#I might split legend and worlds I might not

[impyssadobsessions]

Here's a comic depicting a snippet of a story Idea I have. >w<

(Link to Reference Art I made of Danny) Danny comes across Clockwork's lair, see's some visions of a past he wasn't quite sure of whose, before being dropped down a hole where CW cryptically fills him in as to why he had summon him. Thus dropping Danny into this new world with only knowing he has to save a guy name Dante- and defeat Pariah again. He falls through a roof of a thrift store- fights some skeleton demons with the racks after learning something is weird with his powers as he cannot change into phantom and his body feels weird. His clothes get ripped and tatter thus him "borrowing" clothes and walking out to see the extent of what Pariah has already done.

Which causes him to run into a big bull demon and fights him one to one- while learning the new limitations on his powers/how they work in this world. Spoiled below more ideas that are very rough and not set in stone. That I copied and pasted from my word document- which was just hastily written down as to not forget.

Danny is summon for another favor for Clockwork- CW isnt in the tower but screens of timelines are playing around the room. Danny thinks some of them are cool- wondering when and where that is- until he see one of a woman running with a baby in her arms. Cut back to danny who falls through a hole in the ground and winds up falling into a thrift store. His form has changed and his powers don't really work how they were suppose to. Maybe instead following Pariah into the demon world- finding himself in same scenario. Maybe CW gives only cryptic word help dante. But dante supposedly still gone so meets nero instead. Nero over time realizes Danny might not be human- doesn't think ghost- but assume Danny might be Dante's son... for various reasoning. ---Maybe CW is split in two reason Danny was able to live on the other side. (because of legend of Pariah having been banished to in between because he was feared by demons- only for him to take over new world and being sealed there. Chronos was part of the reason he got banished. ) -Pariah Dark being big bad. But once Danny wins title of king the curse tries to bind him. Then Clockwork stabs him to the ground with his staff- essentially winning the title and being sealed away with Pariah. Danny is rescued by Dante, and he uses the staff to slow the closing of the portal. Everyone safe and rescued. Danny stands where the portal was and cries. Overwhelmed by information and also realizing he has no way back home.

--- Also thought of an idea for a sequel idea- where Danny is in a comatose state but it is revealed after a seemingly heartwarming scene of Dante and Danny watching the sunset peacefully as father and son. Then Nero arrives to pick up Danny. Dante reveals that they know where the guy who did this to danny is and how to get Danny back to normal. (Vergil having scouted ahead) Dante leaves to help clear out the problem leaving Nero with literal dead weight as Nero has to take Danny's lifeless body to the lair- Danny slowly regaining some motion as he gets closer to his-self. Nero at first saying Danny owes him big time- but as it goes on Nero like- hey don't pay it back all in one go- I still need at least one favor so I could spend a nice night with kyrie. (Because Danny uses his blood to help Nero fight back the ghosts- and then him phasing them through a collapsed ceiling while still in a coma like state) Very Nero centric taking care of Danny- and whose been taking the most care of Danny. So very much him just talking one sided to Danny but seriously hoping for the best. And to clock the guy who did this. Which my idea that it be actually Dan ;3 who split Danny apart.

[radiocrypt-id]

The bad kids haven't really looked too closely at the Rat Grinders (meta wise I know it's a commentary on different play styles and how shitty xp farming is and how op players/parties can become by doing the bare minimum if they put in the time while everyone else plays the damn game) but I find the split perspective problems absolutely fascinating. I can't wait for the Bad Kids to look at the Rat Grinders with envy and anger that the Rat Grinders got to live a normal highschool life without all this insane danger and experience being a teenager without it being the end of the world for them. Right now they just hate the Rat Grinders energy and are matching it back (which is a very high school thing to do. To have beef with a whole other group of kids and not even know why but you'll die on this hill because they started shit first)

Because to the Rat Grinders, from a purely outside perspective, the Bad Kids are fucking monarchs of the school, right? They skipped classes, ran around town, fought people, got arrested, hung out with a big devil? Every new staff member came at their recommendation? One of them has both her dads working at the school?? The destroyed school property, got teachers killed, straight murdered the coach? These fucking kids run around and are apparently scott-free? because the principal liked their chaos enough to let it go and help them avoid the police? To the Rat Grinders, the Bad Kids are untouchable. They're exempt from the law. They're liars, cheats and need to be humbled. It's unfair. From everyone elses perspective, it really does look like the Bad Kids have been given crazy favourtism.

Meanwhile, all of the Bad Kids have died at least once. They've been irreparably changed and are in a constant state of fight or flight. They assume everything is dangerous and anyone might be an enemy because for two goddamn years that was the exact case! They couldn't trust any adult first year! Literally anyone could have been infected with Kalina second year! who knows what happened with the Night Yord but I fucking bet they had issues with Yorbies pretending to be helpful just to kill them! Everyone, for two years, has been out to get them! They can't even sleep! And now they have to grind so hard or they fail. Adaine has a seemingly full time job after school basically every day because she literally can't afford to live? Fabian has taken on the most physically strenuous classes and sport one dude could and has dreams of also being a social legend because he's fucking lonely in that big house and he just wants to fill it. If anyone in the party fails or dies Riz is shit out of luck and wont ever get into a university? He so desperately wants his friends with him so he's working over time and ignoring his limits to make up for his party members not caring about the future. Fig is going through the strangest arc I've ever seen in my life? she's hard avoidant and taking three classes, so a 250% work load, because she's desperate to fill her time so she can't think about all the other work she has to do that if she ignores too long could crush her under the debt of her band from her label, or how alone she feels without her girlfriend around. Gorgug is so desperate to prove himself that he's doing four years of school work in one, trying to play catch up and also prove himself at the same time, he's taking it all so seriously but also is so fucking tired. And Kristen. Mother fucking Kristen "hey girlie" applebees. Expected to dedicate her life to a god with no direction, with the weight of failure being her gods death, while also being in school and also at your friends insistence needing to run for student body president and getting your priorities so mixed up and being completely left behind by her peers who didn't have to rework their entire world view and understanding of life in the span of a few months every few months.

The Bad Kids are in a terrible place. They're suffering. I want them to just say it out loud, to stop pretending they have it handled and are fine. I want Riz and Adaine to yell at the party to get their shit together. I want Fabian to tell someone how alone and abandoned her feels. I want Kristen to scream at Cassandra that she agrees, that it's not fair, she's just a kid, how could she be enough all on her own with no help? It sucks a god can only rely on a child, for both the god and child! They're both suffering from this arrangement! Neither is happy! I want Gorgug to beat the shit out of Porter with his inventions and rage at the same time, to make the best shit and use it in the most stunning way anyone has ever seen. I want Fig to finally get some freaking help, to have her teachers and parents reach out in a meaningful way and stop telling her to figure it out alone because clearly the pressure is too much for her to handle and she's drowning. I want someone, anyone, to look at the Bad Kids and tell them to stop. To help them. But I know it wont be that easy. I know it'll be the Rat Grinders yelling at how unfair it is the Bad kids get everything while they're on the sidelines that'll get under the Bad Kids skin and they'll yell about how awesome they are and that they didn't ask for any of this shit to happen to them and to fuck off. I know it's gonna get so much worse before it gets better. I know they'll figure it out and that it'll be a painful road there.

[meazalykov]

independent

sister!trinity rodman x rodman!reader

part one - part two here

summary: even though you're sisters, you might have to let her go

warnings: angst, swearing, childhood trauma mentions

there is no way that you would reject the offer your agent sent you.

at twenty one years old, barcelona feminine offered you a 3 year contract to play at their club as a defender.

for many years while growing up, you were obsessed with barcelona and the atmosphere all of games had.

you idolized messi, before idolizing alexia putellas when barcelona's women's team started putting themselves on the map.

there is no way that you will say no to barcelona.

as of right now, you were with washington spirit. the nwsl club and the catalan club had ties together, so you shouldn't be surprised that barcelona saw you-- spirit's best defender-- before anyone else in america.

when it comes to transfers and talks of contracts, you weren't allowed to disclose the details with anyone.

even with your own sister, trinity.

trinity is your best friend, and your fraternal twin. you were 9 minutes younger than her and stayed attached to her hip.

its not like trinity didn't like it, she loved staying by your side. when you asked your mom to start playing soccer at the age of 4-- a shock considering that your father is one of the basketball legends in the NBA-- trinity joined with you.

now, many years later, the both of you were playing in the NWSL and play for the USWNT. you had the speed, strength, and determination that made you an unstoppable defender while trinity's speed, attitude, and dribbles made her an unstoppable forward.

there were many obstacles that you had to go through to get here.

emotionally, you weren't okay while growing up. missing your father who happened to be very famous in the sports world took a toll on you for a long time.

sometimes, you wondered if he would've came by to see you, your sister, and your brother more if you'd decided to pursue a professional career in basketball instead.

trinity pretended that the absence didn't affect her, as she would comfort you every time you were upset about your father not showing up to the games to see you both.

you knew deep down that it did affect your twin, as she would greet mom and then search the crowd to see if she can find dad anywhere after.

another obstacle was trying to overachieve in soccer, to the point where it would take a toll on your body most days.

having a father who is famous for his NBA career in the 90s, you didn't want people to think that you were "buying" your way into higher spots on the teams. you wanted to prove that you had talent, not nepotism.

after solcal blues, you nearly played soccer for UCLA while trinity wanted to follow DJ to washington state. the both of you had major anxiety about splitting apart from each other-- wondering if the both of you would survive without seeing each other everyday.

however, COVID-19 decided to keep you both together. the quarantine solidified the codependency you shared with trinity.

so, telling trinity that you'll be moving clubs scared you. you didn't know how she'd react.

she would probably see if she could switch clubs with you. you frowned at the idea, knowing that barcelona couldn't offer her a contract, they have too many forwards already.

since you said yes to the catalan club, you'll be in another country while trinity stays in DC-- unless she went to another club in europe to be closer to you.

now, you'll have to tell her before news pages leak the contract deal.

"trin?" you called out inside of your shared apartment with her. you assumed she'd be in the living room, so you walked out of your bedroom to head to there.

"hey, you're awake!" trinity said as you sat down on the couch beside her.

she wasn't smiling, in fact, she sounded like she was waiting for you to wake up to tell you something.

"trin I gotta talk to you about something."

"okay-- coach said you wouldn't be in training or the next game, I was surprised because you didn't tell me that." trinity chuckles as you frowned.

little did she know, the last game with spirit was your last.

"I'm sorry--- I just wanted to talk to you about something important."

she looked at you, waiting for you to continue as you looked down at your sweaty palms.

"I'm leaving." you mumbled.

trinity's eyebrows flared together.

"what do you mean?" she asks.

"another club offered me a contract, and I feel like that would be best for my career." you say.

trinity sighed, in relief, un-crossing her arms before laying her feet out on the coffee table.

"oh okay, you'll still be in the country so I can visit you. maybe we will even clash-"

the older twin had experienced distance with you before. you were gonna play in los angeles while she went to washington state with DJ--- however, she didn't know how far she would be from you.

"trin." you stop her.

trinity read the facial expression on your face. you looked sad, shaking your head slowly as you kept rubbing your hands together-- wondering if this was the end to the close bond you shared with your sister.

"you're going-- overseas?" she mumbled.

trinity is your personal mind-reader, almost, she could tell what you were thinking based off of your facial expressions and the current situation.

"I couldn't say no to barcelona." you say, crossing your arms as you looked away from trinity-- towards the turned off television.

the silence between you and trinity grew heavier, the tension almost palpable. she didn't say anything immediately after, which scared you.

you look over to see that she is looking right at you.

you could see the hurt in her eyes, but there was something else there too—anger.

she finally pulled her hand away from the resting position on her lap, standing up abruptly.

"so, that's it? you're just going to leave?" trinity's voice was sharp, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

"what happened to communication? why were you so secretive about this? weren't we supposed to be into soccer together, y/n? we always said we'd have each others backs, no matter what. and now you're running off to barcelona like its not a big deal."

"it is a big deal," you shot back, standing up to face her.

"but this is my career we're talking about, trin. i can't pass up an opportunity like this just because it's hard. you know how much this means to me. YOU know how much I grew up loving barcelona."

"and what about me?" trinity demanded, her voice rising.

"do i mean anything to you? because it sure doesn't feel like it right now. you didn't even talk to me about it before making your decision. you just decided on your own, like me or DJ don't even matter to you." trinity rubs her left temple with her finger, overwhelmed and frustrated at your decision.

"DJ? he doesn't even live in DC!" you protest.

"at least he will be in the fucking country!" trinity snaps.

"that's not fucking fair trinity," you argued, frustration creeping into your own voice.

you never said trinity's name fully, always calling her trin.

"of course you matter to me, but this is my life! i have to do what's best for me, and that means taking this chance. you would do the same if you were in my shoes." you stood up, just five feet in front of her standing body.

"you really don't get it, do you? it's not just about you, y/n. we were supposed to be a duo, and now you're breaking that up. you're leaving your own twin behind, and you don't even care because you want to prioritize your career over that." trinity let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head.

"of course i care!" you shouted, feeling your emotions getting the best of you. "but i can't let that stop me from going after what I want, especially since dad stopped coming around so much before we grew up. i need this, trin. if you can't understand that, if you can't be happy for me, if you want to stay at the same club for your whole career-- then maybe you need to let me go."

the words hung in the air like a bomb that had just gone off. trinity's face twisted in hurt and disbelief, her eyes narrowing as she stared at you.

"let you go? are you serious right now? you're the one who's leaving, y/n-- just like dad did. you're the one who’s letting go!"

"i'm not giving up on us!" you insisted, your voice trembling with the overwhelming process of your feelings. "but if you can't support me like a twin sister would… then yeah, maybe you need to let me go."

trinity stared at you, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she processed your words.

for a moment, you thought she might say something—anything—to bridge the gap that had opened between you. but instead, she just shook her head, tears filling her eyes.

"fine," she said, her voice breaking as she relaxed her arms in defeat.

"go. do what you have to do. but don't expect me to be here waiting when you realize that the grass isn't greener on the other side."

with that, trinity turned on her heel and stormed out of the apartment, leaving you standing there. you flinched when she slammed the door shut, probably scaring your neighbors in the process.

you wanted to run after her, to take back everything you'd said, take back your contract with barcelona and stay in washington-- but you knew it was too late for that.

the rift between you and your lifetime companion had been torn wide open, and there was no going back now.

all you could do was hope that, in time, she would come to understand why you had to do this—why you had to follow your own path and break your dependency from her, even if it meant leaving her behind.

for now, the only thing you could do was stand firm in your decision and hope that your dream didn't cost you the most important person in your life.

part two

my master list is here if you want to read more fics <3

[luvnanako]

Predictable

Caitlyn x Reader (wlw, smut,)

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

This fanfic is basically the jail scene but instead of Vi it's Caitlyn x f! Reader, AND it's a bit more smuttier hehe

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Intro

Oh my god guyssss!! thank you soooo soooo much for 100 likes on my last post !! I decided to make my first smut on here as a thanks, I hope you'll enjoy this one too! and don't forget - English is not my first language and any feedback is welcomed 𖹭

-------------︶ ⏝ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ⏝ ︶----------

Piltover teetered on the edge of chaos, its golden spires shadowed by the encroaching storm of war. The tension in the air was palpable, an invisible weight pressing down on the city’s inhabitants. Enforcers darted through the streets, their hurried steps a grim symphony against the cobblestones as they armed themselves and secured their posts. Families whispered frantic goodbyes, their homes trembling under the strain of looming conflict. Below, in Zaun’s darkened depths, its people were forcibly shipped to aid in Piltover's defense—unwilling pawns in a game they���d never been allowed to play.

