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missmonsters2 · 2 years

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—JOUSKA | THREE

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x OFC/Fem!Reader

Summary: Something and nothing at all changed. Wednesday is all too aware of the distance and the horrifying realization that if she wants to be closer, than she'll have to make the first move. Cue compulsively replaying a hypothetical conversation.

Warnings: Angst. Distracted!Wednesday. Wednesday generally being Bad At Feelings™️. Enid's wise words. Thing—the opportunist. Xavier absent but still not safe from Wednesday's roasts. Blood.

Series Masterlist | Library Blog | AO3

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Note: This was intense to write, but it'll only get more intense! Likes, comments, & reblogs appreciated 🥺

Part Two

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Jouska: Noun. A hypothetical conversation that you compulsively play out in your head.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Something and nothing at all has changed since that night.

"Hi, Wednesday."

Wednesday's eyes catch yours as she watches you flanked by two gorgon girls. You've got a white stick of a lollipop hanging in your mouth at the side, the grape confection already finished, but you don't like littering (unlike some of these other heathens at the academy).

Wednesday doesn't say anything back, but she does slow her walking down subtly, her brows relaxes and expression neutral as she looks at you. A nod of acknowledgment is all that is needed to satisfy you as you smile at her before looking away.

It's been like that since that night—the same acknowledgment, and it's all Wednesday can think about.

They've bonded, haven't they? Enid certainly said so. And if that was the case, why were you the same distance away?

Wednesday can only think back to that night.

"Black wings are the mark of a night faerie."

Wednesday doesn't rush her response. This was one of those moments, the one Enid was constantly telling her to be delicate about.

The right words—Wednesday needed the right words.

It reminded her of when she first encountered the photo of herself from Rowan, and how she, too, thought she was destined for (bad) calamity.

"Sometimes the dark doesn't cause calamity but rather is what no one expects at all," Wednesday looks at you, her eyes focused. "The solution."

But even as you give Wednesday a soft smile, she can see something dim behind your eyes, and the taste of utter defeat burns Wednesday's throat, knowing it wasn't the exact right words.

So, Wednesday was at a standstill.

And she was also far from finding a nickname for you that she'd allow everyone to call you. The only bright side was everyone else was somehow doing worse than her with their suggestions despite her not having offered anything at all.

There was a distance, Wednesday realizes. One that you seemed content to let be.

Wednesday feels jolted by the realization that she's been fairly spoiled and blessed in her life (even if she didn't feel it at the moment). It had always been Wednesday who chose to keep her distance from those around her. She had her own interests and had been content to put them above everyone else.

But ever since coming to Nevermore, her little ragtag of misfits—especially Enid—had intrusively barged into her personal space. Wednesday only had to take a small step forward, and everyone else had closed the distance.

Everyone except you.

Wednesday Addams would never deny the fact that she wasn't free from things like desire. She desired many things: rain, mysteries, victory, the fear of others, and whatever things could be described as morbid.

She told her mother that she would never be like her—never fall in love, be a housewife, or have a family. And she had meant it at that moment (although she was very sure she'll never be a housewife).

And really, it's not like Wednesday loves you or anything. But Wednesday has once felt enough to kiss a boy (who turned out to be a serial killer), and when she thinks of Enid, Eugene, and Xavier, she does feel like she has a strange little group to call a family of her own. She begrudgingly accepts Bianca to something like a distant, irritating cousin.

You piqued her curiosity very early on with your unintrusive smiles and waves. Now, you had an enigmatic background and a perhaps sense of self-preservation to remain distant. But it was too late.

Wednesday desires mystery, and she desires you.

They're not mutually exclusive.

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Blood drips down from Wednesday's cheek. She touches her finger to the cut and looks at it curiously.

"You're distracted, Addams."

Wednesday looks back to Bianca, who somehow manages to look both smug and concerned. While being beaten by Bianca again still leaves the feeling of self-pity, her rage is directed at herself.

"And yet, you barely managed to defeat me," Wednesday drawls.

"Well, pull your head out of the dark, gray clouds and focus so I can put you in your place again without your excuses," Bianca shoots back without hesitation.

Wednesday starts to move into position when the coach halts it and tells her to go to the infirmary to take care of her cut. Clenching her jaw, Wednesday puts her equipment away and leaves the room.

The cut stings, and Wednesday knows it was her own fault that Bianca cut her too deep. She was distracted. She has been lately ever since her realization that if she wanted to close the distance, she would have to be the one to intrude in your space.

The problem was that Wednesday only knew how to intrude into someone's space when she was suspicious they were a serial killer—accusing and without permission.

And thus, Wednesday has been afflicted with hypothetical conversations her brain refused to stop producing. It was costing her sleep, and now the victories that should belong to her.

"Wednesday!"

Turning around, Wednesday sees Enid skipping her way down toward her. The blonde frowns when she glances at Wednesday's cheek and pulls out a white handkerchief. It’s the only colorless fabric she owns. "Fencing?"

Wednesday nods, accepting the cloth as she dabs it against her face, wiping at her jaw where it dripped.

"Lose?" Enid winces in pain.

A dark look crosses Wednesday's face, and Enid quickly changes the subject.

"Are you excited for parents' weekend?" Enid asks. "I'm surprised Principal Weems has made it so early in the year. I hear she's making changes so parents visit once at the beginning of the year and once at the end of the year."

"If by excited you mean begrudgingly accepted it, yes," Wednesday monotones.

"But it'll be interesting to see who the fairy godmother's parents will be, right?" Enid rocks on her toes in anticipation. "I heard her dad is, like, a high lord or something."

The comment does spark interest in Wednesday. She is curious about the two people who had loved you so much that they took you out of isolation and parted ways with you in this safe haven.

Assuming that they could visit you, anyway.

"That's also a witless sobriquet," Wednesday comments absentmindedly.

Enid only huffs.

"Enid," Wednesday calls evenly.

"Hm?"

"How—why—" Wednesday takes a deep breath as her eyes close for a moment. When she opens them, she finds Enid staring at her curiously with an amused smile. Wednesday knows it was because she’s never this inarticulate, but Enid is gracious enough to not say anything about it and waits patiently for her to gather her thoughts.

As patiently as she can, it seems.

"Not to rush you, but you should probably hurry on and say whatever it is you want to say so you can get on to the infirmary. The cut is starting to soak through my handkerchief," Enid gently pushes.

Wednesday grinds her teeth for a second before sighing through her nose lightly.

"How did you decide on how you wanted to be closer to me?" Wednesday asks, leaving as much emotion out of her tone as possible but cringing at her sentence. "Especially since it was obvious I wanted to keep my distance."

Enid's lip twitches, and Wednesday already regrets asking, but before she can turn around and leave, Enid answers. "Well, in your case, I think it was easier for me to tell you didn't really want to be alone, so I didn't ask."

Wednesday makes a vague face of disgust while Enid continues on.

"But in your case," Enid stresses, smirking at Wednesday's unblinking face. "I think you should ask to do something together to be closer."

Wednesday's eyes flicker as she processes Enid's words. The memory of Tyler's efforts to take her to the catacomb, how he set up lights, and a movie pops into her mind.

"Like a date," Wednesday says slowly, and horrification begins to set in.

"Er, I think that's a little too advanced for you," Enid cuts in quickly. "Maybe just try to find a way to spend more time together casually but consistently."

Enid looks at her watch. "Oh, I gotta go. Yoko and I need to start planning for the boat race this year." With that, Enid happily skips down the hallway. She turns around once and yells, "Oh, don't forget to wash the blood out of my handkerchief. I trust you'll know how to do that!"

Wednesday nods before she continues on her way to the infirmary. When she enters, she sees Weems talking to someone sitting on a cot behind the curtains.

"I'm happy you've found a friend to help you, but I'm concerned—" Weems stops as soon as she sees Wednesday, frowning as she sees the cut and then sighs, "Coach Vlad had told me you and Bianca frequently spared without your helmets. I had hoped he was joking."

The curtains suddenly opened, and Wednesday wasn’t surprised. She could tell it was you by your silhouette.

Immediately the hypothetical conversations she's been creating pops into her mind again.

"Hi, Wednesday," you smile with a short wave before you eye her cut. "Hope the other person looks worse off."

Weems clicks her tongue in disapproval, but Wednesday's lip twitches upward slightly.

The principal is about to say something else when a small, lanky boy walks in. He clutches his wrist, but Wednesday can’t make out his feature with his overgrown fringe covering his eyes. He seems to see just fine, though, as his posture stiffens at the sight of you.

"O-Oh, F-Fae," he starts to say but then stutters. "No, sorry, I-I mean—"

"It's fine," you wave away his attempt at saying your name. "Did you hurt yourself in psychitect?"

He nods.

"I suppose I should go find the nurse. She went down to the cafeteria for a quick snack," Weems says before she looks at you. "We'll finish our conversation later."

"It's fine," you wave it off. "I can help Wednesday. We’ll be gone before you’re back."

Weems purses her lips in disapproval, but you just give her a look back. Sighing, Weems nods before she turns to walk out. "Glad to see you fitting in more this year, Wednesday. It's pleasant to see you in my office less."

"It's too early in the year still," Wednesday haughtily replies, eyes trailing Weems as she leaves the room.

"Come along, Henry."

Once alone, Wednesday's eyes trail to you.

"Well, take a seat," you stand up and gesture to the cot near her as you rummage through the cabinets.

"I can do it myself."

"I'm sure you can," you absently say as you move bottles back and forth in search of something. When you find it, you turn around with a lopsided smile. "But I assure you I can do it better."

Wednesday only raises her eyes challengingly but sits down as you sit on the stool and roll over to her. She sits primly with her back straight as a rod when you come closer and closer. To allow your proximity, Wednesday has to open her legs for you to come between, being the one wearing pants.

"Pretty nasty cut," you mumble, and Wednesday can smell grape lollipops.

"I've had worse."

"Bragging, I see," you smirk as you put on gloves and use tweezers to soak a gauze pad in saline solution. "Xavier did tell me you took an arrow for him once."

"Xavier has an abnormally large mouth," Wednesday speaks tersely with a furrow of her brows. When you gently dab the soaked gauze pad on her cheek, it doesn’t sting, but Wednesday clenches her fists closed with your face so close.

"I think he was bragging," you continue to dab. "Enid and Eugene have similar anecdotes. Thing, as well."

Wednesday huffs while you merely grin lightly.

Enid's words and Wednesday's haunted hypotheticals were plaguing her again.

"What were you and Weems talking about?" Wednesday asks to redirect the conversation. She had been curious since she walked in, as it seemed like a rather serious conversation.

The thoughts aren’t going away.

"She was checking in after I told the nurse I had a friend to help me apply the medicine, and I'd only come in to do monthly examinations or if something serious happened."

Sometimes Wednesday isn’t used to people answering her questions so quickly and without pretense. She’s used to them being defensive.

'Thing shouldn't be applying your medicine.' Wednesday clenches her jaw, refusing to let the thought slip out of her mouth. With you in sight, her mind refuses to stop the compulsive hypothetical conversations.

"I see," Wednesday says slowly. "And why is Weems so particularly concerned?"

"She's my legal guardian," you answer straightforwardly, inspecting Wednesday's wound as the bleeding slows.

The sudden new information makes Wednesday blink.

