can help the others with the crops! Otherwise, you will all have to do it in the dark, and that can be dangerous! You might oversleep.”

“Yes, sir!” The bunny tittered She waved, then quickly moved down the path and around the hills towards her home, pulling the cart.

Jollin was not necessarily worried about Nayeon being out alone in the dark. Granted, the Tokgasi survivors were hiding out in the area, but it was unlikely they would go for her. There was a danger of a rouge scout taking her hostage to try and get the dormouse courier to shelter them, of course, thinking that they were close friends. But he knew that despite her looks, Nayeon had already been through the mandatory conscription of Flower Hill. She should know how to fight off an attacker, especially given her grandfather being a top general.

Which made him wonder if she was really the happy, bubbly bunny she appeared to be. As far as he was concerned, his paranoia over her being a plant by Cherry Valley was fully justified. Particularly after her grandfather, the doddering old retired soldier, who would absentmindedly, in his loneliness and age, give away secrets about Flower Hill’s defenses and movements, had turned out to be a fully in charge general, who was feeding him false information as part of a Flower Hill plot to use an enemy scout to destabilize the opposing army. Apparently, Flower Hill, as with other nations, were surprisingly fine with allowing a scout to live and work in their homeland. However, the fact that the scout was not sending the false information back to his handlers as they had planned was an actual problem, as it meant that Weasel Unit forces were not falling into traps that had been set up. It forced the general to drop his charade early out of frustration, and for the Flower Hill commanders to formally induct him as a defector from the enemy.

So, what about his granddaughter, Nayeon? Living so close to the Command Center, it was possible that her role to play was to casually drop information on what he should be doing, in a way that would not sound like an order, should he prove obstinate to demands. Come to the festival, a loud place he had no interest in, and stand near a stage, possibly to meet up and chat with a ‘friendly’ hedgehog about infiltration he had seen other than the Weasel Unit soldiers who had been purposefully invited.

On the other hand, she could simply be that innocent, somehow. It would be a bad idea to question her. If it was the latter, and she found out he was one of the enemies? I wouldn’t see her as often. There would go all the extra food, and news from around Flower Hill that he did need to pass on to his handlers. As far as he could tell, she had no parents, and lived with her grandfather, and given the current war and occupations, there was usually a reason for that.

So, being a bit paranoid about what he said and did was reasonable. The commanders and the soldiers saw it as typical mouse nervousness, while the citizens out of conscription saw him as a poor shellshocked victim from the border, afraid to make friends in case he lost them again. Let both those groups believe that. It makes it easier to meet up with Tokgasi alone.

Which was another reason Jollin needed Nayeon to leave so early. He could see the smudge on one of the stones leading up to the walkway to his house his own house. Someone like him, a Tokgasi scout, would easily recognize the faint Weasel Unit symbol on the ground, signaling that there was a message for him. Jollin lay a hand on the fence post, waiting for Nayeon to shift positions, so the straw hat hanging off his back would block her view of his hand snatching the calling card from Tokgasi affixed to the fence post.

My own house. He hardly could have dreamed of having his own private residence in his previous country. Small, but his own. His own bedroom, a main room, working plumbing in a bathroom, and closets for extra clothing of all things. And the fools had just given this to him, either thinking he was one of their own, or had happily switched sides.

He could get an even greater house if he gave Flower Hill over to Tokgasi and the Weasel Unit. A larger home, with luxuries Flower Hill eschewed, maybe even his own servants, as he had seen other mice get for procuring a great victory for their weasel masters, should they be so inclined.

And perhaps, despite how nice they had been, the thought that Flower Hill fully deserved destruction for their inaction towards the suffering taking place in Usuhan Jiyeog still arose. Just sitting back and not interfering as his people starved and died of sickness, hardly having a care in the world about those who had slighted them generations ago. Jollin had seen the firepower around Cherry Valley and elsewhere, knew that with precision strikes they could have easily wiped out the leaders and most of the Weasel Unit, making their country safer, but they were too soft to do so. Once the weasels were gone, most of the mice would likely starve to death without overseers telling them what to do, so Flower Hill should not have to worry about that.