The world above was unraveling, but from the cold confines of your cell, it might as well have been a distant dream. The stone walls loomed around you, the air thick and suffocating. Each passing second dragged on, the muffled sounds of a city preparing for war clawing at the edges of your consciousness.

In a flash of frustration, you slammed your fist into the unyielding wall. Pain seared through your knuckles as they split, crimson streaks tracing their way down your skin. You barely noticed the sting, too consumed by the storm raging inside. A guttural groan tore from your throat, reverberating off the damp walls.

How could this have happened? How had it come to this? Your mind was a cacophony of self-recriminations, every "what if" and "if only" echoing louder than the last.

"Is this my fault?"

The words slipped from your lips in a bitter whisper, their taste as sharp as the regret that burned in your chest.

You couldn’t stop the image of her from surfacing. Jinx. Her name sent a jolt through you, equal parts anger and something far more complicated. She’d outmaneuvered you—again—and left you here, a prisoner of your own failure. The memory of her mocking grin was like a dagger twisting in your gut.

You were so lost in the whirlpool of your thoughts that you almost missed the sound of approaching footsteps. It wasn’t until a soft, familiar voice pierced the silence that your world snapped back into focus.

"Had a feeling I might find you here."

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The words were gentle, yet laced with an edge that made your heart clench. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. Her voice was as unmistakable as it was haunting. And yet, despite the magnetic pull, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn around. Not like this. Not when you were bloodied, broken, and drowning in shame.

“Cait, I—”

The words caught in your throat as she silently unlocked the cell. You exhaled deeply, the weight of disappointment and embarrassment pressing heavily on your chest.

“I thought… I really believed Jinx would help,”

you murmured, your voice cracking under the strain of your guilt. Closing your eyes, you let out another sigh, your frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You were right. You told me this would happen, and I was an idiot—an idiot to trust her. To think she’d actually help us…”

Caitlyn stood just outside the open door, her eyes softening as she took in your battered and defeated form. Her hands fidgeted by her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach out, to hold you and shield you from the pain you carried. Her lips parted slightly, her lower lip trembling as she tried to keep her composure.

“I chose wrong every time,”

you continued, your voice quieter now, barely above a whisper.

“And because of it… I lost everyone.”

The words felt like a confession, each syllable cutting deeper into your resolve. You instinctively raised your arms, placing them behind your neck, as though trying to physically hold yourself together. The weight of your failures hung heavily in the air between you.

Caitlyn’s boots tapped softly against the stone floor as she took slow, deliberate steps toward you. Her movements were cautious, almost hesitant, but her presence radiated a quiet strength. Stopping a few feet away, she leaned against the cold wall with a smooth motion, her posture relaxed yet purposeful.

Her arms crossed over her chest, but her gaze lingered on you—on your bruised knuckles, the faint cuts across your face, and the turmoil in your eyes. She studied you carefully, her expression shifting, her concern palpable. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, her lips curved into something between a smirk and a challenge.

“You really think I needed all the guards at the Hexgates?”

she asked, her tone light but laced with meaning.

The unexpected question broke through your haze, and your brow furrowed in confusion. Slowly, you turned your head to meet her eyes, curiosity sparking behind the exhaustion.

Right at that moment, your eyes are drawn to her outfit—the dark pants hugging her legs with effortless grace, the cropped jacket tailored perfectly to her frame, exuding both authority and an undeniable allure. Beneath it, a simple black shirt clings to her, understated but impossibly striking in the way it complements her silhouette. You’ve seen her dressed like this before—earlier today, even—but somehow, it feels entirely new.

But now, it was as if your eyes were truly open for the first time.

Her messy hair framed her face perfectly, strands falling just so, highlighting her delicate features. Her tired, stressed eyes held a depth that made it impossible to look away, and her lips... soft, inviting, and so undeniably kissable. The tension in her expression melted away, her eyebrows relaxing, and those stunning blue eyes locked onto yours. It felt like she had you under a spell.

“Sorry to say… you’ve grown a bit predictable,”

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Caitlyn said, her voice low and teasing, a smirk curling on her lips. The words dripped like honey, her accent hitting you in a way that made something stir deep within you.

Before you could think it through, you closed the space between you, pressing your lips to hers in a swift, heated motion. Your hands instinctively cupped her jaw, your eyes fluttering shut as the kiss deepened. You've kissed her before, but never like this. There was something new, something electric, in the way her lips moved against yours. Each touch, every small shift, sent waves of emotion through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

You felt Caitlyn try to pull away, but you weren’t ready to let her lips go just yet. After a few attempts, she finally managed to free herself from your hold. Her cheeks glowed with a brilliant red hue, and her eyes shimmered with a mix of love and nervousness.

"While you were gone... I... I saw someone,"

she murmured softly, her gaze darting around the room as if she couldn’t bring herself to meet your eyes. It was almost as though the kiss had embarrassed her.

But her words barely registered. They passed right through you, overshadowed by the singular need to show her how much she meant to you.

"Cait... I don’t fucking care,"

you said, voice low and unwavering.

Without hesitation, you pulled her back into another kiss, your lips crashing together in a fervent embrace. A soft moan escaped you as her tongue tentatively slipped into your mouth, igniting a fire that made you press closer to her. She responded eagerly, her hands trailing down your waist and back, claiming territory with every touch as though she was taking charge of the moment.

Her sighs and soft breaths against your lips told you she was enjoying this just as much as you were. When you pulled away briefly, her tongue slipping free with a faint pop, a thread of saliva lingered between you, glistening against your lips.

Your hands found their way to her cheeks, cupping them as your eyes met hers. You couldn’t suppress a soft giggle at the flushed, slightly dazed look she gave you.

That moment of playfulness was short-lived. Before you could process it, Caitlyn shoved you against the wall, the distance between you vanishing in an instant. Her intensity caught you off guard—she was rougher than you ever imagined she’d be, but you weren’t complaining.

Without warning, she slid her knee between your legs, eliciting a desperate moan from you. The sensation made your hands wander instinctively, tracing the contours of her tall frame. Your fingers glided down her back, finally coming to rest on her butt, gripping it firmly as your lips sought hers again.

Then, just as suddenly as she had closed the gap, Caitlyn took a step back, leaving you breathless and needy, your eyes pleading for her touch to return.

She smiled widely, her tooth gap visible as her eyes locked onto yours with a playful glint. The warmth of her expression made your heart race. Then, in one swift motion, she tugged her shirt over her head, leaving your gaze fixed on her now-exposed chest. A wave of heat rushed through you as realization hit—she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Why wasn’t she wearing one? Did she take it off before coming here? For me?

Your mind raced with questions, too flustered to look away. Caitlyn chuckled softly, a melodic sound that only added fuel to the fire in your chest. She blew a loose strand of hair from her face, an effortlessly attractive gesture that had you utterly captivated.

She began to walk toward you, each step deliberate, her bare skin catching the soft light in the room. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the way she moved, her confidence magnetic, her every step hypnotic. Her cheeks were slightly flushed, and her lips curved into the kind of smile that sent shivers down your spine.

When she finally stood before you, close enough for her warmth to reach you, she reached out, her soft hands brushing against your shoulders as they slid the straps of your top down with an ease that made your breath hitch. You looked up into her eyes, and instead of letting her gaze wander over your now-exposed skin, her focus stayed firmly on your own eyes, seeking something—permission, perhaps, or reassurance.

Before she could say a word, you reached out, grabbing her hand and pulling her close, wrapping her arm around your waist. Without hesitation, your lips found hers, and the world around you seemed to fade. The kiss was electric, as if every moment had led to this. Her lips were soft, and the connection between you felt undeniable, natural, as though you were made for each other.

Your hands began to explore her body, fingers trailing lightly over her skin, tracing every curve and memorizing the softness beneath your touch. Her arms found their way around your neck, pulling you closer, her movements filled with both tenderness and desire. The kiss deepened, each moment more intimate than the last.

Her waist pressed against yours as she held you tightly, grounding you in the moment while igniting a fire that neither of you seemed able—or willing—to extinguish. A quiet sigh escaped your lips, and her gentle whimpers filled the space between kisses, creating a melody that only you two could hear.

Time seemed to stretch and blur, your surroundings forgotten. The connection between you was all that mattered now, a rhythm of shared breaths and mutual longing. Whatever came next, you knew it was hers to take, just as your heart already was.

Suddenly, you let out a louder moan against her lips, and you feel a smirk spreading across her face. Your eagerness takes over as you press her against the wall, seizing the lead. Her waistband clicks beneath your fumbling fingers as you attempt to unbuckle it. A blush creeps onto your cheeks when it takes you a few tries to get it right. Caitlyn chuckles softly, clearly amused by your struggle.

Finally, her long pants slide down, discarded without a second glance as your focus remains locked on her neck.

“Mmh…”

she breathes, her nails grazing your back, tugging lightly at your skin. After a few teasing nips and lingering licks that leave behind a fresh hickey, you begin a trail of soft kisses down her chest. You pause to lavish her curves with attention, gently nipping at her sensitive peaks.

A loud moan escapes Caitlyn’s lips as her hands thread into your hair, gripping tightly. Her eyes roll back, lost in the sensations you're creating. You move lower, determined to make her feel even better. She groans and looks down at you, her breaths coming in short gasps as you slowly slip your tongue into her.

She’s instantly undone. Her legs grow unsteady, her muffled moans betraying her attempts to stifle the sounds of pleasure. You work her relentlessly—twisting, nipping, swirling—her voice climbing higher with every move.

Minutes pass, and you decide to push her over the edge. Not one, but two fingers slide inside her, driving her closer to release. Caitlyn squeaks, her thighs trembling against you, grinding instinctively. It only takes a few more movements before she shatters, her body tightening and shaking as she reaches her climax.

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Her hands clutch at your back as she comes undone, her arms wrapping around your shoulders for support. She’s breathless, her flushed face buried against you as she struggles to recover.

You lean back slightly, quickly licking your fingers clean before anything drips, while holding her wobbly frame steady.

“C-Cupcake…”

you murmur, gazing up at her with a soft smile. She looks down at you, still catching her breath, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

“I told you…” you start.

“Told me what?” she breathes out, barely managing the words.

“That the Undercity was gonna eat you alive.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

[trumpkinhotboy]

I’ll keep an eye on you

pairing: jacob black x reader

type: not requested

genre: a bit spooky, but mostly fluffy and comforting vibes

warnings: mention of blood and being chased after (but nothing too intense)

word count: ~ 2K

requests: open! for twilight wolfpack, narnia and harry potter

a/n: honestly, i’m really excited about this fic. i think it’s very sweet and comforting :3 my brain is bubbling with so many ideas lately so expect new pieces from me in the close future hehe. also if you have any requests feel free to message me!!

i recommend listening to a Twilight Comfort playlist while reading this. Hope you enjoyy <33

part II part III

*gif is not mine!!

summary: After the reader survives an encounter with a vampire, they are still haunted by the memories of it. Luckily, they have a caring and protective friend who is always ready to ensure they feel safe and cared for, even in the middle of the night.

Wrong place, wrong time.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to erase the terrible images invading your brain. For a week now, they have been omnipresent, taking up all the space in your mind. They are the center and focal point of your thoughts for days on end. As you open them again, your vision adjusts to the darkness just enough for your gaze to fall on a strange form crouched in the corner of your bedroom. You could swear it’s alive. Swear it’s stalking you.

You jump out of your bed to turn your nightlamp on. Your heart feels like it might spring out of your chest of its own accord. Your breath is short, and for a moment, you think you’ll never be able to take one that will actually get air in your system.

The menacing form in the corner turned out to be a pile of dirty clothes, but you knew that. Since that day, you feel irrational and paranoid. Everything feels like a threat, and you are now constantly looking over your shoulder, paying close attention to any suspicious sound or absence of it. You’ve talked about it with Harry Clearwater when you unexpectedly met at the Reservation one day. You did not hear him coming, and he had set his heavy hand on your shoulder to get your attention. Which resulted in a glass shattering scream for you and a bad fright for the poor man. As he invited you in for a calming cup of tea, you unloaded the weight on your shoulder to him. It felt good to talk about it, knowing you could never do so with your dad and your friends. He assured you that it unfortunately was a very normal reaction from your nervous system. You had faced the world's most dangerous predator and had survived it without a single scratch. Of course it would take some time for your traumatized brain to go back to normal. You could never take credit for the fact that you even had a chance to go back to normal, and would never attempt to do so. Knowing very well that without Paul, Jared, and Embry’s arrival, you would not have lived to talk about this encounter.

When you focus and let your mind drift off, you can live the event again, as if you were back in time. The paralyzing fear, the blood in your veins feeling like icy water. There was nothing to be done against a creature like that. You remember the horror you felt as everything became silent around you. You were headed to Emily's cabin, a simple, straightforward walk through the woods. The birds suddenly stopped singing, even the soft wind had died down. The forest knew it was in the presence of something truly horrible and had seemed to hold its breath, along with every creature. The color of its eyes was like in every legend you had been told; crimson red, like fresh blood. Not one ounce of humanity in those orbs, just a bottomless pit of cruelty and hunger. The worst thing was the pull you remember feeling for a split second toward that monster. You knew it was its sole purpose, but felt embarrassed you had fallen for it. Shivers crawled down your spine as you recalled its ethereal and hypnotizing appearance. It’s like you can hear again the faint swooshing sound it made as it sprang towards you. You remember sending out a quick prayer to literally any entity who would be listening right now, but the blow never came. Next thing you knew, three giant beasts tackled it to the ground, gnarling and dismembering it in a matter of seconds.

You open your eyes and shake your head to try and physically get those horrible memories outside of your skull. You lay back in bed, anxiously watching every corner of your room for some sign of danger. You left the light open, you knew there was no chance you could fall asleep without it. You tucked yourself back in bed and tried to calm your breathing. You tried every technique you knew, hoping sleep would grace you with its embrace, but nothing worked.

You look back at the clock after a while. 1:15 am. It was too late for you to get out of bed, and morning was still so far away. You had school the next day and knew that if you spent one more night without sleeping, you wouldn’t be able to explain to your teachers why you dozed off again in their class without them calling your father.

In a last effort, you tried thinking about reassuring and comforting things. Curiously enough, one kept coming back to mind. A giant wolf, its fur a multitude of shades of brown and red. Its eyes were sweet and reassuring, containing a particular warmth. You looked at your phone, hesitating, but remembered his voice: “If there’s absolutely anything, call me okay?”

And so you did.

Twenty minutes later, you got a text. You quietly walked to your window, glad to see Jacob’s familiar shape outside your house. He was standing next to a tree, representing for once a friendly and reassuring shadow in the night.

He spoke quietly. “Having trouble sleeping?”

You nodded, a bit ashamed to admit such an infantile fear. Although, deep inside, you knew there was nothing childish about being afraid of the monster you had been warned about as a child, once you had come face to face with it.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I'd totally understand if you'd rather not stay. I mean it's late and you need to sleep. I don't know what I was thinking…”

“Don't be ridiculous." he cut you off. "I’m already here. And once you’ve been asleep for a long time, I’ll go home and catch up on my beauty sleep, okay?”

You knew it wouldn’t take much convincing from him, there was no point in lying. You needed him. You needed the reassurance and sense of security he always brought you.

"If you're sure then… but Jake. You won't leave too soon uh?"

You heard his low chuckle in the distance.

“I promise.”