'If you use your brain and think about it, Thing is a disembodied hand with stitches all over. Do you think that's sanitary? Forget the fact that Thing is vain and does well in washing his hand and moisturizes.'

You put down the tweezers and take off the gloves. Lifting your fingertips, you hover them over the cut. Wednesday watches as you concentrate before warmth and tiny little firefly-like lights seeps onto her cheek.

When it’s over, the sting of the cut is gone. Wednesday lifts her hand to touch her cheek and feels a thin bump of her skin scarred over.

'I understand your need for secrecy. I've been told I lack regard for others’ safety but I have no intentions of being the reason for your untimely death.'

You turn to grab a tub of cream and unscrew the lid. "It's not exactly perfect, but better than the usual way," you say as if apologizing. "I'll get better at it as my wings heal."

"Your powers are linked to your wings?"

'And of course, I understand you don't prefer the nurse's care. Her touch is indelicate and I imagine your wings are sensitive.'

You hum and say quietly, "A lot of it, yes. Our wings are embedded into our backs and take root inside our bodies. It's why we usually die without our wings."

"And Weems is your guardian?"

You nod. "Yes. As you know faeries stay in isolation, and faeries with my wings are...outcasts," you smirk. "My parents can't look after me like regular parents do because the more in contact with me they are, the more it exposes my location."

It makes sense. Whoever had done such abominable things to your wings should stay far, far away—lest they want Wednesday to find a way to paralyze them without taking their wings.

Still.

Wednesday studies your face as you apply the scarring cream. Your parents must've been heartbroken and scared witless to take you out of isolation and have Weems take over guardianship.

'As such, I must take responsibility for Thing and offer to take his place in applying your medication. This is an acceptable trade, is it not?'

"Your parents must've adored you so," Wednesday comments. She can certainly relate to that as she internally rolls her eyes at the thought of her own parents.

You finish applying the cream, and Wednesday has had enough of the repetitive one-sided conversation in her head. It was going to drive her crazy—and not the respectable kind.

But just as Wednesday opens her mouth to get it over with, her words die on her tongue when you look at her.

It was the same smile as that night, the one that made Wednesday's throat burn with utter defeat.

You must miss them.

"Yes, I suppose they did."

⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Wednesday lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the incessant noise of Enid's snoring is somehow amplifying her thoughts.

This. Is. Inconceivable.

The thing with Wednesday is that she had an obsessive personality. That's why solving mysteries is such a good pastime for her.

The only problem is when the mystery hasn't been solved, and she is left alone with the agonizing cliffhanger.

What if the words hadn't died on her tongue?

What if she had said them anyway, despite your smile that seemed to make Wednesday miserable.

But the truth of the matter is that she didn't, and now, she is stuck in bed coming up with new hypothetical conversations that revolve around one matter.

'Thing is indisposed.'

'I'm offering my company and assistance. Thing may stay as an additional conversationalist.'

'Surely, you must have more to say to me daily than greeting me.'

'Thing has questionable scalpel skills; therefore, I believe he's been applying your medication inaccurately. I can't have your wings—your life source—healing poorly on my hands.'

This is all Enid's fault, Wednesday determines. She turns her head to watch her peacefully, blissfully ignorant sleeping roommate.

Maybe she should come through with the threat of smothering Enid with a pillow. But in the end, Wednesday turns her head back to the ceiling.

It’s then that Thing opens the door and scuttles across the room in haste. She sits up as he climbs up onto her bed and pulls at her blanket.

"What is it, Thing?" Wednesday frowns.

Thing begins signing and tapping.

"Speak clearly, Thing. You're skipping words."

Thing taps frustratedly but slows down.

"Someone…slapped…back today?" Wednesday raises her brow but then frowns deeper. "It opened a wound up...and you can't fix it yourself? Need help...now?"

Thing taps multiple times to signify that is correct. Immediately, Wednesday gets out of bed and grabs her sweater.

"Where is she? Her room or her studio?" Wednesday asks as she shoves on her shoes, and Thing climbs onto her shoulder.

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When Wednesday arrives at your studio, following the same sequence she did weeks ago, she finds you fallen on the ground, your wings just barely over your shoulder as you hold yourself up by your elbows.

Blood drips down and soaks your feathers, somehow making obsidian look even darker.

Wednesday walks up quickly and crouches beside you, and you barely notice her until she speaks. "Who did this to you? I want their name." She seethes.

"It was...an accident," you raggedly breathe. "She didn't know. Meant to be a friendly goodnight clap on the back."

But that doesn’t soothe Wednesday at all. Not when the back of your dress shirt is dredged in so much blood that there isn’t even a spot of white left, and your right wing twitching in obvious pain.

"What can I do?" Wednesday demands, but there was a softness to it that is almost desperation.

You swallow. "I—I need you to move my wing over my shoulder more—until I can reach the cut to seal it." You screw your eyea shut. "I can't move it on my own."

Wednesday nods. She carefully reaches out to touch your wing.

It is velvety.

Wednesday imagines it would've been more magnificent to the touch had your feathers not been weighed down and saturated by blood.

As Wednesday begins to spread your wing up and over, your breath hitches sharply.

Wednesday stops.

"Don't stop," you grit your teeth, taking in ragged breaths. "It hurts the longer you drag it out. Just—be gentle."

Gentle is not often used to describe Wednesday. She’s sharp and jagged, like broken glass. That's probably why she still plans to discover who did this to you and slowly butcher them—accident or not—as she carefully keeps moving your wing.

When it’s finally close enough for you to reach, Wednesday watches you use healing magic for the second time that day. You slump onto the grass, exhausted.

Thing grabs Wednesday's attention to the pile of towels neatly folded in a tree's hollow trunk. She finds a set of spare clothing and grabs those along with the towels.

"Is the pond water sterile?"

You nod with your eyes shut.

Wednesday places the shirt next to you and then turns to the pond, and sticks her hand in to find it was lukewarm before she soaks one of the towels.

“Change into this clean shirt for now,” Wednesday orders you but her tone lacks the usual bite. She wrings the towel and passes it to Thing. “Help her wipe the blood on her back. Turn around as she changes,” Wednesday warns Thing.

Wednesday turns away and keeps her focus on the pond, soaking the next towel. Thing taps her leg when they’re done. You look extra tired from having to change shirts but it was better than letting your bloody shirt make you sticky and then crust over before you could shower. You seem to realize it yourself as you make an effort to keep your dirty wings from soaking your shirt again.

When she returns to you, Wednesday cleans the blood out of your feathers gently but thoroughly. When she uses her fingers to brush aside some of the feathers, your wings trill.

"Tickles," you mumble.

Wednesday doesn’t comment as she continues until the blood is washed out and properly dried. Thing hands her the ointment you use and begins to apply the salve with precision.

It’s quiet.

Peaceful.

Wednesday feels the tension in her shoulders leave now that you are fine and she is here.

All those hypothetical thoughts and conversations flew right out of her head.

"I will apply this for you from now on."

You open one eye to peek at Wednesday, and she stares back at you as if to challenge her. You close your eye again and nod.

"Thanks for your services, Thing," you mumble tiredly. "Your severance package will be a bottle of dew drops."

PART FOUR

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams imagine #wednesday x reader #jenna ortega x reader #wednesday addams fanfiction #wednesdayedit #wednesday addams x you #mm: my fics

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thebiscuitlabryinth · 7 months

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Faerie Cookies are born with a song on their tongue, and a tune in their hearts – a gift from the trees, and the wind, and the moon. Music is baked into their very dough, which is why it is considered the purest form of communication, and why all their records are scribed in sheet music.

It is natural for a Faerie Cookie to hum their own melody when idle, almost compulsive, as if it cannot be contained by their body. Even Elder Faerie Cookie, wise and great, cannot resist the pull. When he serenades the sky, everyone stops to listen and harmonise, his voice strong and breathtaking even among the perfect tones of the voices of the Faeriewoods.

The only Faerie who doesn't sing is Mercurial Knight Cookie.

Really, in all the years Silverbell Cookie has known him, he has never heard a single note from him. He's always found it a little strange, compared to the neverending symphony that is the rest of the kingdom. Even compared to the other Silver Knights, who are more careful about following their songs' urges but still tap the rhythm along their weapons, Mercurial Knight is unique in his absolute lack of music.

Silverbell has only ever brought the topic up with him once, in a moment of pure impulse when he thought it was just the two of them.

"Why don't you sing?" He had asked, words blunt but softened by the sweet harmony of his own tune, melting into the sentence from his earlier humming. His bells had chimed along with it, stopping abruptly when he realised he had spoken aloud, with a little tinge of embarrassment. Still, he hadn't backed down, simply smiling sheepishly. "I've been meaning to ask. I don't think I've ever heard you before."

He hadn't said that it was strange, because that wouldn't have been very nice, but he had still heard it beneath his own words, despite his best efforts.

Mercurical Knight took no offense, though he rarely does with Silverbell. Instead, his expression had pinched slightly with confusion, glancing over at him. "Because there isn't any need for me to. My duty is to the Guardian. I cannot allow myself to be distracted by something trivial like singing."

It had been an earnest answer, and exactly the sort of answer Silverbell should have expected, but he had still found himself surprised. "But how do you ignore the call of your song? I know your oath is your highest priority, but I can't imagine always resisting its call."

Silverbell, himself, feels the pull of his melody at least once a day, if not more. To constantly resist it, he had thought, would surely drive him crazy.

"I don't have a song." Mercurial Knight had replied easily, as if that hadn't immediately shook Silverbell to the core, disbelieving. That was even crazier – no melody at all, not a single note floating within his head? Wasn't that lonely?

Mercurial Knight, who had become very familiar with Silverbell by that point, seemed to read his mind, the slightest amusement in his eyes. "It is as I always say. On the day the Silver Blessing was bestowed upon me, I cast aside everything. My flavour, my scent, and my song. Whatever it may have once been matters very little to me."

Silverbell had been unable to respond immediately, trying to fathom it. During his stunned silence, another voice had arrived to answer in his stead. "Does that not simply mean that the song you now carry is that of the Silver Tree instead?"

Silverbell had jumped a little, startled by Elder Faerie's appearance, and had hurriedly fixed his posture, well aware that he was still on duty. Mercurial Knight adjusted his posture too, though considering it had already been perfect before Elder Faerie's arrival, it hadn't made much of a difference.

Mercurial Knight had hesitated for a moment, before inclining his head in a slight nod. "If you say so, Your Majesty, then I must believe that to be true."

Elder Faerie, in all his brillance, had approached them with grace, a knowing look on his face. Of course, if Silverbell could tell Mercurial Knight had been doubtful, Elder Faerie certainly could.

"You may have not felt the urge yet, but not all songs surface frequently. Even I only feel mine on rare occasions." Elder Faerie had explained, almost gently. "The Silver Tree's song will surely come to you when the time is right."

It was Mecurial Knight, then, that had been at a loss for words, blinking slowly. He had glanced away a moment later to regain his composure, in a way Silverbell would dare say was shy. "...Thank you for your kind words, Your Majesty, but it truly doesn't matter to me. Silverbell was asking me about my song, that's all."