Still, the firepower he had been allowed to casually see gave him pause in reporting anything.

Either way, there would be a meeting tonight. The message noted to leave the door unlocked.

……………………………………………………………………….

The hill in front of his house blocked his view of the valley below, and he assumed that hedgehogs would spy on him from there. Which meant it was a perfect area for Tokgasi and his agents, along with other scouts, to survey as well to make sure they were not being watched.

The mice gathered in the main room, some watching the windows to make sure no one snuck up on the house. Nervous fools, Jollin noted. One of these days, during one of these meetings, someone was going to make a mistake and capture a hedgehog who passed by, instead of hiding. The smarter infiltrators had run away when Tokgasi’s scout ring had collapsed, helped by Jollin’s instructions on the lax security that appeared during specific times. He had heard the other mice whispering rumors of Geumbanji’s mercenary group running a series of safe-houses for deserters, ending somewhere near the border of Chaand Hadia.

Which, while an odd tactic for mercenaries to use, made perfect sense. Geumbanji himself needed to lie low, now that Flower Hill had realized he was a traitor, and with other countries likely keeping a lookout for him as well, he might be bored. Besides, he would get money, news, and supplies from the traffic, while Flower Hill could watch a steady stream of soldiers leave the ranks of the Weasel Unit. The gold ringed mouse could run his mercenary operation from anywhere.

Fleeing to Chaand Hadia had also been one of his possible routes for desertion, but the stories he had heard about the endless food supply and idiotic citizens of Flower Hill who would just give him things had been too tempting. Besides, he would rather see if the foreign country he knew almost nothing about would actually welcome mice and allow them to assimilate. Best not to be among the first. Even if not, he could still hide somewhere.

But that was not important at the moment. Tokgasi was giving him orders.

“We have finally managed to make contact with the second scout we have embedded around the Command Center. We know that he will be at the festival working security, which is good for us to sneak in. Once you make your deliveries, seek him out and give him this message,” Tokgasi handed him a light pink data chip. “These will give him his next instructions.”

“Activating the sleeper agent, eh?” Jollin snickered, trying his best to sound like a typical mouse, fawning over his boss.

“Naturally! It is time that we start to make our moves to prepare to strike.” Tokgasi smiled back, all previous suspicion of Jollin being a traitor who deserted gone from his mind

“Alright, it should be easy enough, sir! I will complete my mission!” Jollin saluted properly.

The other mice smiled and cheered softly, not wanting to arouse suspicion from outside, if anyone was lurking.

Well, this is interesting. Two Weasel Unit scouts embedded in the command center could spell doom for Flower Hill. But Flower Hill also expected him to find a scout at the festival, which meant that they might already know, betraying the remainder of his own little group of friends.

Jollin supposed he would have to see how it would go.

…………….

End Part One

[applespants]

Muse

Read Chapter 4 on Ao3 Here

Rating: Mature

Fandom(s): Transformers One (2024), Transformers - All Media Types

Pairing(s): D-16/Orion Pax, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Tags: D-16, Orion Pax, Background & Cameo Characters, Pre-Canon, Fluff, Light Angst, Poetry, Slow Burn, Getting Together, Pining, Other Additional Tags to be Added, Not Beta Read

Summary: D-16 is a poet, but he struggles to find the right words. There are days where they come easy, flowing as energon once did, and there are days where they fill his mind so much that he cannot grasp them. 

Orion Pax is his muse, but neither of them know the extent of his admiration. A simple gesture, a simple conversation, even a simple touch is enough to stir D-16’s spark.

As D-16 begins to write his poetry, he finds inspiration and feelings in places he did not initially expect…

Chapters: 4/22

[crehador]

bless the ao3 outage for ending just in time for me to post my daily before midnight in my time zone