You slowly and quietly closed your window. The last thing you would want is for your father to wake up and see Jacob standing below your window. You looked back outside, only to see a giant russet wolf had replaced your tall friend. He was standing under the covers of the woods. Forks was a tranquil little city, but you could never be too careful. He gave you a quick nod, encouraging you to go back to bed. You sent him a little thumbs up before heading to your fort of blankets and pillows.

As stupid as it might have seemed, you did feel a thousand times better knowing that Jacob was right outside, watching over you like a guardian angel. To your surprise, sleep quickly came to you, and you fell into its black hole without any resistance.

//

You’re in a dark forest, running and running and running. You can’t breathe, your hands are bloody, everything hurts. All you can hear is an echoing, cold, cruel laugh. You trip over a root and fall. Something is rushing through the dark woods, coming at you. You get back up and run in the opposite direction, but it feels like you’re not getting any further, like you're running in place. You scream for help, calling out for Jacob, Paul, Embry, Jared, ANYONE, HELP ME. But no one answers, you’re alone, and you’re about to die a horrible death. You trip once more, your leg hurts like hell, there’s no point trying to get up again. You turn around to try and decipher who, what, is running after you. Suddenly, in the dark void of the night, all you can see is that horrifying pair of bloodthirsty eyes. You let out one last scream as it sinks its teeth into your skin. //

“Y/n, y/n, wake up! It’s okay I’m here, Y/n!”

You try to run out of bed but feel a strong pair of arms holding you back. The embrace is warm and smells familiar, but you’re not controlling your limbs anymore. Your whole body is in flight mode. Luckily, the thing (person?) holding you back is strong enough to withstand it, and even though you try as hard as you can to run away, your feet aren't even touching the ground anymore.

“Y/nn, Y/n, shhh. It’s okay, I’m here, it’s me. It’s Jacob.”

You focus on the reassuring tone of the voice and try to convince yourself you're not in the woods anymore. You can see your surroundings poorly illuminated by your little mushroom night light. You're in your room, you’re safe, you’re okay.

Your breathing is still fast and shallow. You blink a few times. Sometimes, the vision surrounding you is one of the cold woods. On other, it's the familiar vision of your room. You slowly turn to face your friend’s face. His brows are furrowed, and his traits have worry written on them in bold letters. He scans you, not quite letting go of your body. Too scared you might start screaming and running again.

“Jake?” “Yes, hi. Welcome back. You really scared me there Y/n.” “What- what are you doing in here? What happened?” Your tone is feeble, and you feel exhausted. You look around once more, afraid this might be some other kind of twisted and terrifying nightmare.

“Am I still dreaming?” You dare to ask. “No, you are awake. We’re in your room. You asked me to come to keep an eye on you, remember?”

You nod, still unsure. What if this was a dream inside a dream? What if the warm limbs of your friend suddenly turned ice cold? What if you looked at him and his eyes turned red, fangs slightly poking his lips?

He can see doubt dancing in your eyes. You don't trust him, or yourself. He holds up his palms towards you, trusting you won't bolt and run.

“See for yourself. I’m real, you can touch me.”

You reach a hesitating finger, carefully poking his own. Seems real enough, feels real. It's warm, the skin is wonderfully tanned, familiar. You’ve seen those hands at work a thousand times. You know them by heart. You poke his cheek, and he gives you a tender smile.

“Convinced?”

You nod once more, letting out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding, as your legs start to shake. That's the thing about dreams, isn’t it? Even if it’s only happening inside your head, your body reacts to it as if it were actually living it. You look at your hands, feeling reminiscent of the pain as if you did scorch them in the woods.

He interrupts your thoughts with a low and soft voice. “Come back in bed. I’ll tuck you in.”

He wraps your hands with his huge ones. They’re warm and feel incredibly good. You let him guide you back to your toasty blankets, but instead of leaving, he takes a spot next to you, shielding you from the window.

“What are you doing?” You ask with a timid voice. “I’m keeping an eye on you, dummy.” Your feet are poking from under the covers. You move to offer him a bit of coverage, but he declines. He is already hot enough as he is, although he can’t deny that his heart seemed to grow a size or two at the kind gesture.

You wait a minute before asking how he ended up in your room. You're not sure you want to know, but curiosity wins over embarrassment.

His expression darkens for a second before he starts talking. “I was just keeping guard outside when I heard a noise. You were calling for me… I didn’t even think, I just got in. You were twitching in your bed. I tried to calm you down, I didn't want it to wake up Charlie, but nothing would do. I was about to forcefully wake you, but you ran out of bed and woke up by yourself.”

“Oh.” You finally let after a few seconds of silence.

“Yup.”

Unconsciously, you're not sure, he took ahold of your hand and lightly played with your fingers. He finally lifted his gaze from your joined hands to look at you, all caring and reassuring. You slide in closer to him. All you want is to feel his comforting warmth and maybe offer him as much as you can too. You feel so bad for worrying him so much. He opens up his arms and cradles you in a bear hug. He won't say it out loud, but he's also in dire need of comfort.

You match your breathing to him, and for the first time in a little while, you’re not scared, not even a little bit. If only you could stay like this forever.

After a few minutes of silence, in which you almost fell asleep, you hear him whisper.

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I should have been there. I should have protected you. I’m so sorry, you don't even know.”

“It’s not your fault Jake.” You mumble, and realize you're telling the truth. These are more than empty words. Never has it crossed your mind that this might have been his fault.

“It partially is, if I didn’t drag you into all this you might have been far away. Safe, away from monsters most people don't even know exist."

“I chose to follow you into this Jake. I would be lying if I said this wasn't one of the most horrifying experiences of my life, but it was not your fault. Please get that idea out of your head, okay? I’ll get over it. I guess I just need some time, as Harry said.”

You feel almost fully awake again. He nods, but you know you haven't convinced him. The look on his face is one of guilt, one you've come to know more and more since you learned about his secret. He mindlessly played with a feather poking out of your duvet, avoiding your gaze. Once again, you realized how mature he looked, while still being so young. Too young to carry such heavy burdens. You wanted to hammer the idea out of his thick skull, but you knew there was nothing to do about it tonight. Jacob felt responsible for what happened to you, and convincing him of the opposite would take some time.

Your eyes focused on his tanned skin, and you suddenly became hyper-aware that he was in your bed while only wearing his jeans short.

You inched away of him. “Uhm, want a shirt? I’m sorry, I didn't even think that, since you were in your wolf form, you uh… wouldn’t have one?” You let out an awkward laugh. You were used to seeing him like this, but it was different when you were both lying in bed together in a space that felt so intimate.

“That's nice of you Y/n, but I don't think I'd actually fit into one of your shirts.” He snickers as you get up. You're still wrapped in a blanket as you forage in the pile of clothes next to your bed. You get out of it with a dark cotton t-shirt in hand. It's humongous for you, but you know it will fit Jake like a glove. Probably because it is one of his own.

“There, dummy.” You hand him the t-shirt before jumping back in bed to wrap yourself properly, like a human burrito.

He looks at the piece of clothing and then at you for a good 10 seconds. “You still have this?”

He genuinely looks surprised, but his expression seems mixed with a hint of… satisfaction?

You nod, your nose and eyes being the only part of your anatomy still out of the blankets. You still remember the day he lent you that shirt when you had been caught in the rain at La Push. You never returned it to him, loving the way the gigantic piece of clothing felt on you.

He didn't add anything else before putting the shirt on. “It smells a lot like you.” He adds, a slight tremor in his voice.

“That might be because I wear it a lot to sleep.” You shamefully admit. Your words are nothing more than a whisper, but you know he didn’t have any trouble hearing them. You pull the covers even higher, trying to hide the blush creeping on your cheeks.

“Is that so?” He's smugly smirking. No doubt anymore that he is satisfied with that new piece of information, which makes you want to crawl even further under the covers.

You mutter a quick 'dumbass' before turning away from him. He chuckled before grabbing and pulling you on his broad chest like you weighted nothing more than a feather. You and Jake have always been comfortable with physical touch, but you feel like this is special. You have never done this before. Fine the circumstances were a bit peculiar, but that did not keep you from relishing in the warmth he diffused in waves. You didn't even bother to fake protest. This, is all you need, and you will not be foolish enough to ruin the moment. He wiggles even closer, and you can feel his chest come flush with your back through the layers of blankets. He rests his chin on the crown of your head before lightly stroking the side of his full cheek on your hair.

“Little human burrito.” He mutters. His voice is barely a whisper. Its husky tone makes you shiver. “I’ll watch over you, now go back to sleep.”

[fever-project]

I’m not DEAD, Daniel (2904 words) by FeverProject Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, Danny Phantom Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Danny Fenton & Wild (Linked Universe) Characters: Danny Fenton, Wild (Linked Universe), the rest of the LU gang are also there but they aren’t important Additional Tags: This isn’t crack but it sure is silly, very much so for me, Ghost King Danny Fenton, Tired Danny Fenton, Wild (Linked Universe) is a Little Shit, might be ooc hopefully not, Misunderstandings, just a little bit Summary: DPxLU crossover because I couldn’t help myself. Surprised I didn’t do this earlier considering gestures at my everything Wild has an encounter with the Ghost King. It is definitely an experience.

Uhhh fanfic, yeah. I’m going to explode. Art

Enjoy 👍

▼

Wild was bored. Which wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, but it was one that he hated. It was night time now and he was supposed to be asleep, just like everybody else in the inn. But he wasn’t like everybody else, he already slept for 100 years straight, sleeping was only useful to him if and when he wanted to be more healthy. And sleeping every night was generally considered to be healthy, but Wild didn’t care, he needed to move.

Out the window he went, quiet as a mouse. Hopefully no one would notice he was gone, and that he would be back before morning came. But there was an entire forest nearby to explore, and he felt like he could-no, should explore to his heart’s content. The wilderness called to him, beckoned him in. That’s what he kept repeating to himself in his mind anyway, as a way to reassure himself, that as a hero who had saved Hyrule, sneaking out at night and potentially worrying the other heroes wouldn’t be a stupid thing to do. Zelda would’ve thought otherwise, and he knew that, but tried not to think about it too much.

The forest was mostly quiet, save for things like the chirping of birds and crickets. The faint rustling of trees was like music to his ears. There was a light breeze, which felt nice against his face as he ventured further into the forest. He tried his best to walk in as straight of a line as he could, to more easily find his way back. He really wished his Sheikah Slate worked properly in this time, maps made everything much easier. But then he would have to go searching for those towers, and while as fun as they were to activate, took up far too much time, much more than he and his group were currently willing to spare.

Wild was suddenly on edge. That odd shapeshifting, Lizalfos-looking, portal opening thing was still out there. Not to mention the black-blooded monsters that thing infected. Wild sighed as walked, now paranoid and frustrated. After a few moments of that, he finally gained enough brain cells to figure out that he should probably head back. With another sigh, which was more of a groan, he spun on his heel, turning around to make his way back to the inn.

Soon enough, something in the air…shifted, he couldn’t tell what. An oddly familiar yet unnatural feeling enveloped his senses as the sky started to turn into an odd shade of pinkish purple. The few clouds up in the sky, only a slightly lighter shade than the sky itself, swirled around above him, as the space in front of him split. Wild felt his heart drop and his breath leave his body as the rift continued to grow. Green glowing light bleed out from it, lighting up the trees and grass and him. Something was happening, something bad, and it was targeting him. He stumbled back, he had to, he had to get away and yet. And yet. It was calling to him. It was scaring him, the world behind the rift hated and loved him all the same.

Wild had to escape.

Wild tried to breathe, in and out, slowly, calmly, he looked for a way out. Trees, there were only trees and more trees and bushes and grass and even more trees-slowly, in and out, his breathing, his breath. He was alive, and he was going to make sure he would stay that way, bright green portal notwithstanding. The portal was growing bigger, quickly, but not as quick as Wild’s mind was when it was panicking. Maybe that meant that panicking was a good thing. Wild almost stopped panicking completely once he realized how stupid that thought sounded. His panic swiftly returned when a white boot stepped out of the portal. When matching white gloves also came out, Wild went to get out his sword and shield, fumbling with his slate as the person emerged from the rift, it closing behind them soon after.

“Excuse me?” The person asked, their words 

echoing, despite the conditions for that to logically happen simply not existing here. Wild stiffened, having only gotten his sword out. But he knew deep within his soul that it wouldn’t be very effective against the higher being standing before him. Yet his grip tightened despite that. He wouldn’t run away, not now, he would try his best to fight this being off if he had to. And if that failed, he would retreat, tactically.

The being was dressed in an odd black and white outfit, having tan skin and white hair. Their bright green eyes, glowing body, and their crown that was literally on fire were very clear signs that this person wasn’t anything he’s seen before. Not to mention the hovering. And the portal they just came out of. And the weird voice-and Wild needed to start focusing on the situation at hand.

The being raised their hands up defensively, “Hey, put down the sword, I’m not looking for a fight,” they said, “I’m just. Looking for someone, yeah.”

“Uh huh,” Wild dumbly nodded, keeping his eyes on them.

“Right, okay, let me just-“ they looked around, suspicious at their surroundings, “-okay, don’t tell anyone you saw me, or that you saw this. Actually, it doesn’t matter, forget what I just said.”

Wild nodded again, watching as a ring of light came out of their waist, enveloping them as they donned a more hylian appearance. They had even odder clothes on in this form, baggy and worn. Their skin was paler and their hair was pitch black. They looked like death in the form of a teenage boy.

“Are you Death?” Wild asked blatantly. Listen, he was curious, he need to know this. The being raised an eyebrow at him, confusion evident on his face. “Like,” Wild scrambled to rationalize his less than rational thought process, “I don’t know, you seem scary? And corpse-like? Are you dead? Am I dead-well, no, I can’t be dead, that would be silly, ha. But are you?”

“Well I am the Ghost King, king of ghosts,” they said plainly, with a shrug, “Name’s Danny, Danny Phantom, and that’s really all you know about that. Listen-“

“Aren’t you like, twelve?” Wild knew they probably weren’t twelve, but this ‘Ghost King’ guy looked pretty young.

“What? No! I’m not twelve, I’m like-“ they pouted, like a twelve year old, snapping their fingers in thought, “older than you!”

“Oh yeah, I’m-“ Wild stopped, wondering if it would be smart to tell the Ghost King that he’s technically one hundred and seventeen years old. “I am at least seventeen! And I look like it as well.”

“You’re the same height as me.”

Wild looked at the ghost, glared at them, walking a bit closer to them. He placed his hand on top of his head and moved it forward, towards the Ghost King’s head. His hand brushed against their hair, but it clearly didn’t reach the top of their head. Wild grinned, well, wildly at the sight of being taller than them. They looked unimpressed.

“You’re the one acting like a twelve year old you know,” Danny scoffed, pouting.

“Says the pouter.”

“Look, can you just help me find this guy, since you’ve clearly calmed down now.”

“And why should I?”

“I’ll make your afterlife terrible otherwise.”

“Fine, I’ll help, gosh,” Wild was probably going to help anyways, he liked helping people. He just wanted to be annoying. “So, who and why?”

“Great! So, I’m looking for this guy named Link,” oh no, “Clockwork-he’s a time ghost, don’t worry about him-told me that he was hoping around other times with other guys also named Link.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well-okay, you’re annoying so I’m just going to ignore that-“

“Time isn’t real.”

The two stared at each other, and Wild both wanted to punch himself in the face, and thought he was the funniest man alive. Danny seemed to think the same way too, with their bewildered expression suddenly turned into one holding back a lot of laughter.