Elder Faerie had hummed in understanding, looking towards Silverbell for a split second, before returning his attention to Mercurial Knight. "Well, that doesn't make my words any less true." Then he had smiled, an elegant, mysterious curve. "There's no rush, of course, but I do hope to hear your song someday. You know, I have a feeling both of your voices would harmonise quite well."

Mercurial Knight had, somewhat helplessly, declared that he would be honoured to share his song with Elder Faerie if it ever arose, and that had been the end of it.

Or maybe this was the true end of it, because the opportunity to share his song with Elder Faerie had now been swept away by the winds of time, never to return.

Faeries do not mourn. To return to the soil beneath the Silver Tree is what awaits all of them, eventually, so they do not mourn. They only celebrate and honour the lives that were lost, and to do that, they organise a grand feast.

The atmosphere is light and jolly, a celebration of Guardians both new and old, and Silverbell is lingering by Mercurial Knight's side, a cup in his hands. Usually, he would have flitted off to mingle with the others by now, but after everything that has happened today, he feels like he should stay with him, at least for a few moments more.

The Silver Tree stands tall behind their backs, the evils within trapped securely once more, and its shadow falls upon Elder Faerie's final moments. Silverbell's eyes linger on the place where they watched him disappear. Inexplicably, it does not feel like he is gone.

A melody, low and stilted, imperfect, begins to drift in the air, curling around them. It takes Silverbell a moment to realise it, and when he does, he lets out a tiny gasp.

Mercurial Knight is singing.

He turns to watch him with wide eyes and, mortifyingly, they feel damp as he does. Silverbell doesn't cry – his voice is too high, and his eyes naturally dewey, so he hates to makes himself seem any weaker when he is a perfectly capable knight – but it almost feels like a near thing.

After all, music is the purest form of communication, and he is hearing Mercurial Knight's song for the first time.

It takes Mercurial Knight a moment to find his footing, but when he does, his voice smooths out, running rich like liquid silver. All Faeries have voices designed for song, so it is no surprise that it is beautiful.

Mercurial Knight does not look at him as he sings, steady but still quiet. Instead, he holds his glaive perfectly straight, his gaze lingering on an invisible grave. It is bittersweet, a gift come too late, but the song itself is not sorrowful, because the Faeries are not in the habit to mourn.

No, the tune is powerful and majestic, determined and confident. Before long, Silverbell finds himself drawn into it, his bells tinkling on beat as he sings along.

As it turns out, Elder Faerie was right, as he always is. Their voices blend together wonderfully, slotting atop one another as if they had been waiting endlessly for the opportunity. They sing, and sing, and sing, and though they barely look at each other, Silverbell feels closer to Mercurial Knight than he has ever been.

He hopes, somehow, Elder Faerie is hearing their duet. It's dedicated to him, after all.

#disappointing lack of faeries content around here so i am taking a quick break from pv and sm content #to unveil myself as a Faerie Enthusiast #i love these guys <3 #and i also love making up faerie cookie lore <3 #silverbell cookie #mercurial knight cookie #elder faerie cookie #crk #cookie run kingdom #the biscuit library

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cardanjudesworld · 1 year

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Ok one of the most underrated moments in the cruel prince trilogy it the moment where jude breaks into cardans room after returning to from the underseas and like to make sure she isn't under the faerie compulsion cardan had to say "crawl to me" like I was literally screaming. I loved it so much.

#cardan greenbriar #jurdan #the cruel prince #holly black #jude duarte #the wicked king #jude x cardan #prince cardan #cardan #the queen of nothing #jude greenbriar

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kitchenisking · 10 months

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December fic rec

Spoiled by SterekvsSteter - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 875, sterek)

Stiles is just barely underage and Derek refuses to touch him until his birthday, but Stiles knows all the right buttons to push to get what he wants.

It was a Challenge!! by Kalin - (Rating: Not Rated, Words: 2,444, sterek)

Derek has a kink. Stiles finds out about said kink. Let's just say faerie godmothers kinda exist. SMUT!

if you gave me a chance (i would take it) by EvanesDust - (Rating: T, Words: 4,098, sterek)

Knowing that soulmates don’t always end with a happily ever after, Stiles keeps his mark covered. The universe can’t tell him who to love.

Derek’s soulmark turns a deep maroon as soon as he meets his new roommate—Stiles Stilinski. It’s really too bad that Stiles doesn’t believe in soulmates.

Compelled by FelOllie - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 7,023, sterek)

“I'm sorry.” Stiles held a hand up to stop Deaton mid-sentence. “Could you just repeat that for me one more time?”

“It's a compulsion spell.” Deaton dutifully repeated.

“Meaning what, exactly?” Stiles pressed, leaning heavily against the metal table beside where Derek had perched at Stiles' behest.

“Meaning that Derek would feel compelled to do whatever the caster told him to do.” Deaton explained. “My guess, in this instance, is that she wanted to claim you and needed Derek's permission to do so.”

bad blood, black blood by thedevilyousay - (Rating: T, Words: 2,683, sterek)

“I object!”

Stiles stumbles through the doors at the back of the chapel, haphazardly flinging them open in his attempt to get through them faster. He feels rather than sees the whole room stop what they’re doing in order to turn and look at him. For a second that lasts entirely too long, he considers turning back around again to leave but ultimately decides he’s already come this far. Leaning heavily on the first pew he comes to, he tries again, wiping the blood off his face with the ruined sleeve of his hoodie and clearing his throat.

“I object! To this marriage. I object.”

And I wish I could shout you out by DefNotForWork - (Rating: Mature, Words: 3,862, sterek)

It was the first time Derek shut him up by kissing him. The first of many. And it was almost cute.

Or in which Derek keeps stopping Stiles from saying important things, and Stiles thinks it's because he just doesn't want to hear them.

Unneeded Lessons by RisingQueen2 (FallenQueen2) - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 1,356, sterek)

Stiles is sneaky, but Derek will always be able to see through it. However this time it works well for his own needs.

Horizons into Battlegrounds by AClosedFicIsNeverRead - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 15,385, sterek)

Derek has always kept his distance from Stiles, refusing to act on his instinctive desire for the pale, doe-eyed human. But at what cost? When circumstances reveal the horrors that Stiles has suffered due to Derek's self-imposed distance, will the Alpha be able to make it right before it's too late?

Scent Trials by To_fill_the_sea - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 6,870, sterek)

Stiles is am omega with a seemingly off-putting scent and was convinced he would be alone as no one found him remotely appealing. He finds out the head alpha of their territory, Derek Hale, is holding a scent trial to find a compatible omega. Stiles has to go along with it despite knowing he won;t be chosen. It would just be another rejection. But he can't even begin to predict how the day will go.

Stitched Up by SophieTrancy - (Rating: Explicit, Words: 5,954, sterek)

Stiles Stilinski was very happy, working for the C.A.O. He was damn good at his job and he loved every second of it. But, maybe it was just his luck, he got shot. He got shot and found himself under house arrest for a whole month. But hey, this is Stiles. After one of the strongest heats of his life and long 14 days with nothing to do, he decided to leave his apartment.

Derek Hale had been trying to put himself back together, after the fire. After years of not being able to shift back into his human form, Derek decided it was time to search for his mate. The mate he had to abbandon because of the loss of his pack. Derek still had a long way to go, to try and go back to being that same happy, joyful person he used to be and, maybe he never did go back to that, but at least he'd try. For Stiles. To be the Alpha he had never had the chance to be for his Omega.

But bumping into the boy in a restaurant in New York wasn't how Derek had planned to break him the news. Stiles had never known they were mates, growing up and leaving Beacon Hills without ever finding one. But, suddenly, there Derek was. And Stiles had no fucking clue what was going on.

#sterek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #fanfiction #stiles x derek #kitcheniskingficrecs #ficrec #fanfic

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nandysparadox · 1 month

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A Wish Your Heart Makes - Masterpost ♡

Photo by frank mckenna via Unsplash / Edited by me

A dream is a wish your heart makes / When you're fast asleep

Patton Holloway is no stranger to fairy tales, as a human who’s lived in Fairyland for the past seven years, bound to the whims of the faerie who whisked him away, with only the mice and his memories for company. Roman is the Rose Prince of Spring, and the youngest of the heirs – his coronation is foretold by the spirits of the earth far earlier than he or his family expected. In a chance meeting, they find each other, and it might be just what they need. After all, change is coming. Everybody says so. or: a royality cinderella au, with a faerie twist 🩵

rating: T

pairing: romantic royality; background queerplatonic dukexiety

word count: 45k+

cw: past parental death, implied/referenced past child abuse, fantasy discrimination, physical/emotional abuse & neglect, abduction (of the ‘whisked away’ kind), controlling behavior, manipulation, magical compulsions and deals, angst with a happy ending

—♡—

this is my @tss-storytime big bang fic and I couldn't have been more honored to participate in this event this year <3 I want to thank the mods for organizing such an incredible event. it was so much fun!

my partner was @bitterpoison and they drew some wonderful, stunning art for this fic (here!) - working with them was a such a joy, please go check out their work!

huge thanks to everyone who made this fic possible - @caruliaa, my dear friend and biggest cheerleader throughout this whole process, and @pandagobrr and @fandombead, who beta-read this fic and gave me some incredible insight (and lovely comments!) 😊

Chapter List - [AO3] - Character Sheets

Prologue

Chapter 1 | In dreams, you will lose your heartaches

Chapter 2 | Whatever you wish for, you keep

Chapter 3 | Have faith in your dreams and someday

Chapter 4 | Your rainbow will come smiling through

Chapter 5 | No matter how your heart is grieving

Chapter 6 | If you keep on believing

Chapter 7 | The dream that you wish will come true

♡ Playlist ♡

#sanders sides #royality #roman sanders #patton sanders #tss #sanders sides fic #tss big bang 2024

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alifeasvivid · 6 months

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A Feast for the Fae; a ukus faerie tale

:D this was commissioned by @ok-scans. They asked for smut and the supernatural with virgin Alfred, so here it is. Thank you so much!!

Rating: Explicit Warnings: major age gap: centuries old immortal faerie + 18 year old human Tags: fae!Arthur, human!Alfred, smut, intoxication, ambiguous non-modern fantasy setting Summary: Alfred has been selected as his village's sacrifice to the Fae King, to be eaten at the Beltane Festival. It's up to Arthur to stop it from happening. Word Count: ~3200

“What is your name?” the hushed words slide into the boy’s ear and down his spine as easily as the wine had slid down his throat. Arthur leans in close enough to see the summer sky in the human’s eyes, though it is the witching hour now, in the glen, with the full moon sighing softly on them.

The boy grins. “Alfred!” he declares as if it’s a surprise even to himself. He drinks greedily from the goblet full of Arthur’s wine. The two of them are sat on a large, flat rock before a crackling fire, though Alfred is at every moment about to topple off of it.

Arthur’s glittering emerald eyes flash as he surveys the sun-drenched fields that are the boy’s body, rich and ready for harvest. Alfred is far less a boy now than when they met, for certain, but that smile will always first belong to the little human child that had fully enchanted Arthur thirteen years ago. He hadn’t known the truth about Alfred back then.

Alfred giggles and grins and swirls his cup, he blushes, but it’s certainly not with embarrassment. He’s naked as the day he was born, after the head mage of the village led him out here.

Arthur pours him some more wine and kisses Alfred’s forehead. He has no right to do any of this, yet nothing in the world is going to stop him from doing it. Only last year, when Alfred had turned eighteen, had Arthur learnt that he had been chosen at birth to be his village’s sacrifice to the faerie king upon the Beltane following his eighteenth birthday. Being a summer child, Alfred is nearly nineteen now—and that is fortunate because Arthur had needed the time.

Perhaps Arthur really has become soft. He has spent several centuries with humans at this point, more time than he has spent in Fae, namely with witches and mages, which is how he met Alfred. The witch with whom Arthur lived and worked hired Alfred’s mother as a live-in maid in an arrangement which benefitted them both greatly.

Supposedly, faeries cannot feel love, but if these feelings—the urgent compulsion to save Alfred from being eaten at the Beltane feast, the way he withers at the thought of never seeing his smile again, the desperate want to keep the boy all for himself and make sure he is always happy—are not love then Arthur does not really know what else to call it.

But he is not the faerie king. He is one of the faerie king’s subjects—and a low born one at that, so he has spent all this time, this grace period as it were, trying to find some way to save Alfred.

He has found out there are several criteria that must be met, having much to do with time and place of birth, of parentage, of innate magical energies… nothing can be done for any of those.

But the sacrifice must be un-taken, that is to say, still having their true name so that they can give it to the faerie king… and, to also say, they must be a virgin.

Beltane is three days away and the fae court will come to collect him at dawn, so Arthur has only until the end of the witching hour to… to—oh gods… is it a terrible thing? not that Arthur doesn’t want to claim him. Alfred has grown up so well and he is such a good hearted lad, but that’s what makes it worse. He would rather have Alfred come to him freely.

Perhaps that crush Alfred seems to have been harboring for him signals deeper feelings. The situation is still not ideal, but needs must. “No, pet. I want your true name,” Arthur says, cupping Alfred’s face in his hands and lacing the words with the appropriate spell of taking.

Alfred hiccups. “Can’t give ya that, Arthur, You’re not the king! You’re just a faerie witch.” The situation was only partly explained to Alfred: the part about being made the centerpiece of the Beltane feast being left out.

Arthur winces, knowing Alfred doesn’t mean that how it sounds. Arthur knows well enough that he isn’t “just” anything to Alfred. “Oh?” he says. “How do you know I’m not?” he says in a suggestive tone. It’s not a lie at all, just a question. “What if I had been all this time?”

Falling for the trick perfectly, willing to believe more than anything else that he is meant to belong to Arthur, Alfred’s eyes widen in glee. “Wow! Really!? That’s so good, oh that’s so good, I’m really glad. Yeah! You can have it, it’s Alfred Franklin Jones.”

Arthur’s palms and the back of his neck and the tip of his nose all tingle with energy. It has been quite some time since he has taken anyone’s true name. There hasn’t been one he wanted or needed in so long. Alfred is his now, forever… and can never be truly free again, but it’s certainly better than spending eternity in the bellies of the members of the faerie high court. Arthur can’t help himself then and he surges forward and kisses Alfred deeply.

Alfred responds ecstatically, pulling himself into Arthur's arms. He giggles and whines as Arthur kisses him, tossing his head back as Arthur’s lips paint his cheek, his neck, and then his shoulders. The wine sparkles in his brain and he’s so relieved that Arthur has been the one for him this whole time—just as he has wanted for so long.

Arthur enchants a bed of soft leaves and sweet grass for them and wastes no time in pitching Alfred into it. Seeing the human splayed out in it, the firelight dancing on his skin while the moonlight gently caresses him, Arthur is more enraptured than ever. He kneels between Alfred’s legs and smooths his hands over the boy’s body. Alfred is tall and most of his chores had been rough, manual labor, leaving him tan and well-muscled… with a little bit of softness in his stomach since he was often compensated with food and Arthur only wants him more the more he is able to touch.

A Beltane feast indeed.

Alfred squirms and laughs as Arthur’s palms traverse his body and leave tickles in their wake. The tickling sensation soon reveals something more urgent: his cock hard and twitching and aching for Arthurs pale, elegant hands. “Arthur…”

Arthur leans down and kisses his forehead again. “Yes, love?”

“Am I your bride?” he asks with a bit of a slur due to the fae wine. “Is that why I was promised to you?”

Arthur laughs fondly. “Silly boy. Is that what you want?” He drags his finger along the underside of Alfred’s cock, pressing it just below the head and rubbing. “Do you want to be my bride?”

Alfred wriggles in pleasure and nods, feeling warm and happy as he does. “Yes.”

Arthur won’t completely dismiss the idea that it’s just the wine talking, but even still, he feels a possessive, toothy snarl deep in the parts of him that are still feral and truly fae, despite the many years he has spent with humans. “Shall this be our wedding night, then?” he purrs, magic making short work of removing his own clothes.

Alfred nods again, more emphatically this time. He shifts and spreads his legs wider and can’t help but wrap his hand around his cock, stroking it and smearing pre-cum all over. Seeing Arthur undressed, Alfred releases himself in favor of petting at Arthur’s flawless, fair skin that nearly glows in the moonlight. He smiles giddily as he wanders into Arthur’s eyes, which still flash green in the firelight as if lighted from inside.

Not once does he pause to consider any concerns, the fae wine has driven them all from his mind. And it doesn’t matter anyway; this is what he has wanted for so long. The wine may have freed him from inhibition, but it certainly did not cause him to desire Arthur. He had been besotted with Arthur since they first met and with the first blossomings of maturity, the infatuation deepened… and darkened. But Alfred has never feared it.

Since childhood, Alfred has noticed the way other humans regard Arthur warily, but everything about him that has always unnerved so many others—his pointed ears; his piercing eyes that see through everyone; his fair and flawless skin accentuating fine, almost intolerably beautiful features; and, of course, the unsettling sharpness of both his incisors—are all the things that draw Alfred to him. He has never once felt unsafe with Arthur.

He certainly doesn’t feel unsafe now.

Arthur purrs as he pours his body flush against Alfred’s, claiming the boy’s mouth with his tongue and nips from his fangs. He rolls his hips against Alfred’s, groaning and drinking in Alfred’s wanton gasp at the same time. His wings, which he so rarely has cause or energy to manifest, spring outward, delicate and shimmering green-gold, pulsing with sparks of glittering red in the firelight to indicate the flush of power from taking Alfred’s name as well as the arousal coursing through him.

Alfred catches Arthur off-guard when he leans up, the bed of grass following him, supporting him. Arthur is stand on his knees, the perfect height for Alfred’s mouth to pull him in from this angle. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s hips and nuzzles his cheeks against the faerie’s cock, then kisses the tip of it over and over. “You’re so beautiful, I’ve wanted you so bad forever,” Alfred murmurs with heart-wrenching sincerity. He continues kissing lightly, flicking little kitten-licks in the slit of Arthur’s cock.

Alfred is clearly operating off of whatever simply feels good to him and that gives Arthur every reason to do the same. He grabs the base of his cock with one hand and the back of Alfred’s head with the other, carefully guiding himself into Alfred’s throat. It feels even more wonderful than he had imagined it would. Combing one hand back through Alfred’s hair, Arthur uses just a little magic to make sure he stays relaxed. “Yes,” he huffs, “yes, good boy.”

Alfred moans in bliss as Arthur rocks into him just barely. The head of Arthur’s cock knocks gently against the top of Alfred’s throat and with the heaviness settled on his tongue, it feels amazing. He does his best to rub his tongue along the underside of it while learning very quickly how to suck it in just the right ways to make Arthur make the best sounds.

A century or so of celibacy has done just enough to increase Arthur’s sensitivity and the way Alfred looks up at him, adoring and also hungry, along with just how utterly enchanted he is with the human all compel him to pull away. Letting Alfred pleasure him with his mouth is not enough; Alfred must experience orgasm from stimulation by someone other than himself in order to no longer qualify as a virgin.

Whining at being denied, Alfred is placated by Arthur’s fingers caressing him, gently pushing him back down. “Arthur…” he pleads softly, shifting and spreading his legs further still, not even knowing exactly what it is he’s asking for, just that he wants Arthur closer.

“Gods, you are so lovely, Alfred,” Arthur praises, beginning to follow his hands with his lips, more and more until he laces his fingers with Alfred’s and kisses him everywhere he possibly can. Alfred gasps and sighs now, but doesn’t laugh anymore from ticklishness.

Alfred writhes, instinctively lifting his hips, and spasming around an emptiness he’d never realized he’d had until now. He cries when Arthur strokes his tongue along his cock and throws his arm over his face, since seeing Arthur do it is too much to bear.

“Look at me, pet,” the faerie insists, using a bit of magic to compel Alfred to do it. “That’s it, good boy.” Arthur only takes Alfred into his mouth all the way once and then repositions himself to lie between the human’s legs. The bed of flowers and leaves raises Alfred’s hips to give Arthur a better angle while Arthur easily lifts Alfred’s thighs up and out. A fang-baring grin spreads over his face as he rubs two fingers at Alfred’s entrance; those fingers conjure a slick, honey-like substance from out of thin air to help Alfred relax and make him easier to open.

Alfred arches and cries out as Arthur presses one finger into him. His hands pull at the leaves and sweet grasses beneath him, which hold fast. Arthur pushes it in and out for what seems like ages before he adds another, stretching Alfred open. There it is, the emptiness he hadn’t felt until now and only Arthur can fill it. “More,” he sobs. “More, Arthur, please.”

Alfred is well known for being impatient and ordinarily Arthur would take great pleasure in denying him, in teaching him how to move slowly, but there is a tickling clock on their tryst. Arthur has scarcely more patience than Alfred at this moment anyway. He nuzzles Alfred’s cock as he continues to open him, inhaling the scent of a human, green and fresh, but musky with arousal; he has almost never been close enough to Alfred to revel in the scent of him like this. He has three fingers inside Alfred now, as far in as they will go, and he makes certain that Alfred is slick, each stroke of his fingers producing more lubricant.

Alfred’s eyes are squeezed shut as Arthur works him open and he releases his grip on the plants that are their makeshift bed to weave one hand in Arthur’s soft hair, holding on tightly. He wriggles around the wetness now inside him, around Arthur’s fingers. He twists enough that Arthur’s fingers start massaging his prostate and— “AH! Oh Arthur, Arthur, please more. Right there, more.”

Arthur’s wings flutter rapidly as he watches Alfred come apart so freely under his touch. The fire has burned to its embers, giving the moon unbound license to Alfred’s perfect skin. Arthur thrusts his fingers in and out, faster, a frenzied need to make Alfred come just from this pricking at the edges of his mind. He wants to see Alfred come. He pumps in and out, faster, far more dexterous than a human could ever be. “There?” he asks, knowing the answer already.

Alfred nods, biting his lip hard and drowning in a sea of fae wine and moonlight and utter devotion to the faerie he has loved since he was a little boy. “Yes, there, please—I—!” That sea takes him under and his body pulls taut and he comes, begging broken syllables of Arthur’s name for more, to never stop.

Arthur must stop, reluctantly, and only does so once Alfred’s body is quivering from the exertion. He’s trembling a little himself from merely being privileged to witness Alfred’s pleasure. It is delicious, both magically, and, as he leans down to lick Alfred’s cock clean, physically. Alfred is now wet and loosened well and the terms of taking his virginity have been satisfied, but Arthur still wants.