“Al-alright, that was good I’ll give you that,” they chuckled, “Anyways, I’m looking for this specific Link because they’re supposed to dead, and I’m supposed to like-do something about that. I think I have a picture of this guy that Clockwork gave me, hold on.” They stuffed their hand through their goddess forsaken chest, and rummaged around like their own body was a mere storage container. Wild was instantly jealous of them. Sure he had his Sheikah Slate, but it wasn’t a part of his body.

Wait, Danny had a picture of him. Oh no, they were going to kill him. He didn’t need them to say word for word that they were going to kill him, but Wild didn’t know what else they could do to him. He needed to be on his toes and hone his quick reflexes in order to survive this ordeal.

“Annnd-nope, that’s my thermos-here it is!” They pulled out a piece of folded paper, and just as they started to unfold it, Wild snatched it from their hand and shoved it into his mouth.

“Wha-WHY DID YOU DO THAT?!” Danny shrieked, hands on the side of his head, horrified.

“‘Cause,” Wild responded in a muffled voice, chewing the paper. Tasted inky.

“Okay, you are definitely the weirdest person I’ve ever met, an I know a ghost who whole personality is boxes, just boxes. Actually, I don’t think he’s that weird compared to some other fruitloops I know of-but that doesn’t matter, spit that out!”

“No.”

“You are acting like a twelve year old-no, even twelve year olds wouldn’t do this, you’re five.”

Wild gasped, photo smushed to the side of his mouth, in between his cheek and teeth so it wouldn’t fall out.

“You’re just mad I’m right.”

“Nah uh!”

“Then how about you spit that out, like a normal, seventeen-you’re seventeen right?” Wild nodded, “Right, like a normal seventeen year old would, or I’ll phase it out of your mouth by force.” Wild did not like sound of that. So he spit out the photo, the slobbery mess falling onto the grass. Even Wild was grossed out by what he had done. Danny clearly was.

“You’re going to have to unfold that yourself, I’m not touching that,” Danny looked sick.

“Yeah, that’s fair, I’ll do that,” why wasn’t the paper metal, then he could use his Sheikah Slate to pick it up. Good thing he had some spare gloves stored in it, so it was fine, it’s fine. He started to unfold the paper, Danny peering over his shoulder, both with matching disgusted expressions. Wild was right about the contents of the drawing. His face, blast scars and all, was right there. Wild looked at Danny. Danny looked at him. Wild wanted to punch them in face and run off, but they are a ghost. But Wild still slowly raised his free hand into a fist, retaining eye contact.

Danny began to speak, “So-“ Wild swiftly punched them in their face, and skittered backwards, trying to look for a way back to the inn safely. The ghost had stumbled back, clutching their face in pain.

“Huh, so you can punch ghosts,” Wild noted.

“You can definitely punch this ghost,” Danny rubbed their hurt nose, “Didn’t even get me a chance to speak.”

“Please don’t kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you, that’s not what I’m here for.”

“Oh.”

“Bet you feel stupid now, don’t ya?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

Danny sighs, pinching their nose, not in pain this time, but annoyance. “So,” they started again, “what I’m trying to do is get you on the ‘Supposed to be Dead but Came Back Anyways’ census. Basically, the name’s a work in progress.”

“And…I’m supposed to do something about it?”

“Kinda? Look, just sign here, and I’ll get out of your hair.” They pulled out another piece of paper out of their chest, with already had a few other names on it in neat little boxes. Wild couldn’t read any of those names, but Danny probably could.

Wild’s face scrunched up, trying to think about what he should do next. They hadn’t really explained their reasoning for any of this, so he still didn’t trust them too much. Maybe this was some elaborate ruse to kill him.

“Will me signing this ‘census’ give me any benefits-will it give you any benefits?” Wild pointed accusingly at Danny.

“Well, are you dead?”

Wild groaned, “I’m not DEAD Daniel,” Wild threw his hands into the air in frustration, “Just use your stupid ghost words to explain to me what I need to do and why.”

“Okay,” Danny squeaked out, “But first off, name’s just Danny.”

“Uh huh.”

“And secondly, I’m doing this because there’s a bunch of ghost legal jargon where your name was already listed on both the ‘dead,’ and then also the ‘not dead’ list after you came back to life. You signing this will help fix that.”

“…Aren’t I time traveling right now?”

“Yes, but it’s still good to note down who had came back to life. Please just make my life easier, this is themost stress inducing part of my job I’ve ever done.”

Wild was starting to feel a bit bad now. So now, with a better understanding of the situation, he took the paper from Danny’s hands.

“Here’s a pen to write with,” Danny gave him a pen from their chest.

“Can all ghosts store stuff in their bodies?” Wild asked as he wrote down his name in the next free box, adding on his title of ‘Hero of the Wild’ in the same box, just to specify things.

“No, but I sure can,” they said with a big smile.

“That’s so cool.”

“I know.”

The two laughed a bit as Wild returned the paper and pen to Danny.

“Well, sorry for not explaining my motivations fully, I’m a bit…tired, ha ha,” Danny rubbed the back of their neck, clearly embarrassed.

“Yeah. Sorry for punching you.”

“Now I’m going to go take a nap. Or sleep for once.” A ring of light enveloped Danny yet again, returning him to his more ghostly form. Then he turned around and held out his hand, before cutting the space there, opening the bright green portal.

“See you in the Ghost Zone, Link! Eventually!” They waved as they stepped into the rift.

Wild waved back, “That sounds pretty ominous, but okay!” Danny laughed at that as he went all the way through, the portal closing soon after. Now Wild was left all alone in the woods.

He needed to get back to the inn.

It took him some time, but he eventually found his way back to the inn. In through the window, as quiet as a ghost, he was back in his room. He flopped down onto his bed, mentally exhausted. He would’ve rather been bored than have had dealt with…whatever that was. Not really, but Wild was certainly ready to go to sleep now, and pray that he wouldn’t have to meet that Ghost King ever again. Not because he was scared, but because he was a bit embarrassed about what happened. He acted a bit stupid there. But none of that mattered now. All that Wild had to do now, was to sleep.

ー

“Has anyone seen the champion yet?” Time asked, looking over the group that were all hanging around the inn’s dining room.

“Nope,” Warriors said with a pop, “He’s likely still asleep.”

“But I’m hungry,” Wind whined, “Captain, do you know how to cook?”

“I know how to make things edible and nutritious,” Wars plainly answered, receiving a few groans from various Links.

“We could just have the food they serve here,” Twilight suggested.

“Champ’s better,” Four retorted.

“How about we all wait a bit longer,” Time said, “It hasn’t even been half an hour since we woke up after all.”

They all muttered their agreements, and choose to occupy themselves with taking count of their resources for the time being. A few more minutes passed before Legend noticed something.

“Hey guys, I think I see the champ coming down right now,” Legend pointed at the staircase, and the other heroes scrambled to see their resident chef stumbling down the stairs.

“Are you doing alright?” Hyrule asked.

“You seem exhausted,” Sky added.

“Ye-yeah,” Wild yawned, stretching his arms, “Ghost problems and all that stuff.” He set out to make some food for his companions, who were looking at him with confusion and concern.

“Ghost problems?” A few of them asked at once.

“Is this place haunted?” Wind looked around with an excited grin on his face.

“Nope, but I sure got haunted in the woods out there,” Wild waved in the vague direction of where the forest was, “Now I’m going to make something to eat, want some?”

Of course they wanted some, food was important. They continued to ask questions about the ghost, but Wild didn’t answer, he didn’t feel like it. Maybe in like, two days he would. But for now, he just wanted to eat some Vegetable Risotto, maybe with a few Endura Carrots thrown in as well. Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to deal with that Ghost King again anytime soon. At least, hopefully not before this time traveling adventure ends.

[isuckatwritingsobenice]

How would you feel about dipper with a s/o that turns out to be a vampire?? At first he just sees them as a little odd since he only sees them around at night and they never eat the snacks he brings them to share, but sooner or later he figures it out!

A/N: I like this so much it’s so cute. I could see Dipper being so into like the paranormal / weird-shitness, that his s/o is either apart of it or just as into it as he is

Navigation!! // Masterlist!!

Dipper Pines has always been drawn to the unusual, so when he starts dating you, he notices a few quirks right away. You’re always available to hang out in the evening, but you’re nowhere to be found during the day. He chalks it up to you being a night owl—after all, he’s stayed up late plenty of times himself. He also notices that you never seem to eat the snacks he brings along for your little adventures. Whether it’s candy, chips, or even your favorite drink, you always politely decline, offering a vague excuse like, “I’m just not that hungry.”

At first, Dipper doesn’t think much of it. Maybe you have some dietary restrictions, or you just don’t like eating in front of people. But as time goes on, he starts to wonder if there’s something more to it. He’s used to being around strange creatures and supernatural events, so the idea that something might be a little off isn’t entirely foreign to him. Still, he doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, especially because he really likes you and doesn’t want to scare you off with his overactive imagination.

One night, while you’re both out exploring the woods around the Mystery Shack, he notices something that makes his heart skip a beat. As the moonlight filters through the trees, it catches your eyes at just the right angle, and for a split second, they flash a deep, unnatural red. He blinks, thinking it’s a trick of the light, but then it happens again, and suddenly everything starts to click into place.

His mind races as he recalls all the little details—your aversion to daylight, your refusal to eat, the way you seem to glide rather than walk when you move quickly. He remembers the stories he’s read, the legends about creatures of the night who hide in plain sight. The realization hits him like a ton of bricks: you’re a vampire.

Dipper’s initial reaction is a mix of excitement and nervousness. He’s always wanted to uncover the mysteries of the world, and now he’s dating one! But at the same time, he’s a little scared. Vampires are supposed to be dangerous, right? He wonders if you’ve ever been tempted to drink his blood or if you’re hiding more secrets from him.

He decides to confront you, but he’s careful about it. The last thing he wants to do is make you feel like he’s afraid of you. So one night, after you’ve been wandering through the woods for a while, he gently brings it up.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” he starts, trying to keep his voice steady.

You glance at him, curious. “Sure, what’s up?”

Dipper hesitates for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “Are you… are you a vampire?”

For a moment, there’s silence. You don’t respond right away, and Dipper’s heart pounds in his chest as he wonders if he’s made a huge mistake. But then, you let out a small sigh, and your shoulders relax.

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” you admit, a hint of amusement in your voice.

Dipper’s eyes widen in surprise. “So it’s true?”

You nod, a small smile playing on your lips. “Yeah, it is. I’m a vampire. But I promise I’m not like the ones you see in movies. I’m not here to hurt anyone, especially not you.”

He relaxes a little at that, though he’s still processing the revelation. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I was worried about how you’d react,” you admit, your voice softening. “I didn’t want to scare you off. You’re… really important to me, Dipper.”

The sincerity in your voice melts away the last of his fears. He’s faced so many strange and terrifying things in Gravity Falls, and yet here you are, a vampire, and all you’ve ever shown him is kindness and affection. It dawns on him that you’ve been trusting him with your secret all along, and that means more to him than anything.

“I’m not scared,” he says, his voice firm. “I mean, okay, I was a little freaked out at first, but I’m not scared of you. You’re still you, and that’s what matters to me.”

Your eyes soften as you look at him, touched by his words. “Thank you, Dipper. That means a lot.”

Dipper reaches out and takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “So… does this mean you can turn into a bat? Or like, hypnotize people?”

You laugh, and the sound is music to his ears. “I can do a few cool things, but I promise I’ll never use them on you.”

As the two of you continue your walk, Dipper can’t help but feel a surge of pride. He’s dating a vampire, and not just any vampire—he’s dating you, someone who’s proven time and time again that they care about him. The revelation only deepens his feelings for you, and as the night goes on, he finds himself more in awe of you than ever before.

From that night forward, your relationship becomes even stronger. There are no more secrets between you, and Dipper’s curiosity about your vampire abilities only makes him want to learn more about you. You share stories about your past, about the different places you’ve seen and the things you’ve experienced, and Dipper hangs on every word, fascinated by the world you’ve lived in.

And you, in turn, feel a sense of relief and happiness. Dipper accepts you for who you are, without fear or judgment, and that makes you love him even more. Together, you explore the mysteries of Gravity Falls, your bond growing deeper with each passing night.

[persevereforahappyending]

A Beacon in the Dark |3|

Pairing: Joey x Reader

Summary: Joey likes helping people, it's what she's best at. Hunting down the monsters of myth and legend might be the best way to save people.

Warnings: Talk of murder and Death

Word Count: 3.7k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12

Ana walked through her front door, sighing as she went to put her gun back in its compartment again. She glanced at her watch, she still had over an hour before she had to go get Caleb from school. She gave a little hum, it seemed you had been right, you had gotten her back home before Caleb got out of school.

Ana wasn’t sure if the ride back home had been better or not, she wasn’t anxious about you trying to kill her, but you dropped a lot of information on her. She knew vampires were real because she had witnessed them, she had been attacked by them. She remembered the story of the Le Domas family it had been huge news at the time, an entire family, ten people dead, plus their butler and two maids. It was something out of a horror film, the amount of blood at the scene, on top of it, the house burned down. Then the fact that the only survivor was the younger brother's wife who had just married into the family. The whole case had been suspicious from the start, Ana never imagined the truth wasn’t betrayal and greed, at least not in the way most would think, instead the truth was a demon.

Vampires were real, she had come to accept that. Now, demons were real and if she got involved with you and Grace, who knew what would end up turning out to be real. Anna wasn’t sure if she was ready to have her eyes open that much to that part of the world. Fighting supernatural monsters didn’t seem like the best course, it would probably be more dangerous than her current illegal occupation. She was intrigued though; she had been curious ever since learning about Abigail and the pay would probably be better than anything Ana could hope to find.

Before she knew it Ana was headed back out, making her way to pick up Caleb. She quickly walked down the street, much less paranoid that she was in the morning. She got there a few minutes early, like always. It wasn’t much longer before the bell rang and kids came running out of the building. Ana instantly found Caleb’s head of hair in the crowd of kids, her eyes tracked his movements as he waved goodbye to a friend and slowly made his way to Ana. When Caleb looked up, his eyes widened for a split second when they landed on Ana, as if he didn’t expect her to be there. 

Ana fiddled with the candy in her pocket, itching to pull out a sucker. She had been good ever since she got Caleb back, she was always in the same spot. She wondered what had been going through his mind all day. She told him she had a job interview and would be there, she wondered if he doubted her. She had made him promises before, only to end up letting him down. She had a second chance to make things right and she wasn’t going to screw that up, she wouldn’t disappoint Caleb again. 

She smiled as Caleb walked up to her and then they began their walk back to the apartment. “How was your interview?” Caleb asked quietly, breaking the usual silence they walked in. 

Ana opened and closed her mouth a few times, looking down at her son. Caleb continued looking forward, gripping the straps of his backpack just a bit tighter. “It went well,” Ana answered softly. Caleb whipped his head to the side, looking up at Ana. “It’s different than what I was looking for, but they seem to really want me.” 

“That’s cool.” 

Ana nodded. “They’re going to call me to let me know when I can start my…” Ana looked off to the side, quickly wracking her brain for something that sounded normal. “Onboarding.” Ana nodded to herself, quite proud of her answer, it wasn’t like she was about to tell Caleb a random stranger stalked her to offer her a job in hunting down monsters. 

Caleb nodded and they continued the rest of their walk in silence. Ana didn’t miss the small smile on Caleb’s face. She couldn’t help but smile herself, it seemed like she actually did something right. A part of Ana hoped the job worked out, as long as she could still spend time with Caleb and didn’t constantly need to cancel on him, things would be fine. It seemed like just getting a job that actually wanted her was enough to make him at least the slightest bit proud of her. 