“Arthur,” Alfred slurs, “I’m… I’m…nnnnnggh empty. Please.”

Something powerful and sure and dark at the edges curls around Arthur’s mind and forms a heart where he had nothing before. “Yes, you are. Fear not, pet, I’ll take care of you.” Leaning up and over Alfred, wings beating softly, Arthur kisses his forehead, then his cheeks and his nose and then his mouth, deeply, drinking more magic from the pure, pulsing sunlight that suffuses Alfred’s every cell and earned him the “honor” of being the Beltane sacrifice. With one decisive move, he sinks is cock into Alfred’s entrance. It is absolute bliss: Alfred is loose enough that he yields wonderfully, but so tight, squeezing Arthur with warmth and undiluted desire.

Alfred sighs, hums, moans contentedly as Arthur fills him. Of course, Arthur fits perfectly inside him, it could never have been otherwise. When his body pulses now, it is to pull Arthur in, to hold him, and there is no more emptiness. In the aftermath of his first orgasm, he is pliant and sweet and welcoming. He wraps his arms around Arthur's neck, feeling more in love with him than ever, and doesn’t even notice his own cock getting hard again.

Arthur moves slowly at first, letting the moon rock him against Alfred like the tide. He kisses Alfred over and over and reaches down to stroke his cock. “Good boy,” he murmurs next to Alfred’s temple. “Such a good boy for me.”

Alfred’s eyes roll back as the head of Arthur’s cock strikes his prostate again and again, accurately, but far too languidly. Arthur doesn’t pull out very far, but it’s enough that Alfred can feel and hear how slick Arthur made him. “I love you,” he sighs.

At that, Arthur drives into him harder, a little faster. “I know, pet. I’m so very glad you do.” He watches Alfred’s face, but the human shows no distress at his confession not being reciprocated, if anything, he seems more blissful than before. He begins thrusting in and out of Alfred’s willing body even faster, pumping the boy’s cock and letting the pleasure build up between them. “You are so lovely,” he says; it would be breathless except that Arthur doesn’t breathe.

Alfred orgasms again in no time at all, being young and inexperienced and sensitive, he cries out, begging Arthur for more, to move faster, to never stop.

Arthur rolls his hips in a staccato rhythm, melting at the way Alfred’s body grips him and pulls him in, holds him tightly. Whatever magic forms his makeshift heart receives Alfred’s unadulterated love and feeds on it. This is how Alfred should be feasted upon, Arthur thinks distantly. He comes, plunged all the way inside Alfred, quivering violently due to his own sensitivity, and he buries his face in Alfred’s neck as he fills him with cum. “Beautiful,” he groans, scraping his fangs against Alfred’s skin when he kisses and sucks marks into it, without drawing blood. He’s careful not to draw blood. They might smell blood.

Alfred arches and squirms as Arthur fills him in hot spurts that seem to be endless. But eventually, Arthur falls into the leafy bed next to them—the leaves and sweet grasses having morphed into ferns, royal and maidenhair. Alfred tucks himself against Arthur, head under his chin and admires his wings for the first time, though he dares not touch.

The witching hour is nearly over. Arthur holds Alfred protectively, though Alfred’s body has already been blessed with a spell that cannot be undone to make him ready for Beltane and it cannot be taken back just because he no longer has his name or his virginity. Arthur knows there will be consequences for himself. They can’t kill him and he is bonded to Alfred, so they can’t keep them apart. They could, however, curse his feet to burn with each step or make him feel stabbing pain when Alfred touches him or any number of other cruel and capricious things.

Or they might do nothing at all. The high court fae are fickle and strange like that.

It doesn’t matter. Alfred is safe and whatever happens, Arthur will keep him that way. He will keep him forever.

#ukus #usuk fanfic #spadian ballad #reblogs are love

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sea-dwelling-wizard · 7 months

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“Hide your children, cover their eyes, protect all you have left!!! Hahahaha... that ain't gonna stop me, darlin'; not even a little bit.”-- Character Intro: Durin of the Night

Name: Durin

Titles: The Midnight Dancer, the Troublemaker's Son, the Bastard of the Hills, the 'King' of All Things Gritty

Age: ~27-28 (human years), ~513-532 (fae years)

Occupation: Thief, Overlord

Species: Faerie

Hometown: "You've gotta nice sense of humor."

Relations: Crescendo (brother), Zephyr (brother)

Sexuality: Aromantic Bisexual (men-oriented)

Personality Traits: compulsive, reckless, bold, playful, melancholic, chaotic, unpredictable, cunning, elusive; etc, etc. :D

Voice Claim: if you take two spoons of Double Trouble (SR:PoP)’s flair, tone, and charm and a sprinkle of Angel Dust (HazHo)’s raspiness, you get Durin!!! add a dash of swearing and innuendos for recipe completion. microwave for 30 seconds and serve

Backstory: "That ain’t any of your business."

Character Playlist: link leads to spotify

Character Pinterest: [Warning; some pictures contain blood, alchohol, and depicted gambling. viewer discretion advised.] link leads to pinterest

[Author’s Note: durin is a very dynamic character in terms of backstory, present, and future, and his personality is not only new to me but also fun to write!!! i’m already working on a few projects with him, so i decided to make y’all familiar with him first before i post them. durin used to be a very neglected character, but ever since his redesign, he’s landed a place in my top 3!!! he’s unlike anyone i’ve ever written. seriously. handling his person is a delicate task yet i’m enjoying every moment of it. i hope you guys will love (or hate) him as much as i do!!! <;3]

#my characters #my art #character intro #oc intro #writeblr #writing stuff #ibispaintx #eyestrain cw #Spotify #be free from drafts my child

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tss-storytime-summaries · 5 months

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Expected Rating: General/Teen

Warnings: Past parental death, fantasy discrimination, emotional abuse & neglect, kidnapping (of the 'whisked away' kind), controlling behavior, magical compulsions and deals, angst with a happy ending

Characters: Patton, Roman, Janus, villain!OC, Remus, Logan, Virgil

Romantic relationships: Patton/Roman, background queerplatonic dukexiety

Summary: Patton Holloway is no stranger to fairy tales. For him, they might as well be mundane – after seven years stuck in Fairyland, bound to the whims of the faerie who owns his name, with only the mice and the manor to keep him company – well, it all loses a bit of charm. But he keeps memories of better days cradled close to his heart, and he has hope, he has dreams – for Patton, that’s enough. After all, change is coming. Everybody tells him so. He has no clue just what fate has in store for him.

Roman, the Rose Prince of Spring, is the youngest of the heirs, and his coronation is foretold by the spirits of the earth far, far earlier than he or his family expected. In theory, it’s incredible! He’ll finally receive his full, proper title, and gain access to his own fairy ring… there’s just one small thing. He has only a little more than a month to find a consort to rule beside him. It seems the magic of the earth is determined to tear his chances of having a proper love story away from him… or is it?

When they find each other, it’s a chance meeting, but it’s exactly what they need. They might circle around their own secrets, but they know they’ve never met anyone who understands them better. There’s a lot going against them, but even more is on their side. Maybe even destiny itself… but that’s out of their hands. For now… well, they have each other.

(or: another royality cinderella AU – because we always need more of those – this time with a faerie twist ❤️🩵)

#tss storytime 2024 #tss storytime big bang #tss storytime summaries #artists matching May 12-15 #sanders sides

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whimsivamp · 7 months

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I'M WHIMSICAL!!

╓┈┈┈♔◦☓◦☙◦♔◦☙◦☓◦♔┈┈┈╖

Hi! We're a DID system whose system consists of almost all nonhuman and alterhuman alters. We have many different identities from vampires to fey to aliens to dolls to robots, etc.

We also have supernatural beliefs that affect how alters get formed, as well as memories of reincarnation.

Who we are in this life is affected by who we were in previous lives. But we view our current selves as a different being all-together.

HOST: Yuki + she/they + ageslider + vampire

CO-HOST: Kaori + they/them or fey/faer + shapeshifting fey

CO-HOST: Rai + they/them + fused alter + alien or alterhuman

We are bodily 25, so minors beware.

adhd, autism spectrum disorder (asd), obsessive compulsive disorder (ocd), dissociative identity disorder (did)

birth chart here

INFP - IEI - VEFL

4w3 sx/sp 478

year of the earth tiger

diviner of astrology, tarot and other divination methods

OTHER ALTERHUMAN ALTERS:

Darling + she + caretaker/sexual protector + vampire

Tsuki + doesn't care + could be anything

Ashley + he/him + complex alter + prince, possibly vampire

Cheese + uhm... + fluffy orange cat

Siren + she/they + siren

Hime + she/her + little + princess and probably vampire

Katrina + she + little + loves unicorns and fairies, is probably fey herself

Rose + she/her + ageslider + saint and faerie

Definitely more

INTROJECTS:

jinx + she/her

hatsune miku + they/them + robot

alyce + they/them + complex alter

harley + fused alter + little

ace + he/they

pan + complex alter + he/they + mysterious boy

chii + she/her + persocom/doll

luchia + she/her + mermaid

misuzu + she + angel in a past life

sakura + she/her + little + magical girl

and many more introjects and fragments

RELATED BLOGS:

main: @thekawaiibutterflygirl

system blog: @thestarseersystem

witchcraft blog: @aeternalight

gremlincore blog run by kaori: @imjustbaby

╙┈┈┈┈♔◦☓◦☙◦♔◦☙◦☓◦♔┈┈┈┈╜

#pinned post #whimsy writes

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christiwhitson · 1 year

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Just a snippet of what might be the first chapter of my next Outlander fic (after Brave New World). But I want to gauge interest before committing to this plot bunny, since I write one fic at a time. So if you like it, please comment and say so!

——————

Title TBD:

This was a mistake. I knew it with the first breath of Highland air, while the sound of my apparition still reverberated off the standing stones.

In less than a second, my blood was humming with energy, and magic pulsed through the circle in visible waves of silver and white, as though my mere presence had ignited a firestorm. It ebbed and flowed in a dizzying pattern of currents and eddies, pushing and pulling at my body like an angry sea.

I could neither take a step nor stand completely still, and I attempted to brace myself against the nearest stone—standing alone in the very center.

That was a mistake too.

—————

As the haze of unconsciousness receded, it was the pain that reached me first, urging me to open my eyes and find the source of it. I had fallen at some point, for the earth was at my back and the trees danced in the wind overhead. Wincing, I took stock of my body and struggled to sit up. The solid presence of a wand in my hand was an immense relief, and the pain was already leaving me, making it easier to focus on my surroundings.

The hurricane of magic that had sprung to life only moments before had vanished, and that in itself was bewildering. I’d heard of chaotic magic being unpredictable near some ley lines, particularly in places where they converged—places like Craigh na Dun. But I’d never read anything about it being so volatile. A magical backlash strong enough to knock me out was the last thing I’d been expecting on this mission.

I rose unsteadily to my feet and resisted the compulsion to touch the stone again, instead moving several paces away. I lifted my wand to perform a quick scan of the environment, and the results were even more baffling. It was as though nothing had happened. The magic levels were low enough to be classified as dormant, which made absolutely no sense. Whatever magical phenomenon I had walked into, it seemed the show was over.

I huffed in exasperation and scowled at the tallest stone. Whoever had set the apparition coordinates to land me almost in the center of the circle was a bloody idiot, and I was already looking forward to giving them a good rollicking. We were Unspeakables, for Merlin’s sake, and that sort of miscalculation was a rookie move.

Concerned that I might have somehow drawn the wrong sort of attention to myself, I surveyed the area for any indication that someone else might have witnessed the incident. The last thing I needed right then was to run into a muggle. They were at war just as we were, and they were likely to be highly suspicious of me—an oddly dressed woman who’d simply popped into existence atop a faerie hill. It was just the sort of folktale the Scots would turn into some parody of actual magic.

Not that encountering an unfamiliar wizard was an altogether safe bet either. Grindelwald’s war seemed to have reached boiling point, and the Department had been researching possible options for ritual magic to strengthen Britain’s defenses, utilizing particular ley lines. The nexus of lines at Craigh na Dun had been assigned to me.

Fortunately, it seemed I was alone. I glanced upward in search of the sun, but the Highland sky was as clouded as ever. I cast a quick tempus and frowned at the results. I couldn’t possibly have been unconscious for ten hours. Modifying the spell slightly to check the date, I produced a wispy set of numbers beneath the ghostly clock face that hovered in the air and nearly dropped my wand in shock.

May 2, 1743.

#outlander fanfic #I need feedback #Claire is a witch #Wizarding world setting

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agardenandlibrary · 7 months

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Fires of Heaven: Chapters 44-56

What have I done. Okay. Let’s see:

Rand et Aiel drive Couladin’s forces away from Cairhien. Mat, in his increasingly desperate attempts to get away from the battles, keeps finding more battles. He and his band encounter Couladin’s forces – and it’s Mat who kills Couladin. I wonder how many times Rand’s personal battles will be fought by his friends (I mean, all the time, they’re friends, etc.). I’m just thinking about how Couladin, in the grand scheme, is a specifically personal to Rand antagonist – and Rand is not allowed (by the Maidens, then by Mat killing him) to face him and satisfy his personal desire for revenge. You have slightly bigger things to focus on, buddy.

Once Couladin is dead and Cairhien is safe-ish – Mat’s growing his personal army (which he acquired ON ACCIDENT) and they’re marching under the name the Band of the Red Hand (?), which was an army during the Trolloc Wars (?) and the last of them died defending Manetheren.

The Tairens, who Rand sent to keep them out of Tear/Trouble, have decided Cairhien is theirs and he meant for them to conquer it and parcel it out amongst themselves. Rand’s like “that’s adorable. No, I don’t want the Sun Throne, and no, the rest of you bitches can’t have it either” which the Cairhienens like, anyway.

Meanwhile, Nynaeve has accidentally started another riot. The first one was on purpose. This one is because she asked both Masema and Galad to procure her a ship, and they’re on opposite sides. So once the Whitecloaks seized the ship, Masema’s people were like, wait a fucking second. Anyway, they have to leave town in a hurry, and Nynaeve learned an important lesson about Galad.

Nynaeve makes the boat take refugees on board. She and Elayne and Brigitte make up & are less frustrated with each other again. They do also have the Sheinarans with them! They make it to Salidar, Sheinarans and a few of the refugees in tow – and have an unpleasant awakening to the fact that they are Accepted again, and not full Aes Sedai. They’ve gotten used to being the ones in charge of what they do and it’s back again to the trenches of higher education.

They start to teach the Aes Sedai about the Dreaming world, and Siuan nabs Nynaeve to also teach her. The angreal they have that lets them reach the Dreaming will work for any woman, whether she can channel or not. Nynaeve makes Siuan agree to a deal: she’ll teach Siuan, and in exchange, Siuan, Leane, and Logain will let Nynaeve examine what Stilling has done to them. Let’s GO.

Back in Cairhien, Rand is preparing to move against Sammael, since that’s the bitch who has been sending followers to harry him and cause him problems. Then Mat brings news that Morgase is dead (as far as they know, okay?) and Rand pivots. He decided to leave Morgase in Rahvin’s hands and focus on Sammael and Cairhien. Before they take a strike team of Aiel to Caemlyn, a couple of key things happen:

Mat’s main Aiel squeeze Melhindra tries to STAB HIM. She is a DARKFRIEND. Mat kills her.

Moiraine takes them down to the docks to meet with DESTINY. I mean LANFEAR. Lanfear is pissed because Rand’s been sleeping around, what a hussy, and in the ensuing chaos, Rand’s dealing with the whole “I can’t kill a woman” thing and also the “a dead man is trying to take over, fuck OFF, Lews” thing. He freezes at the moment when he could’ve killed Lanfear, and Moiraine takes the opportunity to tackle the Forsaken through the Doorway to Faerie. Lan’s bond is transferred to, uhhh, someone else, and the compulsion on him forces him to leave immediately.

Moiraine left two letters with Rand: 1) for him, telling him she knew what she was doing, sorry not sorry, and 2) one for Thom, I assume telling him she’s cool with the fact that he murdered her relative who was shitty to Morgase.

The Maidens of the Spear come to Rand and are like “we know what the fuck we’re doing. Stop trying to make us into something we’re not, and let us come with you into battle.” He acquiesces, reluctantly, and makes a gateway to take the Aiel to Caemlyn.

Sometimes with the “mustn’t kill a woman1!” stuff going on, I wonder… well, a lot of stuff. Mat’s equally reluctant to kill a woman, but does it instinctively to save his own life. Rand, meanwhile, is a lot more intense about it and I see some of that coming from Lews Therin’s trauma, which we’ve been getting more and more of leaking into Rand’s thoughts. When Rand lets Far Dares Mai join his assault on Caemlyn/Rahvin, he thinks about how he’s sickened by their desire to be in the fight and the way they seem to revel in the chance to die in battle. And I’m like, okay buddy, and are we going to extend this to think about how men will also glorify death in battle? Not yet?

Meanwhile, Nynaeve is teaching Siuan in the Dreaming, catches sight of Moghedien, and flees. Mogs catches up, and this time Nynaeve is like “fuck being scared all the time” and catches Mogs with a DREAMED a’dam. Badass, madam. Moghedien tells her that Rand is walking into a trap in Caemlyn, and Nynaeve scoots off to help however she can, bringing Moghedien with her.

In Caemlyn, Rahvin’s trap goes off, killing Aviendha, Mat, Asmodean, and many others. Rand chases Rahvin into the Dreaming – going there with his actual self, rather than just a dreaming projection. This is also what he did in the Stone of Tear when chasing down Ba’alzamon/what’s his nuts, which I had forgotten or not realized. Convenient for Nynaeve to help with! Rand’s cornered at one point, losing his self because he doesn’t understand Tel’Aran’Rhiod very well, when Nynaeve interrupts and sets Rahvin on fire. It’s enough to draw the Forsaken off Rand for long enough that Rand can balefire him, which conveniently sets the clock back ever so slightly, returning many who were killed in the first onslaught back to life.

After the fight, a couple more things:

Nynaeve realizes Moghedien is in Salidar somewhere.

Asmodean gets killed in THE classic way of opening a door, saying “No! Not you!” and dying.

Rand meets with a Saldaean lord: Bashere, who says Saldaea will, most likely, stand with the Dragon Reborn. Is that Faile’s dad? I bet it’s Faile’s dad. He seems neat.

ALSO SLIGHTLY IMPORTANT: Rand announces an amnesty for men who can channel. This includes Mr. Mazrim Taim, extra False Dragon, who’s been ghosting around the edges of the last couple of books.

And the book ends with Morgase, headed for what I think are the Whitecloaks to enlist their help to get her throne back. Uh oh!

#cara reads wot #cara reads foh #wheel of time #fires of Heaven

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limey-self-inserts · 9 months

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Roadtrip

Word Count: 5.4k F/Os: Angor Rot (platonic) Summary: Occurs after Episode 18 - Angor is stuck without his teleportation Shadowstaff far from Arcadia, and a familiar face makes an unexpected trip out to get him back. Content warnings: Misgendering, panic attack

art tag crew: @bugsband @rexscanonwife @chimerakisses @faerie-circle-ships @carbo-ships

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There were clear and definite disadvantages to having lost the Skathe-Hrün. Injured pride still prickled sore and open under Angor’s chest. That a fleshling child had managed to wrestle the staff from him, kick him through the Shadow Realm, and escape almost unharmed.

Still, he had the Killstone. He had won that over the Trollhunter, snatched one of the Triumbric Stones out of his grasp, and beaten him and that other cumbersome troll. It had surprised him that the one called Aaaarrrgghh had somehow managed to evade his blade, but size meant little to mobility and strength when it came to trolls. Not to mention Angor had heard enough comments for a certain someone regarding his own size, stone frame, and speed.

He could travel fast when he needed to. He was certainly covering a good enough distance in this outrageous desert. His mark acted as an internal compass, guiding Angor back towards his prey in Arcadia.

If not for the damned sun.

Without the Skathe-Hrün, there was no shadow shield. Without the shadow shield, there was no way for Angor to withstand the merciless sun in this shadeless space. The first day, he’d carved out a shelter from himself from a partial opening in a convenient rock wall before the sunrays broke the flat horizon. The second day he’d actively hunted down a suitable cave to crouch inside, scowling out at the mice and critters that skittered out into the bright heat beyond his reach.

The time was good. He was away from that coward Strickler, space for his own thoughts beyond the nagging internal tug of the Inferna Copula pulling him back towards his task. He could sit and plot and plan for his next steps to deal with the Trollhunter. And perhaps then to deal with the Impure. Or maybe both at the same time. Or maybe just Strickler.

That was the one Angor hated most at the moment. The one to compel him, the one to taunt Angor’s soul in front of him, wielding that wicked ring that the Pale One had moulded from his stone. After so many centuries under her compulsion, Angor had forgotten what it looked like. He’d almost forgotten how it had come about.

But someone had gotten into the history books and decided to go rooting around with words and now his memories simmered cold and full of holes but still furious. Much like Angor himself.

His village. How could he have forgotten his village?

If he had his soul, he could return. He could vanish into the dark like he had done once before, before Strickler and the Janus Order dragged him back into the neon lights of a new age. He could return, far far too late for any good now. He’d be alone. But he would be free at the very least.

He just needed that ring.

And to get that ring, Angor needed to survive getting back to Arcadia.

By the end of the third night, he’d managed to leave the desert behind. Prickly trees were still trees, and either side of the long flat road was framed by broken cliffs and wandering pathways. The road still proved the fastest direction to travel along for the time being, Angor easily slipping out of sight when one of those cars or vans came careening along it. Idly he wondered if Strickler had noticed Angor’s prolonged disappearance from Arcadia. Maybe he simply considered the lack of an assassin to be Angor doing his duties. On the one hand, Angor doubted the Impure to care much. On the other hand, Angor’s soul on his hand seemed to be the one thing keeping him above his peers in the Order. It was why they sent the witchling after all, and that plan had worked so well for everyone in this situation.

Hmm.

It’d been three nights without a dry comment, a poor attempt at humour, a muttered complaint, or a cautiously offered word of comfort. And it bothered Angor, now that he thought about it. The subtle discomfort that had been dragging at his stone, different from the Inferna Copula or his usual hollowness. He didn’t like it.