When they got home Caleb ran off to his room, as usual. Ana took out her laptop and began applying to jobs again. She knew you and Grace made her a good offer, but Ana didn’t want to rely solely on it, she hadn’t gone on a job with you yet and if the first one didn’t work out, then she was out. She wasn’t going to risk her life or her sons' life to fight monsters. As tempting as the money was, she was prepared for it to not be worth it. 

“Mom?” Caleb asked. 

Ana closed her laptop slightly, not wanting Caleb to see the rejection emails she was deleting. They hurt a lot less now that she had the offer from you, but she still didn’t want Caleb to see that no one else wanted her. “Yeah, sweety,” Ana said, turning to the side to face Caleb. 

Caleb stood in the doorway, a folder and pencil in his hand as he shifted from foot to foot. “Can you help me with my homework?” 

Ana straightened her back she was sure her eyes lit up. This had been the first time Caleb asked her for help on his homework. Whenever she offered, he always rejected the help and said he had it. Ana knew Caleb was smart, his grades were fine but whenever he dismissed her help it seemed more like he didn’t want her help specifically, not that he didn’t need any help at all. She had watched him a few times as he’d grip his hair, staring down at the paper or constantly write something only to erase it. He still never took her up on her offer, this was the first time he came to her asking for help. 

“Of course,” Ana said instantly. She closed her laptop and pushed it to the side, so Caleb had room to set his homework. 

Caleb slowly walked forward, setting down his folder with his worksheet on top of it. Ana peek around his shoulder to see that it was math. Caleb kneeled on the floor, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t get it,” he mumbled. 

“Let’s see here,” she reached towards the paper, lifting it up slightly to get a better look. She slowly nodded to herself; it looked a little different than the math she grew up with, but it seemed mostly the same, just a different method. “Do you have a piece of scrap paper?” 

Caleb nodded before getting up and running off to his room. He came running back in a few seconds later, notebook in hand. He handed the notebook to Ana and sad down just as he had before. Ana started mumbling to herself as she started to write out the equations. 

“Okay, here,” Ana said, handing Caleb the paper with her work once she figured out how to solve the problem. 

She sat there, explaining to Caleb how she solved the equation. Caleb nodded along, seeming to understand what she was saying and then tried it on his own for the next problem. Ana watched over Caleb as he worked through equation after equation, slowly completing the worksheet. Every few equations Caleb would ask for more help in having to solve it and Ana would only have to explain how to get it started before Caleb was nodding and finishing it all on his own. 

“Thanks, mom,” Caleb said when he was all done. 

“Anytime,” she whispered. 

Caleb stuffed his worksheet in his folder then took off to his room. Ana sighed, relaxing back against the couch, all she did was help her son with homework and yet she couldn’t stop smiling. She glanced at the clock and saw it was getting late and she had yet to make dinner. She decided chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes were a quick enough meal and got to work on that. When it was all done, she called Caleb out for dinner, and he actually joined Ana at the little dining table they had. It wasn’t often Caleb actually ate dinner with her, he had the habit of taking his plate to his room. 

Towards the end of their meal Ana’s phone began to vibrate, when she glanced at her phone, she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” she answered. 

“An-Joey,” a voice she recognized as Grace quickly corrected. “Sorry for disturbing you so late.” 

“It’s okay, we were just finishing up dinner.” Ana didn’t miss the way Caleb kept glancing at her out of the side of his eye while he pretended to focus on his chicken nuggets. 

“I just wanted to say we have our next case.” 

“Already?” Ana had just taken a drink of water and nearly choked. She didn’t think she’d be waiting super long to hear from them again, when Grace asked to give them just one mission, she figured she’d hear from you guys soon, she didn’t think soon meant literally later that night. 

“We’ve been investigating this for a little while, but we didn’t know what the pattern was before. We have a rare opportunity coming up, one we can’t pass on.” 

“Okay,” Ana said slowly. She wondered if Grace could sound any more ominous. 

“It’s a lot to go over on the phone,” Grace sighed. She sounded exhausted, like she had been up all night. Ana didn’t know Grace well enough, but she gave the impression that she didn’t sleep much when working. “Would you be okay with meeting again tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Ana nodded. “Same time as today?” she glanced at Caleb, once she dropped him off, she’d have the whole day. 

“Yes, of course,” Grace agreed immediately. “Y/N will pick you up the same time tomorrow.” Ana closed her eyes, she didn’t hate you or anything, you were just a mystery, she didn’t like mysteries, especially when she had to sit next to them for long car rides. “Don’t worry, I told them to behave,” Grace mumbled. 

Ana couldn’t help but chuckle at that, you were a little annoying, but you weren’t too terrible, yet. “Thanks.” 

“See you tomorrow.” With that Grace hung up and Ana went back to finishing her dinner. 

“Who was that?” Caleb asked after a few minutes. 

“My new boss,” Ana answered. “Potential new boss. I’m going in to start my training tomorrow after I drop you off.” 

Caleb nodded. “Will you still be able to pick me up?” 

Ana opened her mouth, she figured they were just going to go over information tomorrow, but she didn’t know how long that would take. In any previous job she was given the bare minimum of information, only what she needed to know when she needed to know it. She assumed you and Grace were more thorough with your research and didn’t keep things hush hush. She didn’t need to go on a mission to know what the two of you did was dangerous, you all had apparently survived something supernatural before and Ana certainly knew that knowledge was power when it came to the supernatural. 

“I should be able to,” Ana said. “If for some reason my training goes longer than I expect I’ll call Mrs. Johnson.” she didn’t want to have to rely on her old neighbor but if this mission went well, she figured she might have to ask Mrs. Johnson to watch Caleb or ask her to pick him up a few days. 

Caleb silently nodded, his eyes falling to his empty plate. “Hey,” Ana whispered softly. “I’m going to do everything I can to be there on time.” Caleb nodded, then silently went to his room. 

Ana sighed, slumping back in her chair before grabbing the plates and placing them in the sink. She finished cleaning up then watched some mindless TV before going to bed. The next morning, she was up and had a breakfast sandwich ready to go before Caleb walked out of his room. 

She walked Caleb to school as usual and like the day before, as soon as the bell rang you pulled up in your Jeep. Ana barely glanced at you before flinging the door open and jumping in the passenger seat. You smiled at her, tilting your sunglasses down as you held up a coffee for her, she didn't miss the ‘Joey’ scribbled across the side in black marker. She wasn’t sure if you were trying to be an ass or not, but she appreciated that you were listening to her and only referring to her as Joey. She rolled her eyes, mumbling a small thanks as she accepted the coffee. 

“You ready to learn about our first case?” you asked. You were relaxed in the seat, resting one hand on the steering wheel as you made the familiar drive that Joey was sure you had done hundreds of times by now. 

“Do I get a hint as to what we’re dealing with?” Joey asked, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“No idea,” you whispered, giving her a smirk. 

“What?” Joey turned to face you as much as she could. “What do you mean you don’t know? Grace said you’ve been on this for a while.” 

“We have,” you nodded. “Sometimes we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with. It’s part of the dangers of the job.” Joey sighed, she assumed you and Grace would know what you were dealing with. “We try to know as much as we can but sometimes it’s hard to determine what exactly we’re dealing with. If it’s something familiar, with a pattern, like vampire, then it’s easier. When it’s something new though,” you shook your head. “It could be anything.” 

Joey went back to staring out the windshield. She fiddled around in her pocket before pulling out a little sucker, she popped it into her mouth and ignored the side glance you shot her. The rest of the ride was filled with a comfortable silence besides the radio playing quietly in the background. 

Before she knew it you turned down the secluded street and began passing mansion after mansion. Joey truly couldn’t imagine what the people who owned those houses did. She never would have guessed Grace inherited her money through marriage and now used it for funding supernatural monster hunts, but she didn’t think any of the other rich people on the street were doing that. Finally, you pulled into the familiar driveway and almost instantly the gate opened for you. 

Joey followed you through the house and back to the same room as the day before. She could see from the outside that the house was absolutely massive, but she had only seen a small fraction of it. The house was clearly old, though well taken care of, Joey was curious what secrets it held. She would bet money that it wasn’t just a simple multimillion dollar mansion, but that Grace had more than a few secret rooms throughout the place. 

“Welcome back,” Grace greeted. “Let’s get to it.” she gestured to the other side of the room where Joey had seen the pegboard, which was even more full than the day before and there were two more boards added to the mix. 

Joey couldn’t help the way her eyes widened; you had told her you did your research, but she was seeing that herself for the first time. There were various news reports, online articles printed out, pictures of the same two people, and little handwritten notes spread across the three boards. There was also a red string connecting various papers back to the unknown man and a blue string connecting more papers to the unknown woman. 

“As a surprise to probably no one in this room,” Grace said, jumping right into things. She stood at the front of the room next to the boards. “High society people tend to be the common denominator for supernatural killings.” Joey saw you nodding along out of the side of her eye. “We’ve been tracking mysterious killings for over a year now. They’ve been hard to put together because the victim is usually some random unknown person.” 

“AKA, arm candy for one of the rich pricks,” you said. “Someone not in that life, someone-” 

“No one will miss,” Joey finished. 

“The victims are seemingly random,” Grace continued. “Men, women, various ages, it doesn’t matter. The only common factor is the way they died.” Grace reached across for something on her desk then pinned up several pictures of different victims. 

“Holy shit,” Joey said, stepping closer to the board. She narrowed her eyes at the pictures of the victims, they all looked the same, their eyes were wide open, their mouth barely parted, but their faces were pale and sunken in, like someone quite literally sucked the life out of them. 

“We’ve never seen anything like this before,” you said. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, just that these two people,” you pointed to the man and woman. Joey had to admit both of them were unreasonably attractive, she wasn’t sure if that was a sign they were a supernatural monster though. “Show up at every party where there is a victim.” 

“Which isn’t saying much,” Grace interjected. “High society people tend to run in the same circles, very small circles.” 

“So, who are they?” Joey asked. 

“His name is Marcus Carter, a typical rich businessman.” 

“And she is Karoline Knight,” you said. “Typical trust fund girl living off daddy’s money.” 

“She goes to the functions to mingle with business partners,” Grace added. 

“Do they know each other?” Joey asked. 

“Hard to say, they must know of each other. People like this, everyone knows everyone.” 

“We’ve never seen them in person,” you said. “Based on all the footage we’ve found and anyone we’ve talked to, they arrive separately, leave separately, they never interact at the parties, and killings have happened at parties where only one was in attendance.” 

“Any chance both are killers?” Joey asked. She already knew what it sounded like when she asked but she had to ask. Killings happened at parties they were both at and at parties where only one of them was present, that couldn’t be a coincidence. 

“Doesn’t seem likely,” Grace said. “Nothing is impossible. Nothing’s indicated they’ve ever spoken; let alone they kill together.” 

“Also, the kills are the exact same,” you said. “The odds of them both being a killer is incredibly rare.” 

“So, what’s the plan?” Joey asked, crossing her arms. 

“I’m glad you asked,” Grace smiled. She moved away from the boards and back around to her desk, she opened one of the drawers and pulled out a small rectangle with gold etching for a border and perfectly handwritten calligraphy, “There’s an exclusive party Saturday,” Grace held out the item in her hand. “And you two have an invite.” 

Joey gently took the invite from Grace. She only vaguely recognized the address, she recognized the name of the street, it was a gated community, sort of like the one Grace lived in. The place was fill with multimillion dollar mansions, all bought up by billionaires, some living there full time and other using it as a vacation home. Joey had never seen an invitation like this before, whoever was throwing the party literally paid someone to hand write every single invitation and based on the one Joey was holding, they were flawless. 

“Does that work for you?” Grace asked, snapping Joey out of her thoughts. 

Joey quickly nodded. “Yeah, my son will be at his dads this weekend so no problems.” 

“Great, Y/N will pick you up a little before the party, the two of you will come back here to get ready, and you’ll be off, hopefully to catch a killer.” 

Once the plan was settled on Joey was back in the car with you, headed back to her side of town. The meeting had gone much longer than she thought, it hadn’t felt like she had been there very long but going over the research, the plan, and everything had been so interesting. Joey was a doctor, but she had never seen something like that happen to a body before, she was intrigued how this monster was killing people. 

She tried to not keep glancing at the clock when she realized it was late and she might not make it in time to pick up Caleb. She focused on grabbing another candy from her pocket then spent the rest of the car ride tapping her fingers alongside the door. She couldn’t even focus on what was playing on the radio, she had told Caleb she’d do everything she could to pick him up on time and she was most likely going to fail. She hadn’t even officially had her first day of work, it was just a debrief on her first mission, which was a trial run for her, just something to see if she actually wanted to work with you and Grace. 

Joey was brought out of her thoughts when she felt the car come to a stop. She looked around seeing they were in front of Caleb’s school, the same place you picked her up. “What are you doing?” she couldn’t help but ask. You held up your finger and a second later the school bell rang, signaling the end of day. 

Joey looked down at her lap where she was playing with the wrapper of one of her candies. You had done it again; you got her back home in time to pick up her son. She hadn’t said anything to you, she didn’t even ask you to drop her off at the school, it was just something you did. “Thank you,” she mumbled, before slipping out of the car. You gave her a soft smile, then you were off before the first student was out the door. 

Taglist: @thinking1bee @so-to-aqui-pelas-fic @alexkolax

[numinousmysteries]

The Baying of the Six-Pound Hound

For the @twocakesficfest (several months too late) prompt:

immortal / invincible queeqeg who likes to show up and mess up a case or two (probably by eating the victim - e.g. Mulder: the victim walked away, cut to a tiny dog dragging a leg away)

A very special thank you to @leiascully for catching all my nauseating tense changes, ensuring I didn't accidentally summon any evil spirits, and making me work a tiny bit more to get them smooching.

[on Ao3]

1. 

He'd been in an uncharacteristically deep sleep when the yapping woke him up, which made it all the more annoying. It was rare for him to be so fully disconnected from the waking world. Typically, he'd float just below the surface of consciousness, the smallest noise enough to rouse him. But on this night, in a narrow, single-story motor lodge wedged up in the Colorado mountains, Fox Mulder had been completely, deeply, aslumber.

He'd been dreaming, too. Not his usual fretful nightmare but a rather sweet dream that featured his partner. It wasn't the first time he dreamt about her, although those dreams were typically of a more erotic nature and would leave him waking up feeling filthy with guilt—and more often than not, rock hard. He'd dream of bending her over the desk in their basement office, burying himself in her, and hearing her soft little moans as he gripped the curves of her hips. Or they'd be on the couch in his apartment and she'd be in his lap, riding him as he watched the smooth undulation of her breasts. These dreams would send him to the shower full of shame. He'd shut his eyes and take himself in his fist, gripping his cock with a firmness that bordered on pain to break the mounting tension with enough self-punishment that he could face Scully in the morning.

But this most recent dream left nothing to be ashamed of. They were walking hand-in-hand, fully-clothed, down a Georgetown street near her apartment. The sun warmed his face and Scully's small hand fit perfectly in his. They weren't in pursuit of a suspect or off to meet an informant, just strolling aimlessly like two people in love. In a way, this mundane dream felt more illicit than his most perverse fantasies because it seemed like more than anything he deserved. He could better imagine a tense moment, even an argument between them, dissolving into frenzied sex than allow himself to indulge the idea of a happy, out-in-the-open relationship with Scully. Which was why this dream was so lovely—and why it had been so frustrating when the yapping shocked him awake.