The silence drowned out other thoughts. He needed to be able to think clearly, to devise a strategy to lose the leash on him, but how could he do that when he kept expecting someone to say something and then those words simply didn’t come? What had Strickler been thinking, to tie Angor down with a fleshbag that even now acted as a distraction? A wretched witchling at that. A distraction and a failure who could barely even cast a spell.

No. He didn’t mean that.

Angor’s fingers scratched at his chest, bits of stone flaking under his claws. Almost always at the brink of falling apart, it felt, even though he knew his body stood firm. He needed to stay focused and keep walking.

An engine rattled in the distance, coming up from the unknown city far ahead. As always, Angor slunk into the side of the cliff, hiding among the shadows. A van, somewhat batted and with some unpleasant oil streaks over the blank white paint, rumbled its way up the road…and then slowed. Pulled off to the side. Angor curled his lip, pressing himself further out of view while pulling his dagger from his hip. If he needed to cut the throat of an unfortunate human, so be it.

“Angor?”

His eyes widened, just a touch. That was not just any unfortunate human. Avalon’s voice echoed off the sides of the valley, as they called out to him again.

“Angor? Come out, the sun will be up in an hour.”

Silently he peeled himself from his hiding place. Their back was half-turned, eyes glancing about as they scoured the sides of the road and the heights of the cliffside. Their attention was elsewhere.

Angor squeezed the dagger’s handle. In the brief few seconds their head turned away from his direction, he was moving out from his hiding spot completely, bearing down on them in silence. At least, until the shadows moved and formed. A trident raised as their hands moved, connecting with his open wrist but not his weapon hand. Despite having responded fast enough to the faint shuffle of rock and dirt, their aim was not enough to keep the blade edge from their neck.

The stone did not connect with skin. Angor’s hand, caught by trident prongs, trembled in the last bits of momentum that tried to continue moving forward. Avalon’s eyes were wide and pale, teeth bared in instinctive rage. Not like a human. Certainly not like a troll. More like a furious feral beast, a collared dog one word away from the command to kill.

“Good work,” Angor mused. His hand dropped away, taking the knife with it. Panic still danced in Avalon’s vein as they slowly released a trapped exhale and let the trident turn to smoke in the air.

“If you’re going to compliment me for almost getting beheaded, it’s not going to bode well for my sparring lessons,” they cracked. Angor grimaced, pulling away as he stalked around them and towards the van.

“Very well. Your aim was poor and you left yourself vulnerable by defending the wrong side.”

“Mmm, that’s more what I expected,” Avalon muttered as the smidgen of pride was abruptly flattened by disappointment. Hurrying in Angor’s footsteps, they overtook when he hesitated at the van’s side, looking the big beast over. All it took was a small click and big shove, and the side door was pushed open. The windowless interior was bare, apart from an extra tyre hung on the wall and a box shoved in the corner near the seats.

Angor had many questions. But for now he held them back, instead bending over to step into the van. The metal creaked and groaned, suddenly filled with a heavy weight of troll, and for a moment Avalon thought the suspension would give out completely. But the van held together, and Angor continued to squint around the interior as he slowly sat down on the floor.

“Well, uh…I’d say make yourself comfortable but it looks like you already have so-” Avalon gave Angor a double thumb’s up and promptly reached for the van door, pulled it back and closing off the outside world. Not a few seconds later one of the front doors opened and they scrambled back into view, shuffling in behind the steering wheel. The engine rattled to life once more, and with a slight groan of protest the vehicle swung around on the road, heading now in the direction that Angor had been travelling.

There was definitely more strain to the van’s motion and speed, compared to getting out this far. Avalon gritted their teeth just a little as they hopped up another gear, urging the engine to comply in gathering up momentum. Only once were they going at a reasonable speed for the highway did they let out a long sigh.

Now was the time, Angor thought.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“Mmm? Oh, uh…you know when I asked you about those stasis crystals and you told me to ‘go look and familiarise myself’ so I went and rooted around in your pouches?”

The memory was clear enough in Angor’s mind. But how was that connected to how they’d found him? The space between his eyes scrunched up tight in confusion, before reaching back around to the pouch in question. Stasis crystals, flare crystals - oh hello. He plucked out the charm, holding the bead of green light between thumb and forefinger, before twisting around to fix Avalon with an almost proud scowl. They spared a quick glance over their shoulder, spotting the burning gold look digging into their skin, and promptly shrank down just an inch in their seat.

“I mean…you do almost exactly the same thing.”

“You placed a tracker’s charm among my items.”

“Aaand look where it got us. Toddling along the highway, back to sunny - no, that’s bad - back to sweet ol’ Arcadia!” They finally looked properly at Angor, through the reflection in the rearview mirror, and that smile was…somewhat pained.

“Mmm. The one place where the Janus Order had specifically placed you to keep watch on their errant member,” Angor commented with a narrowing of eyes. He could see the moment where a cold realisation hit, the pained grin becoming nauseous, Avalon returning their focus to the road but the rest of their focus rapidly disintegrating into a panicked stare that Angor could see in the windshield’s reflection. He turned himself over to kneel, to face the same direction as them, regardless of how the van bounced a touch from his movements. It didn’t take much effort to steady himself against the back of the driver’s seat.

“You have risked the wrath of those who still hold you tight to their whims,” Angor continued, voice low and risking to tip over into a growl. This wasn’t teasing - he knew the weight of punishment that now threatened to rise over Avalon’s head. And they knew it too. Their eyes flickered as their focus briefly shifted to the reflection of Angor’s eyes in the windshield. Cold panic condensed into sharp motivation. Their hands squeezed on the steering wheel.

“It was a risk worth taking to get you back,” they muttered. “I wasn’t going to let you get caught out by the sun, wherever you ended up.”

“What if I had fallen further? Weeks away from Arcadia. Would you have fled from the Order’s fury to track me down still?”

“Of course.” No hesitation, not even for a second. It threw Angor more than he’d prepared himself for. Avalon pressed on regardless of his surprise, barely managing a half-smile. “Even if I’d had to chase your sorry damn ass to Alaska, I would’ve followed you. Janus Order bearing down on me or not.”

“Not even if they threatened death upon you?”

“Absolutely. Fuck them.” The van’s engine revved as Avalon pressed their foot harder on the gas pedal. It took a second of inhaling breath, their anger faltering from that burst of simmering rage back down to a cooler temperature, for them to settle themselves once more.

They would have risked the Order killing them, taking them away from their home once and for all, for him.

“You are reckless,” Angor muttered, watching as his words dug into the back of Avalon’s neck. “You allowed yourself to be led astray by emotion. You could have risked the Order doing away with you completely. You still do.”

Silence. Heavy and aching. Avalon kept watch on the road, pinpricks of the streetlamp lights glancing off the beads that gathered in the corners of their eyes.

“I know that Strickler would not have wasted time or effort on ensuring my safe return. So…thank you.”

Avalon’s eyes widened in shock, twin discs of bright blue in their reflection. Hurt turned to surprise, to unconditional warmth that flooded into Angor as well. He couldn’t stop that sensation, always present in their company but now filling the whole van space around them. Their smile was small and yet mustered a strange relief throughout Angor’s chest.

“Thank you,” Avalon whispered.

“I…would have done so too, if our positions were exchanged,” Angor admitted quietly. Not just because they were important to the task at hand, but for an end to the silence that he had become so hating of in these past few days. Somehow they’d become necessary to being able to think and rest. It was unthinkable and true.

“Risked death to come and save my sorry ass from the risk of dying?” Avalon questioned, trying to smile but something choking their voice. Human emotions - strangely tolerable nowadays.

“I seem incapable of learning one lesson,” Angor replied. “Still, you have proven loyalty. I can’t deny the importance of that. And so, you have earned a little more of my respect, witchling.” His voice rumbled dangerously as he added, “Even if you did choose to be underhanded in sneaking a tracking charm onto my person.”

Avalon laughed, their voice less damp and more nervous now.

“You’d have never said yes if I’d just out and asked,” they muttered.

“Correct.”

Another small laugh. It buzzed about Angor’s ears like a pixie, with the threat of distraction just as high but the painful effects not as present.

The van rumbled along. Outside the windows, the sky peeked past the sloping valley walls as the road began to descend. Twilight blue lightened with pale orange, clouds turning to streaks of red near the horizon past the city lights below. With how they travelled down the hill towards a spread of streetlamps and windows, it was more like Avalon was driving the pair back into a starry night. But the sun would indeed be rising soon.

Angor’s attention drifted, examining the van’s interior more. He’d never been in one of these vehicles, not even since Strickler had explained them to him. Part of the reason being the majority were simply too small for his size. At a push he could probably outpace and outmanoeuvre these weighty beasts. This one at least was large enough to fit him, and would provide apt shelter from daylight. Although the last time Angor checked, Avalon definitely had no access to one of these sorts of vehicles.

The front seats were a mess. A bag of food stuffs lay askew at the feet of one of the empty seats, along with a couple of pillows and a thick blanket. Water bottles the size of Angor’s hand were jammed in there too, one empty and one halfway done.

“How long did you wait to come and find me?” Angor asked. There was no malice to his question, no underlying blame. Avalon knew he could be petty at times and certainly capable of revenge. But this? No, it was just a question. Didn’t stop their heart rate from skipping up a notch though.

“About a day,” they replied. “Once morning came and I saw the Trollhunter and his friends going around like nothing had happened but you hadn’t shown your face, I figured something was up. The tracking charm confirmed it. I asked Strickler if he’d sent you to collect something and he denied it, saying you were in the process of whatever next step you were on and that if you needed me you’d get me. I just…I had a bad gut instinct.” Their attention shifted briefly, brow furrowing in confusion. “What did happen out there?”

“The human girl took the Skathe-Hrün,” Angor explained, and Avalon sucked a breath through their teeth.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah that’ll fuck things up,” they muttered. “When you didn’t show up in the evening like you always do, I decided to try and…go get you.” They hesitated. Fingers tapping on the van’s wheel. “Stole this van.”

“You stole this vehicle.” Angor’s deadpan held neither pride nor disappointment in its tone.

“I wasn’t going to get you with a shitty little car, was I?! I needed something that could tote you back if - if you -” Avalon’s fingers were strumming up a faster tempo. Grim thoughts lingered on the outskirts of their mind, and they hurriedly stuffed them back out of reach. “Mostly needed something that could keep you safe from the sun, if you weren’t able to teleport back yourself.”

There was more to have been commented on there. Angor chose, perhaps for Avalon’s benefit, to not do so. He could leave those threads aside for another time or simply ignore them for his benefit.

“You need not have expended such energy and risk were I only a few further days away,” he grumbled.

“You, sir, are on foot. You don’t know how long it would’ve taken to reach Arcadia the rest of the way by your method of transport,” Avalon snapped back. “Look, if we keep going back with a couple more stops for, y’know…human stuff. We should be back in another few days.”

Angor squinted. Leaning further forward, he considered Avalon’s face. The shadows hung deeper under their eyes, expression drawn as they did their best to ignore how he drew closer.

“How much rest have you taken while coming out to find me?”

This time the hesitation was far more drawn out. Avalon licked at their lips, daring a cautious glance over their shoulder to catch Angor’s focused glare. He waited with the patience of someone who hunted well.

“Did a couple of all-nighters. Pulled over for power naps when I felt I was getting too tired,” they replied quietly.

“Avalon.” Their name echoed with a deep dismay, and it seemed to kick something over in their head. Pulling off to the side of the road with a sharp turn, Avalon tossed the van into brake and spun around in their seat.

“What?!”

Teeth met teeth. Their snap and glare colliding against Angor’s rolling growl. His claws dug into the seat fabric, small tearing sounds barely heard past the van’s engine still sputtering in the background.

“You steal this van, you risk the Order on your neck, you push yourself against your limits,” Angor intoned. “I admire loyalty, but not when it threatens to break. What good are your actions if they will only harm you in the end?”

Avalon trembled. Exhaustion, anger, maybe both. Maybe some secret third thing that even they didn’t know about. But they didn’t break away from Angor’s glare.

“Everything. Everything matters. Anything I can do is good,” they replied bluntly. “When my choices are the will of people who have made it known they don’t care about how I feel about shit, and the wellbeing of the one person who has in some, small, stupid ways cared about me? Then yeah, I’ll burn for him.”

For the first time in a long while, Angor felt a sharp jolt of true surprise. Avalon had often voiced this strange silly intent to keep him safe: his job was to kill the Trollhunter, their job was to look after him through it. For a while he’d thought it some pathetic attempt for the witchling to keep their hands clean of blood. But the words still remained, even in the first trials of breaking stone and snapping bone. The words got louder, in the quiet dark and in the grip of dizzying poison.

And now? Here? Such fealty could be so easily manipulated, a puppet on someone else’s strings, a dog on a leash that couldn’t see the stick for the loyalty it had for the leash bearer.

Angor was done with puppets and leashes.

Sitting in the contemplative silence, he could see Avalon’s energy beginning to wane, their shoulders dropping. They still fought to hold his gaze, but there was little left to fight with. He reached out, a claw dragging at the edge of their cheek to test how easily they gave way. And give way they did, falling back down into the driver’s seat, one hand on the dashboard to steady themselves.

“You have found me now,” he said, keeping his voice to a steady rumble. “Do not burn yourself still. I say you rest, and we return once you have slept.”

The fight crumbled. If Avalon had been tired before, they were truly exhausted now. Slowly they nodded in agreement, shuffling around to turn off the van’s engine completely.

“Okay. Okay,” they murmured. “I need to cover up the windows first.”

Dawn finally began to crack its true light over the city below as Avalon pulled up a series of sheets, pinning them over the inside of the van windows. The orange swathe vanished behind a dusty muted grey, swallowing the van interior into a dimness, not a true darkness. Angor settled back down to rest his back against the seats as he listened to Avalon scrambled clumsily, pulling out their sleeping necessities. Finally, eventually, there was stillness.

“...Are you upset that I came out here?” Avalon asked quietly, voice almost muffled by seating. Angor pondered the question. The answer was easy. The truth was not.

“No,” he replied eventually. That would be all he’d say of his gratitude.

After a while, Avalon’s breath turned from steady to sluggish. Angor sat, not restless, quiet and contemplative. Soon the pair would be back in Arcadia, and he was certain that the Impure Strickler would have words for their disappearance. The hunt would not be broken. But bitterness still bubbled below the surface, hand-in-cold-hand with the thoughts that had been stewing for days now.

Angor was going to get that ring.

He could try to trick Strickler into giving it up. Scare him enough that perhaps he’d deem his slimy life salvageable by returning the ring. Destroy his reputation within the Order. But the Inferna Copula was still Angor’s soul, and if he stepped too far out of line then all Strickler needed to do was yank and Angor would be stopped.

Briefly he glanced backwards, down at Avalon. They would make for a suitable way to try and reclaim the ring, with how they were able to get close to Strickler during the day. By far they trusted him enough that they likely would do as asked, if he asked. But the ‘how’ remained - taking the ring through underhanded measures (they could sneak a tracking charm into his pouch but he doubted they could sneak a ring off someone’s hand in broad daylight) or brute force (Strickler was a snake but snakes had fangs and the Janus Order was a full hydra of them) would not be easy. They had already decided to walk a tightrope once for his sake. He didn’t want to see them slip.

There were other avenues, of course. Other ways to go about this. Strickler would surely have enemies, and the enemy of one’s enemy was…not a friend, but a tenuous ally potentially.

Angor’s eyes lit up as a puzzle piece slipped into place.

The Trollhunter boy, of course. There were plentiful reasons for him to want to go after Strickler, the two were opponents on different sides of a large board after all. It didn’t help that Strickler had been the one to send Angor Rot after him, nor the case with the enchantment that linked the Impure’s lifeforce to the boy’s mother. If nothing else, twisting the arm by reminding him of their difference in skill level would be an apt way about it.

Looking back up, Angor could see that the light outside had shifted. The sun’s glare wouldn’t break through the cloth shield, but time had definitely passed. Avalon remained very much asleep, although with half the blanket kicked off and curled as best as possible into a ball. It didn’t take much effort to reach over and readjust the blanket.

The sound of car engines outside caught Angor’s attention sharply. There’d been plenty of traffic going past, idle noise throughout the hours. But these had pulled up close by and then cut off. His instinct prickled under his stone, picking the dagger from his belt.

The sun would be overhead by now. Shadows would be spread over the ground, the light facing down.

Gritting his teeth, Angor found the interior handle of the van and pulled it sharply, tugging the van door open.

Two cars were parked outside. A small group of people, a varying blend of human faces, all dressed in similar attire to Strickler and other humans that worked in that school of his. If it weren’t for the goblin faces that pressed against the window of the other cars, or for a painfully familiar round face with a stick of facial hair, Angor might have considered these only humans.

Cast still in shadow, he fixed the group of Impures with a dangerous glare. Even without the Skathe-Hrün, he was a master assassin for a reason.

No-one moved for a moment. The round faced one, Otto he faintly recalled, finally took the first step.

“Where is the witch?” he said sharply. Angor’s teeth sharpened on those words. He hadn’t heard Avalon move for hours, not even when the cars pulled up, but he doubted their body’s necessity to rest had pulled them into that deep of a sleep.

“They are here,” he replied.

“You must inform her-”

The growl that rolled out of Angor could have shaken mountains. If Avalon hadn’t been awake beforehand, they had to be now. Several of the Order members took a cautionary step back. Otto carefully readjusted his glasses. Angor could see his hand tremble in the motion.

“You must inform them that they are required to return to Arcadia at once. Else this will be seen as a violation of their contract,” he continued.

“There is no violation. Their task is to assist the Impure Strickler, and they are doing so.”

“But abandoning their grounds-”

“He ordered them to come and find me,” Angor interrupted. “And he is one of the Janus Order, is he not? They were placed in Arcadia to work for him. And so they do.”

A couple of the Order members began muttering to each other now. Otto’s expression went from a faux disapproval to a more realistic disgruntled. There was an opportunity to drive a wedge in, and Angor did enjoy a good opportunity for such things.

“Did he not inform his own Order?” he mused aloud. “Strange how easily it is for him to allow such things to go on out of sight and earshot.”

“Tell us what else he has planned,” Otto said a bit too quickly. Angor’s grin turned hungry, and the Impure realised his mistake.

“I do not take orders from you,” Angor growled, his smile feasting on each nervous face. “I only take orders from he who wields the Infernal Copula. And I see no ring on anyone’s finger here.”

A door quickly opened and shut with a slam. Angor didn’t bother to examine who had dived into the vehicle out of panic. His eyes were fixed on Otto, watching his expression for every shift, every sweatdrop that wasn’t just the noonday sun attacking his black attire. Little twitches across the Impure’s face carried thoughts, processing, the underlying score of fear and anger and threat of betrayal.

Good. Make them stab each other in the back.

“We will continue our work for Strickler,” Angor said firmly, before anything else could be turned back towards him. “The witchling will return once it is complete.”

“See to it,” Otto snapped, as if he had any say in the situation. His gaze flickered back and forth, looking for the person in question who, by some miracle, had not appeared at any point during the discussion. A slow venomous smile appeared before he doffed his hat. “Give them our regards.”

Angor snarled at his back as the Order members packed up, each slinking back to their cars before pulling away sharply back onto the road, goblins jeering at Angor from the back windows. Once they were little more than dust trails, he grabbed the door handle and dragged it shut once more.

Silence. Broken by small shaking breaths.

The van creaked as once more Angor got down to one knee, peering over the van seats. Still partially curled up on the seats, Avalon held themselves in a death grip, eyes wide and watering as they exhaled like someone was strangling them.

“Avalon.”

Barely a flinch. Angor gritted his teeth, before reaching over. Grabbing their shirt, he ignored the sudden break of their stupor and how they let out a sharp cry of panic as he dragged them over to his side. Their legs seemed unable to steady them, so one hand held them upright. The other hand gripped the side of their face and chin, turning their eyes on his. Their whole body trembled as their hands grabbed at his arms, tears now rolling down their cheeks as words failed to fall from between panicked wheezes. Angor’s grip on their head tightened carefully.

“Look at me,” he rumbled. “Look. Breathe.”

Avalon let out a small choked sob. It was enough to pry the edges of this ailment from their chest, as the wheezing became smoother, then deeper. His thumb pressed into their cheek, the cold a shock and a balm on their mind as all the shrieking panicking thoughts grew quieter and quieter. Long minutes passed before their body seemed to maintain composure once more, pulling in a deep breath and exhaling it slowly.

“Thank you,” they whispered.

“I told you of the risk,” Angor admonished, ever so lightly.

“I told you I knew about it. I just…didn’t think they would come after me so fast.”

The leash was tight. Tighter than expected. And it throttled them when faced with that fact. Avalon’s eyes closed, head relaxing into Angor’s palm. The motion startled him briefly, prompting him to shift his grip to their shoulder and keep them upright without their face seeming to melt into his hand. They quickly straightened up, coughing uncomfortably.

“Still, thank you for covering for me,” Avalon said hurriedly. “We should probably get going before they get too much distance on us, in case Otto decides to compare notes with Strickler.”

“Somehow I doubt he will,” Angor replied, watching as the witchling pushed themself over the van seats, tidying up the space for driving once more. “It is good to be cautious. But we aren’t going back to Arcadia just yet.”

“I - we aren’t?” Avalon squinted in confusion.

“There are some things I must collect, to deal with the Trollhunter and Strickler both. His time with the Inferna Copula comes to an end on my terms.” Angor’s words rolled together in a growl. Avalon watched him with a small sense of awe, before determination fixed on their brow and they nodded.

“Good. ‘Bout time he got some comeuppance,” they said. Carefully the sheet was removed, making sure no sunlight reached the back of the van, and then re-pinned over the van seats as a curtain. With Avalon out of sight, Angor settled back down to sit as the van engine spluttered to life, and the vehicle jerked and jumped its way back to cruising along the road.

Perhaps this was a good moment to test out questions. To pry into actions. To ask why. But Avalon did not take that moment. A shame.

“So, where are we going?”

“Due north-west of Arcadia. There are old troll grounds in the unmarked dirt.”

“Okay. And what’s down there?”

“You’ve been reading Strickler’s books. Tell me what you know of pixies.”

#writings #self insert #platonic self ship #world: trollhunters #ship: rotten magic

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