It sounded like Queequeg. But Scully didn't bring the dog with her on cases, not since– Shit , he remembered. Scully's annoying little furball of a dog, whom she inexplicably loved (which, he considered fleetingly, might bode well for her capacity to love other irritating beings), had died on the shore of Heuvelmans Lake, eaten by an alligator, or Big Blue, depending on who you asked.

The barking must have been coming from one of the neighboring rooms. But Scully was in the room to his left and the room to his right had appeared to be unoccupied when they arrived. 

By the time he showered, dressed, and made it outside to meet Scully at the rental car, she was already waiting for him with a cup of bitter coffee from the urn in the motel lobby. 

"That dog wake you up, too?" he asked.

She arched an eyebrow at him as she sipped from her styrofoam cup. "What dog?"

"Nevermind," he said, unlocking the car door.

They snaked around the mountain to the ranger station where they'd planned to meet the park ranger who’d supposedly spotted the Slide Rock Bolter. The Bolter, according to legend, was a giant landfish with a forked tail that could pick up a lumberjack and split him in two. It also had the jaw of a whale, the teeth of a shark, and the power to cause avalanche-like rock slides, hence the name. The ranger who contacted Mulder claimed that his partner, who’d gone missing the previous week, had been swallowed whole by the Bolter.

Their interview proved to be less than illuminating and they spent the rest of the afternoon hiking the mountain on their own searching for the creature. The high altitude left them both breathless so they were slower than usual as they ascended. Mulder was annoyed that they couldn't cover more ground before the sun started to set. Their descent was even slower as neither had brought the right shoes and they found themselves stumbling down the rocks and grasping onto each other for support.

Then, he saw it. A flash of auburn darting between a row of skeletal aspen trees. He gasped. 

"What is it?" she asked, turning back to face him. 

"I saw something," he said. 

"The Slide Rock Bolter?"

He frowned and shook his head. "Probably just a fox. Maybe a coyote.” Although, if he were being honest,  it kind of looked like a small dog.

Scully shrugged, turned away from him, and started heading back down the mountain. 

2.

He didn’t want to say anything, but Scully's apartment smelled bad. It normally smelled nice. Like the candles she lights or even freshly baked bread, even though he knows she doesn't bake bread. But now, it smelled like wet dog. He specifically wouldn't bring that up because she hadn't owned a dog in nearly a year now. For reasons that might have been, depending on who you asked, his fault.

He tried to hide his disgust as he spread open a file of photographs on her kitchen table, but the odor was truly overpowering. It was as if Queequeg—or let's say any anonymous dog who had not been eaten by, depending on who was telling the story, Big Blue or an alligator—had been mucking around in sewer water after not bathing for several weeks.

"Sorry, Scully, but what's that smell?" he asked finally. He felt his stomach contents rising to his throat, and it wasn’t because of the gruesome crime scene photos on the table.

She paused and tilted her chin up to the ceiling. He watched as she sniffed the air in sharp, short inhales through her perfectly proportioned nose.

"I don't smell anything," she said. 

"Really?" he asked, stunned. "It smells like—and I don't mean to bring up any unpleasant memories—wet dog in here."

She sniffed again, then shrugged. "I really don't smell it," she said, shaking her head. "But I can open a window if you want."

"Nah, it's okay."

He tried to run through his explanation of the case as quickly as possible. Three victims found without tongues, but no evidence of any procedure or act that would've resulted in the loss of said tongues which, their friends and family members insisted, were surely present before their deaths.

"The killer could be a surgeon and have access to fine tools or even lasers for seamless cuttage," she said, examining the autopsy photos.

"Mmmhmm, mmhmm," he nodded, trying to open his mouth as little as possible to keep the scent out. "But there's no sign of cutting or scarring. Which there surely would be if the procedure was performed so recently? None of the victims were missing for more than 24 hours—and all had been seen, with tongue no less, within a day. No wound could heal that fast, right?"

"So, what's your theory?" she asked. "Cat got their tongue?"

She was pleased with her little joke and gave him a rare, precious Scully grin. He wanted to at least humor her with a laugh but the mention of a cat—so close to a dog that smelled like crap—made his stomach gurgle yet again and he had to swallow sharply to keep the acidic bile down.

"You okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, it's just...that smell. It's nauseating."

She shook her head again, that long neck taunting him. "I'm a little concerned," she said. "Are you feeling alright? A sinus infection could cause phantosmia. Or a head injury. Although you weren't banged up much on our last case."

"I'm fine," he said. "Anyway, it's not a cat I'm thinking of, but a cannibalistic spirit documented by Algonquian-speaking Native American tribes in the Northern US and Canadian wilderness.” 

"A wendigo?" she asked, eyebrow arched and ready to fire.

“Very impressive, Scully,” he grinned. “Although you should know that merely saying the spirit’s name is considered taboo. Some believe doing so could summon it into being.” 

She rolled her eyes.

He swallowed hard, and continued. “The spirit possesses a man, who then becomes unable to resist the temptation to eat human flesh. Specifically, the delicacy of the tongue."

"So you think a possessed person ate the victims' tongues?"

"Perhaps," he says. "And the legend goes that because it's actually the spirit feasting on human flesh—not the killer himself—there are no wounds where the tongue is removed. It also explains how these victims lost more than half their blood volume with no signs of trauma."

"It could be severe gastrointestinal bleeding," she said, ignoring his theory. "Perhaps as the result of a communicable illness which would explain why three members of the same community died in the same manner."

"So you think they shat out all their blood?"

"It's not unheard of," she shrugged. “Have any of the victims traveled to a region where ebola is endemic?” 

It was all making him nauseous now. He thought he'd gotten used to it after being in the room for a few minutes but the smell, if anything, was getting worse.

He felt vomit rising into his mouth and cupped  his hand over his lips. "Sorry, Scully. I gotta--" he started before bolting to her bathroom and puking into the toilet. 

"Are you okay?" she asked when he re-entered the room, eyes bloodshot.

"I think I'm coming down with something," he said. "Listen, why don't you take a look at those photos and we'll discuss more in the office tomorrow. I better get going."

"Jeez, Mulder, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were pregnant, between the heightened sense of smell and the vomiting. But that sounds like one of your theories, not mine."

"Very funny, Scully," he said, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and heading to the door.

In the hallway, he gasped a sigh of relief. Whatever disgusting dog odor permeated Scully's apartment fortunately hadn't made its way out here. 

3.

At first, he thought the sharp prick at his heel was Scully's toenails. He was about to tease her about trimming them when he realized she was sitting beside him on her couch with her feet tucked underneath her. They were back at her apartment a week later debriefing their previous case. He hadn’t been able to prove the existence of a cannibalistic spirit and she hadn’t been able to come up with a plausible scientific explanation so they were left in their typical stalemate. Although the animal smell had dissipated, he couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. 

He was listening to her recount her autopsy findings when— fuck , there was that sharp biting sensation again. He involuntarily kicked out his foot as if fending off an invisible ankle-height assailant. 

"What's wrong?" Her eyes popped open. 

"Shit, sorry Scully," he said, trying to settle back down. "I could've sworn something was biting my ankle.”

"Biting?" she asked skeptically.

"Yeah," he trailed off, folding in half to examine the carpet underneath the sofa. "Almost like a little dog."

"Like Queequeg?" She smirked. 

"Actually, yeah, I think that's exactly what it was like. Like that fur ball was nibbling at my heels.” 

“I don’t have to tell you that’s impossible.” He detected a hint of sadness in her voice and his heart sank, not for the first time, for all that their work had taken from her.

He opened his mouth to tell her about the other recent events—the barking sound, the flash of auburn in the Colorado wilderness, the wet fur smell of her apartment—but he knew she’d just dismiss it all.

“What?” she asked, sensing he was on the verge of revealing something. As if they were on a case and he was holding back a vital piece of information. Something he had been guilty of doing in the past, he knew, but he usually had a valid reason. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Mulder….” She dipped her chin down as her eyes bore into his.

Powerless against her, he told her everything. "Maybe he's haunting you," he concluded.

"Oh, no, Mulder," she said definitively. "I don't think it's me he's haunting."

4.

They decided to hold a seance the next day. Scully sneered at first but ultimately went along with it without needing too much convincing. She still had Queequeg’s leash and collar, so they set up a small shrine on her coffee table. She gathered a mismatched array of candles from the bathroom and living room and put them around Queequeg's memorabilia.

"How does this work?" she asked. 

He considered reminding her that she'd demonstrated the ability to transcend the boundary between the living and the dead in the past, but that would have required bringing up her father, which would have put a damper on this otherwise delightful evening. Scully felt warm next to him and they were essentially hanging out without the pretense of a case. Sure, they were having a seance for a dead dog, but how else would the two of them bond after hours?

"Let's just close our eyes, hold hands, and try to summon his spirit."

"Is this just an excuse to hold hands, Mulder?"

"Any excuse I can get," he said, as he reached out to take her hand in his. He hoped it came off as a joke, but he really did mean it. It felt so good to hold her hand when neither of them were near death. 

"Mary Todd Lincoln used to host the nation's most renowned spiritualists at the White House for seances to speak with her late son," Mulder said, trying to lend an air of legitimacy to their makeshift session. "Even honest Abe would sometimes make an appearance."

"Don't we need a medium?" Scully asked, keeping a firm hold on his hand. 

"I figure you could play the role, Madame Scully," he said, tipping his chin in her direction. She smiled. He liked making her smile. Her smile always had the effect of flicking a switch deep in his belly that felt like the delicate flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"I think Melissa and I had a Ouija board back in the day."

"Pfft," he snorted. "The Ouija board is a purely commercial invention. I don't think anything made in the same factory as Chutes and Ladders can be trusted to commune with the dead."

Scully smirked. "I assumed Ouijia boards would fit right in with the Fox Mulder cosmology."

"Then, Scully," he said, shaking his head, "I don't think you know me at all."

He grinned at her and she smiled back. 

"So, how do we start this thing?" she asked.

"First, we have to close the circle." He extended his free hand to hers and she squeezed tightly onto it.

They stood silently for a beat, facing each other, holding hands. He wasn't actually sure if there was a spiritualist reason for creating the closed circle, but it had to have roots in ancient concepts of energy channeling. He'd done silly little seances in college, typically led by witchy girls with dyed black hair and crystal jewelry, and they always stressed the importance of not breaking the circle. Once he had taken the time to dive into the occult and 19th century spiritualism—the heyday of the modern seance—he couldn't find anything on the importance of maintaining a circle. But then again, if holding one of Scully's hands was nice, holding both of them was even better.

He closed his eyes and, without saying anything, sensed that she'd closed hers, too. He relished the trust she placed in him, listening as her breathing slowed and deepened. He inhaled the heady mix of candles they'd gathered from around the apartment. Vanilla and eucalyptus mingled in the air with musk and gardenia and he suspected these weren't all supposed to be lit at once, but somehow it worked. 

"Do you want me to say something?" she asked, her soft voice drifting over to him in the dark.

"Um, if you want," he said.

She paused, then began. "Queequeg, we welcome your spirit into our circle. If you're near us, please make your presence known."

"Not bad, Scully," he said, giving her hands a squeeze.

"Melissa used to do this crap all the time."

"Hey, don't rain on my parade over here."

"Sorry," she said with a giggle that set his soul aflame.

"We miss you, Queequeg, you were a good dog," she went on. "You didn't always smell the best, especially when you were flatulent, which seemed to be more often than not—"

"What were you feeding that dog?" Mulder interrupted.

"Shut up," she said. "But no matter how poorly you smelled at times, I loved you very much and truly enjoyed the time we spent together. If you've come back because you're angry at Mulder for leading you to your demise at the hands of an alligator—"

"Or Big Blue," he piped up.

She tugged on his hands and ignored him. "If you're angry at Mulder, he'd like to take this chance to apologize and request your forgiveness so you can transition on to the next plane in peace."

"Scully, this isn't half bad," he said, genuinely impressed. 

"It's your turn now—go on, apologize."

"Are you serious?"

"Do you want him to stop haunting you or not?"

Mulder smiled and tried to convey his happiness through their grasped hands.

"Queequeg, this is Mulder speaking. I want to apologize for calling you names and dragging you out to Heuvelmans Lake where you met your untimely demise. I wish we could have spent more time together with Scully—” 

She cut him off with an adorable snort of a laugh.

"—listening to Scully talk. And have Scully check us for fleas and ticks."

Her giggle was a full-blown laugh now. He was desperate to open his eyes and see her face light up. but he’d bought into this seance, so he wasn’t about to break it now.

"I checked you for ticks once , Mulder," she said. "And that was because we'd just spent the night in the woods."

"Well, you're welcome to check again any time."

"I think we're getting off topic," she said, collecting herself. "Keep talking to Queequeg."

5.

There was no gust of wind, flickering light, or even jingling collar bells ringing through the room after he finished speaking, but they both sensed a change. It was as if a six-pound weight had been lifted. 

"I think his spirit is free," Scully whispered to him, solemnly. 

"Run free, Queequeg," he said. He gently opened his eyes and found that hers were open too, and she was looking at him warmly. Despite her reputation for being cold and closed off, he knew that Scully emanated warmth. Once she let someone into her life, she’d hold them in her warmth and protect them with her loyalty. He was only slightly peeved that she had opened herself up to Queequeg before him.

She loved with a fierceness and dedication outsized for her tiny frame. Then again, everything about Scully was larger than her small size would suggest. Her brilliance, her strength, and yes, her love, all seemed like they should overwhelm someone so tiny, but Scully managed to contain it all in just a few inches over five feet.

In that way, she was  like Queequeg. An outsized force stuffed into a small package, with a tuft of auburn hair, who would bite if necessary. He wouldn't dare compare her to Queequeg out loud, though.

Instead, he said, "He was a good dog."

"I thought you couldn't stand him."

"I don't know if we ever saw eye to eye, per se, although that might've been more of a height issue." He gave her a crooked smile. "But I know you liked him, that he kept you company."

"That makes me sound pretty pathetic," she sighed. 

"I didn't mean that. Just that—" he paused to choose his words carefully—"it's nice to come home to someone. I know fish aren't really the same as dogs, but sometimes it's soothing to see them after a long day of the shit we deal with. It just helps me put things in perspective—I'm dealing with lies and gaslighting and conspiracies, and they're just obliviously swimming along and enjoying their lives. A dog must be similar, I imagine."

"Yeah," she nodded. "It was like that with Queequeg. Whenever I'd get frustrated with work or with you"— he gasped in mock outrage and she just smiled and continued—"he'd always be here and look so excited to go for a walk or get his dinner. The consistency was comforting. And he was good at cuddling. He'd get so warm, like a little ball of heat."

"You know, Scully," he started, "I'm available for cuddling if you're ever feeling cold."

“I’ll keep that under consideration.” She smiled. “For now, want to stick around for a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” he said, and she disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a bottle and glasses. 

"I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to speak with Queequeg's spirit," he said when she returned,  accepting a glass of red wine from her. 

Settled into the opposite corner of the couch, Scully sat with her legs scrunched up underneath herself with her own glass of wine. He couldn't deal with how precious she looked—nor with how far away she sat.

"Get over here, Scully," he said, patting the cushion next to him.

She smiled, untucked her legs, and moved to scoot over next to him. He transferred his wine glass to his left hand so he could drape his right arm over her shoulder. 

"Maybe Queequeg just has to realize that I'm not a threat to you," he said. Emboldened by her lack of response to his arm over hers, he started lazily tracing circles on her tricep. "Then he'll stop haunting me."

"You're not a threat to me," she said, seriously.

"Come on, Scully." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I'm responsible for so much shit that's happened to you over the years. If I were a little Pomeranian in love with you, I'd do everything in my six-pound power to make this Mulder guy's life a living hell."

She raised an eyebrow. "You think Queequeg was in love with me?"

"How could he not be?" he spit out without even thinking. "I mean—" he tried to recover—"you took good care of him."

Scully just gave him a Cheshire cat grin. She wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"You think that's all it takes to fall in love with me? If I take care of you?"

"Well, there are lots of reasons a guy—or a dog—could fall in love with you. You're loyal, kind, and caring. You're fucking brilliant. And you're not half-bad to look at either."

"’Not half-bad,’” she repeated, frowning. “I’m flattered, really.” 

“Give me a break. I’m trying to play it cool here,” he admitted. 

She blushed and took a sip of her wine. He did, too, as if trying to use the alcohol to mask his sudden confession. Although it was his first sip and he'd been drunk in love with her for longer than he cared to admit.

"Oh, fuck it," he said. He leaned forward to set the wine glass on the coffee table and pivoted to face her. Bravely, he delved into uncharted territory. "You're breathtakingly beautiful, Scully. I'm not about to speculate on what got Queequeg's gears going, but if he's anything like me, he wouldn't be able to resist you. Frankly, I'm jealous of how many nights he got to spend in your bed."

"I didn't allow him in the bed."

He smiled wide. “Of course you didn't," he said. "Because you know about things like pet dander and how sleeping with a dog in your bed can interrupt your REM cycle and that's another reason why you're so lovable.”

“You’re making me sound more anal-retentive than lovable.” She looked up at him with sad eyes before quickly glancing down again. 

“Oh, Scully, you know that’s now what I mean.” He leaned forward to nudge her shoulder with his. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, her eyes still downcast. 

“Just that—” He paused, struggling to find the words. “You’re so you , Scully. You’re so fully realized, so completely yourself, but not in a way that makes you predictable or boring. It just makes it all the more thrilling when I learn something new about you that somehow both surprises me and fits into the puzzle of what makes you you.”

“And that fact that I didn’t let a dog sleep in my bed somehow makes me more lovable?” 

“It does to me.” He brought the tip of his pointer finger to her chin, softly encouraging her to look back toward him. “What I’m trying, and apparently failing, to say is that I love everything about you. I love that you’re particular and exacting. I love that you force me to be honest and vigorous in our work, and I love that you’re part of my life outside of work, too. And while there’s nothing I value more than our friendship, I hope I’m not being too presumptive to say that I’m getting the feeling we’d both like to be more than friends.”

Terrified, he searched her eyes for confirmation, any sign that his feelings were reciprocated. But she simply stared back at him, her chin wrinkling as she considered his words.

“Although, I suppose, sharing your bed with a creature a lot larger than a Pomeranian might be much more disruptive to your sleep cycle,” he added. 

“I might not mind the interruption,” she said finally, her voice low and breathy, her eyes still locked on his.  

“Even from your defiant, alien-chasing, nutjob of a partner?” 

“Do you mean my incredibly tenacious, intelligent, and loyal partner for whom I might just harbor similar feelings?” 

"Do you think Queequeg would approve?" he asked.

"Let's find out," she said. Before he could question her, Scully's lips were pressed against his. She tasted like tannin-rich wine but also something deeper and more Scully-like: warm and tangy with other unidentifiable undertones that he could drink from his whole life and never get enough of.

He took her wine glass from her and placed it next to his on the coffee table. With both hands free, she felt her way up his arms to frame his face. His own hands wandered wildly, up her back, through her hair, on her soft and tender cheeks. She opened her mouth to him and he tasted her tongue with his. He felt his body responding to her kiss—and judging on how she was squirming and shifting her hips towards him, he knew she was responding as well.

Just as he was about to slip a hand up and underneath her feather-soft sweater to caress the even softer skin underneath, he heard a low, deep growl off in the distance.

He pulled away and faced Scully, puzzled.

“That couldn’t be—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I heard it, too. I think my neighbors down the hall got an English bulldog. It’s not a ghost.” 

“Good enough for me.”

“I should kiss you more often if it gets you to agree so easily.” She smiled at him, inching even closer on the couch.

“I think you should test that theory, Agent Scully.” 

She leaned in again. This time, there were no howls or growls interrupting them.

[merymoonbeam]

Book of Breathings - Elain - Ankh Symbol

First of all this is tied to my "a tool of creation" theory so you can read that first if you want.

We first learned about book of breathings in acomaf. To nullify the Cauldron.

“When the Cauldron was made,” the carver interrupted, “its dark maker used the last of the molten ore to forge a book. The Book of Breathings. In it, written between the carved words, are the spells to negate the Cauldron’s power—or control it wholly. But after the War, it was split into two pieces. One went to the Fae, one to the six human queens. It was part of the Treaty, purely symbolic, as the Cauldron had been lost for millennia and considered mere myth. The Book was believed harmless, because like calls to like—and only that which was Made can speak those spells and summon its power. No creature born of the earth may wield it, so the High Lords and humans dismissed it as little more than a historical heirloom, but if the Book were in the hands of something reforged … You would have to test such a theory, of course—but … it might be possible.” (acomaf)

And as the books went on...we got the two half of the books and finally the book is somehow in cc world.

So lets start with this theory post.

The name of the book comes from Egyptian Mythology

The Books of Breathing (Arabic: كتاب التنفس Kitāb al-Tanafus) are several ancient Egyptian funerary texts, intended to enable deceased people to continue existing in the afterlife. The earliest known copy dates to circa 350 BC.[1] Other copies come from the Ptolemaic Kingdom and Roman Egypt, as late as the 2nd century AD.[2] It is a simplified form of the Book of the Dead

This information will be important for later. And in the meantime I made a post about koshei's onyx box connecting to this if you wanna read it.

Okay moving on...

I was looking at acotar coloring book pages and book of breathings drawing is... interesting.

Side not: sarah got the deals for the acotar books and then worked on the coloring book so I think this is important to add bc she LOVES to add hints as little things and whats better to add than a coloring book?

The circles of silver, gold and bronz.

It had been formed of dark metal plates bound on three rings of gold, silver, and bronze, each word carved with painstaking precision, in an alphabet I could not recognize. Yes, it indeed turned out my reading lessons were unnecessary.

I think these might be related to the book names of the new acotar books.

Silver flames

Gold(en) XX

Bronz XX (for vassa maybe? Bc she is a bird of flame...flame and bronze???)

Okay back to the other things.

The star(sun?) in the middle. When you first look at it it is like a sun but when you take into account that the asteri made this book and there is the starborn symbol of 8pointed star...its probably an eight pointed star.

She stared and stared at the Book—as if it were a ghost, as if it were a miracle—and said, “It is the Leshon Hakodesh. The Holy Tongue.” Those quicksilver eyes shifted to Rhysand, and I realized she’d understood, too, why she’d gone. Rhysand said, “I heard a legend that it was written in a tongue of mighty beings who feared the Cauldron’s power and made the Book to combat it. Mighty beings who were here … and then vanished. You are the only one who can uncode it.” (acomaf)

Amren turned to Rhysand and said in that new, strange language—their language: “The glowing letters inked on her back … they’re the same as those in the Book of Breathings.” (hofas)

“I can teach you things you’ve never even dreamed of,” Rigelus promised. “The language inked on your back—it is our language. From our home world. I can teach you how to wield it. Any world might be open to you, Bryce Quinlan. Name the world, and it shall be yours.”(hofas)

Also in the coloring book the ships of the papa archeron have these on them.

Feyre: moon and stars

Nesta: sun?

Elain: eight pointed star 👀

So for feyre it checks out. For nesta...why sun? When she had eight pointed star tattoed on her back(tho now it is gone after the deal with cassian is done) I thought what could the sun mean? The cover of acosf.

That's a sun. Also it is interesting that the High Lord of Day had such a negative reaction to the mask...🤔

And now... eight pointed star for elain? That remains to be seen what it could mean...👀

So thats out of the way and now we will look into the symbol at the bottom and top which I found out is the symbol of Ankh...from Egyptian Mythology.

The ankh or key of life is an ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic symbol used to represent the word for "life" and, by extension, as a symbol of life itself.

The ankh has a T-shape topped by a droplet-shaped loop. It was used in writing as a triliteral sign, representing a sequence of three consonants, Ꜥ-n-ḫ. This sequence was found in several Egyptian words, including the terms for "mirror", "floral bouquet", and "life". The symbol often appeared in Egyptian art as a physical object representing either life or related life-giving substances such as air or water. Commonly depicted in the hands of ancient Egyptian deities, sometimes being given by them to the pharaoh, it represents their power to sustain life and to revive human souls in the afterlife.

Life...soul? We always say how Nesta is death and Elain got the life. Maybe it is more correct than we had thought???

And now the bird on the cover. There is no mention of bird symbol being on the cover of the book.(Im pretty sure of this but if Im wrong...it still stand that the only quote the book of breathings has said with bird is this) So why add bird? The only time Book of Breathings is connected with a bird is this quote:

The other one, the Book hissed. Bring the other one … let us be joined, let us be free. I slid the Book from my pocket, tucking it into the crook of my arm as I tugged the second half free. Lovely girl, beautiful bird—so sweet, so generous … Together together together

Which I totally think it is about Elain and Vassa.

Lovely girl? Elain. There is SO MANY quotes with elain and lovely.

Beautiful bird? Vassa...bird of flame.

And I made a bigger post about this(the other one) if you wanna read it.

So maybe we really need to get the book of breathings back? And Elain will use it to control cauldron?

[sapphicseasapphire]

Remember when I said I’d make some informational posts about the Cryptid au? Well, here’s some lore! I originally wanted to talk more about Wind. But I can’t talk about Wind without also talking about Legend! So buckle up while I tell you about an old, old war.

Legend is Mer. Wind is an original species that I call Aquili. On my character sheets, before I came up with the name, I called him a Sea Monster. But then I thought about it for two more seconds and realized that in a world where monsters are in fact real, tangible things that are always evil and are constantly being fought, doesn’t calling someone a monster sound a little derogatory? And then that SPIRALED.

So throughout Hyrule’s history, there have been many creatures that make their homes in the sea. Among these are the Zora, an amphibious group that make their homes on land but close to water; the Aquili, an amphibious group that make their homes underwater but close to the surface; and the Mer, an entirely aquatic group that live 100% underwater. They rarely interacted with each other, peacefully keeping to themselves until an influx of monsters started driving them out of their homes.

The spike in monster population took place just before the events Ocarina of Time. The Zora were least affected affected because their homes were on land, but the Mer and Aquili struggled. They fought back the monsters as they invaded their territories, and eventually, the threat of the monsters led them to cross each others borders. And suddenly, they had a turf war on their hands. They simply didn’t have enough space to coexist while the monsters lurked. And so they fought.

The timeline splits. Legend and Wind both know different conflicts, but neither end well. In Legend’s era, the war is won. The Mer were victorious, they drove the Aquili away and lowered their numbers enough that they aren’t a threat anymore. The term “Sea Monster” is Mer propaganda, meant to villainize the Aquili and turn any sympathizers away. The war might have been won centuries ago, but the Aquili are still out there, still scraping by, weakened but never defeated. Legend has been taught all his life to fear them. He’s been taught to call them monsters and to fight them on sight. He’s been taught that there’s a reason that the Mer were able to win, and he must live up to that standard.

Legend was attacked when he was young. He was chased out of his territory by an Aquili scavenger, forced above the surface to escape. Except it’s law in Mer controlled areas that so much as breaking the surface tension of the water is grounds for banishment. Since Mer are completely aquatic, it’s dangerous for them to go on land. Plus, Aquili, being amphibious, go above the surface on occasion. Anyone following them is seen as a traitor. Unfortunately, even though Legend was only a child and only trying to escape a very dangerous situation, the law was strict. He had no loophole. He was banished, forced to take refuge in the surface kingdom of Hyrule. And that experience did not help him see Aquili in a kinder light.

Wind, on the other hand, had an entirely different perspective on the war. In his era, the war never really ended. There were no victors, no losers. When Hyrule flooded, the war just sort of… fizzled out. Of course, with the extra ocean comes even more, even bigger monsters for the Mer and Aquili to try to manage. There are still skirmishes between the groups. A lot of fighting around borders. Occasional battles and invasions. The conflict, while it might not be as intense as the war in Legend’s era, is still very much ongoing.

Except… there’s this little place in Wind’s era. A little island where Aquili and Mer alike seek refuge. A common ground, an area of peace. Outset Island is populated entirely by both Mer and Aquili who wanted an escape from the war. The ones who gave up on holding any territory underwater and settled on land. There, everyone’s welcome. Wind’s parents left him there with his little sister and his grandmother to save them from the constant fighting. But they believed in their cause, and so they left to reclaim their territory- their home. They never returned.

Wind sees the war as something that’s far away. He lives in a bubble of peace. He’s friends with Mer. He doesn’t have these prejudices. He knows not to venture too far into the ocean (hence why he sails on a ship instead of swimming everywhere), but other than that, he doesn’t have to worry about it.

When Legend and Wind meet, immediately their cultural differences are made very, very clear. Legend is cold to the young boy (colder than usual, that is) and no one can figure out why. Wind’s such a little bundle of energy! His laughter is infectious and his enthusiasm is contagious. Why does Legend avoid him so much?

I had this idea in my head that Wind’s so far separated from his culture, he doesn’t even know that he’s called ‘Aquili.’ All he’s heard from everyone in his life is ‘Sea Monster.’ On Outset, the Aquili called themselves that with pride as if they were never anything else, so Wind never saw any issue with that.

So one day, when talking to the rest of the Chain, Wind calls himself a Sea Monster. And Legend LOOSES IT.

Suddenly, Legend rushes over and pulls Wind into his arms and just hugs him as tightly as he can. Because this child should not be saying such things about himself. Legend’s been dealing with his own prejudice this whole time, but hearing it come from Wind’s own mouth actually breaks him. He cannot pretend anymore. He cannot separate himself from the conflict, he cannot use the blanket description of ‘Monster’ for all of the Aquili, he cannot blame the child in his arms for the desperate soul that chased him from his home.

“You’re not a monster,” he’d whisper into Wind’s shoulder. “Don’t ever say that. You’re not a monster.”

Wind’s just confused because he didn’t say he was a monster. “I called myself a Sea Monster. There’s a differen… oh”

And Legend has to watch the light leave his eyes as Wind realizes what he’s been calling himself… what everyone he knows has been calling themselves… is so fundamentally wrong.

It’s Legend who tells Wind about his heritage. As much as he can think of that isn’t propaganda. (Which… isn’t much). Legend tells Wind that he’s called Aquili, he tells Wind about the Aquili that he knew in his era. He hates that he knows so little.

And then they start to bond. Wind is definitely in shock about the whole thing, maybe a bit of denial. Legend just feels so sorry for being so harsh towards him in the past. But they go swimming together, they catch and eat seafood together. Each of them are learning from each other. They heal.

Okay that was long. I have many more thoughts about this! Like what the war looked like in Lorule, what it means for Legend and Ravio. But I’ve rambled long enough haha! I’ll make a post about that later if you’re interested, but for now, thank you for reading haha!

[thatonecrazysidekick]

So, I wrote this a few nights ago, and this is basically how it came into being:

Brain: I see you've gone to bed early so you'll be well rested tomorrow, that's cute! Anyways, what if the Triforce was cold?

Me: ...what?

Brain: what if the Triforce was cold instead of warm? Glowing golden stuff is usually seen as warm, right? But what if is wasn't?

Me: that's cool, but I'm trying to sleep rn

Brain: well that's too bad, because I'm already thinking about it in great detail!! Better start typing away, because it's either that or try to ignore it, be unable to fall asleep until 1am anyway AND forget all but the vaguest details of it by morning! :D

And that is the story of how I went to bed at 10pm and still stayed awake until 12:30am typing out ALTTP Link (or pre-LU Legend) making his wish on the Triforce, with a sprinkle of a timeline split theory, in my phone notes. Please enjoy my creation.

----

Link’s lungs were burning, every breath feeling like it was dragging hot knives down the inside of his throat. His limbs trembled in exhaustion, and the Master Sword in his hands suddenly felt too heavy to hold. He let it slip from his grasp, watching it fall to the floor. It clanged loudly against the cracked stone, and the sound seemed to echo around the suddenly empty-feeling chamber.

Link had won. Ganon was gone.

Link had thought maybe he would feel a thrill of victory or something similar, like heroes always did in stories—not always, not the one who had fought the darkness before him and failed and died—but he just felt…tired. And maybe a little relieved, but mostly he was so, so tired. He wanted to curl up in a ball on the floor and never move again, but he remained standing.

His ragged gasps for breath were beginning to even out, the ache in his lungs fading. Link took a deep breath, holding it deliberately for a few seconds before letting it out, slowly. He glanced down at his hands. They were strangely steady, considering how the rest of him was shaking like a leaf in an autumn breeze.

A flash of light caught his eye—the Master Sword, still laying a few steps to his left. Its blade was glowing gold. No, that wasn’t right. It was only shining in one spot, more like a reflection of something else, but what…?

He lifted his head, and there it was: a bright, glowing golden triangle, hovering at about his head level in the center of the room.

The Triforce.

Link’s eyes widened, and he took a few hesitant steps towards it before stopping. He was sure that it hadn’t been there a moment before. He studied it carefully, looking for any sign of danger.

Nothing. Just a sparkling triangle of triangles.

“A wish for the bearer.”

A voice seemed to echo inside Link’s head, and he jumped. It didn’t seem to come from the glowing triangle before him, but from someone or something much older.

He glanced quickly around the room. He was alone, save for the vines creeping along the walls and the sword laying a few paces away, still where he had dropped it.

A wish for the bearer.

A wish? Could he wish for anything? The voice hadn’t said if there were limits, so he might as well try.

Link tried to think about what he wanted most, but his mind began to wander of its own accord. It strayed to the people whom Agahnim had harmed in his mad quest for power; the seven maidens, sacrificed for his twisted cause, the king, who had disappeared completely, the soldiers who had killed and been killed—who he’d killed— at the wizard’s beck and call.

It strayed to a too-large sword pressed into his shaking hands, and the dying breaths of the only father figure he had ever known.

It strayed to a weathered and moss-covered stone in a tangled and ancient wood, and a child who had fallen and taken the world with him.

A wish for the bearer.

Link looked up at the Triforce, gleaming with divine radiance in front of him.

It was not good. It was not evil. It was the purest form of power, and it was waiting for him to choose how to wield it.

He took a deep breath and reached out a hand.

He was half expecting his fingers to pass through it, like it really was made of light; brilliant but insubstantial. Instead, the golden surface was smooth and surprisingly cool, like a polished shield left under the shade of a tree in high summer. He curled his fingers around the edge of its lower right facet and closed his eyes. He knew what his wish was.

All those people who had been controlled and killed by Agahnim and Ganon, just for their blood or their status or for daring to resist; they hadn't deserved to have their lives cut short. They should be able to live.

Family. Maidens. Royalty. Soldiers. A lonely tale of a failed hero, recounted by all with pity and resentment.

The Triforce pulsed beneath his fingertips, its glow flaring bright enough that it seemed to cut right through his eyelids and burn into his retinas. The cool material grew colder, his fingers going numb as the triangle turned to ice against his skin.

He didn’t dare let go.

The light grew until it illuminated everything, embraced everything, became everything. It settled over Link like a second skin, one made of hoarfrost and crystal, and his breath turned to snow in his lungs.

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go now, even if he wanted to.

Link felt as though his blood was freezing in his veins, sending ice rushing towards his heart and spreading out through his limbs. His eyes were still screwed shut, he was sure they were, but the world around him was pure white and glittering with colors he had never seen before and certainly couldn’t describe. He was everywhere and nowhere and somewhere that didn’t exist but was definitely solid beneath the worn leather soles of his boots.

He tightened his grip with fingers that he couldn’t see or feel but knew were there, still wrapped tightly around the Triforce. It seemed to be the only truly real thing that was left anymore, beating a steady rhythm in his chest to replace the heart that it had petrified, golden power pouring through his veins instead of blood. It grounded him, froze him, blinded him. It unmade time and space themselves before reweaving them into a newer and more complex pattern of kaleidoscope textures and colors and shapes.

The Triforce hummed, a sound that he couldn’t hear but felt reverberating through his very soul, thawing him from the inside out until his heart was pumping blood and his lungs were filling with air and his skin was warm again.

Link opened his eyes.

The room was the same as when he had closed them, with creeping vines clinging to the pockmarked walls and shattered stones littered across the equally ruined floor, the Master Sword still nestled atop the debris. The Triforce remained hovering in front of him, its blinding glow having faded back into a soft shine. It felt cool to the touch once more, no longer so cold it burned his flesh to the bone.

His eyes flicked towards his hand, still wrapped around the corner of the Triforce with a white-knuckled grip. It was unmarred, save for the streaks of dirt and blood left over from his battle with Ganon.

Nothing around him seemed to have changed, and yet…

A wish for the bearer.

Something very important had happened just then, something far greater than what he had thought he was wishing for, but Link couldn’t put a finger on what it could be.

He placed his other hand on the Triforce too, wondering if he would be able to move it around and examine it. He might be able to find out how the supposed wishes worked if he could take a closer look at the source. As soon as both his hands were laid on the Triforce, it flared brighter—though nowhere near as brightly as it had before—and began to melt.

He jerked back, watching in wide-eyed fascination as sharp edges blurred and ran together, becoming a floating cloud of liquid light that slithered its way down the fingers of his left hand. It pooled on the back of his hand, sinking itself into his skin and tracing out lines to form an image of itself there: three smaller triangles, placed corner to corner to form the larger one. The symbol shimmered like gold leaf against the smudged and dirty parchment of his skin for a few seconds before fading completely.

Link continued to stare at his hand long after the mark vanished, turning it slowly this way and that to see if the Triforce would reappear, if any glimmer of gold would show itself through his skin.

Nothing. It was almost as if there was never anything there at all, save for the unnatural coolness that had settled into his bones alongside the Triforce.

A wish for the bearer.

Link finally let his hand fall to his side, moving to scoop up the Master Sword. His body ached in protest at every movement, but he pushed through it as he straightened up and returned the sword to its sheath before heading towards the exit. He needed to get back home, needed to see if anything had changed. He needed to see if Uncle was back.

A second chance.

Time to go see if his wish had come true.

[amethysttribble]

If You Hold a Silmaril-

Things might get a little weird.

On the night which Thingol first held the Silmaril, he dreamed of Finwe.

He saw his friend standing beneath Laurelin and Telperion, laughing in wonder. 'Elwe!' he called, 'Elwe, isn't it beautiful?'

Thingol didn't get the chance to reply, because the seasons of Valinor which he had never seen passed them by swiftly, and the light of the Trees which had so touched him changed and Finwe changed, too. His features softened, his stature lessened, the gleam in his eyes grew brighter.

In a soft voice, he asked, "Isn't it beautiful?" Laurelin and Telperion winter-dead behind him and a Silmaril cupped in his palms, presenting.

"Yes," Thingol agreed with a smile.

---

Beren never held the Silmaril for long; at least, not outside the wolf's stomach. He took the stone in hand once, twice, thrice, always just trying to convey it to its next location, it's new owner. He was fine with this.

He would never forget how his own hand had look in Carcharoth's stomach- first perfectly preserved, and then naught but dust once disturbed. Felagund had once recounted the Sons of Feanor's oath to him, and the line about 'mortal hands' had stuck out.

Beren did not trust the thing. He did not trust the lullaby that had teased his ears since he first pried the burning thing from the crown of darkness. Never could he hear the words clearly, but when he tried to provide reason to that sweet, haunting melody, he ascribed that Oath of Feanor. He was pretty sure he was wrong, though.

He was especially sure he was wrong about the lullaby when he draped the Nauglamir over his fingers and pondered what to do with it.

___

Earendil sang with the Silmaril. Old songs and new songs, Quenya songs and Sindarin songs; Elvish songs, Mannish songs, and songs from before either of their times. There was little else to do while sailing on the rim of the world.

They'd become friends, the two of them.

___

Melkor held three Silmarils, for a time. Even at his poorest, he possessed two. That voice and light was hewn into his very being. So much so that his eyes and ears- which were constructions, falsehoods, empty veneers- tricked him.

He grew used to the shadows haunting every corner of his eyes. The whispers which came from every direction.

For him, there was no singing, no memories.

There were taunts, jeers, and laughter, because he and dear Feanaro were cut from the same cloth, and there was nothing spirits like them hated more than being mocked. Melkor knew this well, had used this well, and so he did not react. Did not provide the satisfaction to Feanaro.

Because he had been the one to bring Feanaro low, he was the one who won.

So even when his feet were cut from under him, and that little fey thing that only he could see looked down at him, smirk split over his unreal face, triumph in those eyes, Melkor didn't care.

He didn't care, he didn't care, he didn't CARE-

Feanor laughed and all of Morgoth's screams couldn't drown it out.

---

The first time Luthien held the Silmaril was when her husband, brow knit in worry, handed her the Nauglamir.

"Interesting," she said.

"I think there is some fairy within it," Beren said, quoting the legends of his youth. "When your father and the Dwarves of Nogrod were moved to madness, I thought it a demon, but after holding it myself for a time... Perhaps not. Perhaps it has ensorcelled me as well."

"So not evil?" she asked, though already well-sure of her assumptions. No, not evil, just-

"Not good either," Beren grumbled, crossing his arms. "But, no. That's why I now think it to be a fairy."

"I agree," Luthien said, bringing the pretty thing up meet her eyes. She had never understood the allure while hearing tales or while retrieving this creation, but holding him, feeling him, she felt she might understand.

He was very warm, and very bright, and the scope of him was so very wide and colorful and varied. And this was just one Silmaril? Luthien was starting to understand how love for such a father could turn a son to such evil. This could also inspire greatness.

"Not evil, not good, just very strong in who he is. Quite the fairy, indeed. I think, if minded correctly, a great blessing."

___

Silmaril in hand, Maedhros heard only one thing: a call of recognition, wreathed in infinite sorrow and regret.

My son!

He wanted to hear no more.

___

Carcharoth burned. He cried. He wanted this to end.

There was something within that hated him. Furious and heated. It tasted like the sky at first, like the slight sting of stars except worse, and then it grew worse still.

At once, the fire within was both hot and cold, tasting of his master's Ainur fury and the slaps of the Orcs which fed him as a pup. Both his spirit and his flesh burned. It hurt so badly.

He wanted it to stop, why wouldn't it stop, wouldn't master return and make it stop?

What was this crystallized flame he'd swallowed, where had it come from, why would anyone make such a thing? Carcharoth could not understand, would never understand, especially when it cried, Foul imitation.

His bane rejoiced when the puny wolfhound appeared again, and Carcharoth's last joy was killing that holy lapdog. Then the pain flared even brighter, all heat and fury and hatred, and he faltered. He, the Red Maw. He howled in pain around the Man in his mouth, and his Elven prey struck.

He was almost grateful to the Elves.

___

Varda, completely taken with her own designs and creations, happily humming to herself, actually didn't notice anything of note.

___

Dior grew up on stories of the Silmaril.

Hearing of wicked Feanorions and the massive wolf and the Great Enemy's palace. The eagles and horseback duels and the hand. On rare occasions, his grandfather had showed the treasure to him, but it wasn't often and never for very long.

So, suffice to say, when he and his father recovered the Nauglamir bound Silmaril, he was awe-struck.

For the last year of her life, his mother wore that necklace, and he often told her that she was beautiful, and looked healthier in that light, and she seemed to keep laughing at private jokes. She'd wink at him. Luthien was very lively in that last year, especially for an old Woman, but it did not stop her from lying in bed with Beren as he died, and slipping away in the same heartbeat.

The Silmaril lay forgotten in a drawer when they went.

Dior retrieved it as he packed up their house, their life, and prepared to make for Doriath. This was the first time he'd ever held it, because his father was wary of the thing, his grandfather possessive of the thing, and his mother a funny kind of person. As he trailed his fingers over the warm, glowing gem, he did not think it deserved all the fuss.

His mother once said there was a fairy within that gave advice that was not strictly good or bad, just mad, mad, mad. And grand. As Dior entered beautiful, wild, Elvish Doriath, he felt he could use a little madness and grandness both.

He put it on.

And there was the lullaby his father spoke of, and there was the tricksy warmth his mother traded japes with, and there was the strength of will that always kept his revered grandfather's countenance so tall and straight. Dior smiled, and asked Nimloth how he looked, breathing a little bit easier. Feeling a little more confident.

Dior felt like a real Elf-king when he wore the Silmaril.

___

Mablung held the Silmaril for the briefest of moments, and still felt the world shift.

Or maybe the world did not shift. Maybe he shifted. Moved slightly to the left on the plane of Arda. Drawn slightly closer to his spirit, the world's; spirit of an Ainu.

Because after that brief moment of possession, the colors of the world were brighter. The sounds sharper. The smells richer. The tastes deeper. Was this how it was in Valinor, he wondered.

Or was this something unique. Was it the appeal of the Silmarils? Why they were so coveted?

He still did not understand why they were worth the death and blood and suffering of so many. So the world was greater and vaster and there was now a taste in his mouth that urged him to seek that world and understand it and bend it.

No, he would not do that. He was loyal to his king and home. And he would fight for the Silmaril if heeded, but it was with great reluctance. The Silmaril had touched him and he did not like it.

Mablung supposed some would feel blessed, but he just felt tainted. Violated. Who would want such a thing?

___

Hanar was a craftsman of Nogrod, a disciple of Gamil Zirak. Not as renowned as Telchar was he, but still respected, still well-known, still good enough to receive the invitation to King Thingol's court. He was given a special job.

Though his heart pounded with envy at seeing all his people had wrought occupied and hoarded by Elves, especially the Nauglamir- which bore that foul name for his people though they made that beautiful thing- he was a reasonable person. An honorable dwarflord. He accepted the terms of the deal and got to work. He accepted the Silmaril.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

This was delicate work, his hammer remained stored away, but his pounding heart filled the void. He evaluated the shape of the Silmaril, turned it over in his hands and contemplated how to hold such beautifully wrought facets without defacing it.

Hanar felt that the gem in his hands understood his task. His care in fulfilling it. As he unwound the Nauglamir and nestled the Silmaril within, it offered advice, as if from one craftsman to another.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Into the silver and steel, the twinkling gems and the burning Silmaril, he poured himself. He slaved over this project for many weeks, scarcely sleeping, eating. The Silmaril rejoiced with him, crying, So long its been since I helped make something! So much I have missed it! Thank you, thank you!

Together, they worked.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

When complete, Hanar held their new creation and wept. Such a masterpiece he created in the merging of two previous masterpieces. It surpassed the work of Telchar. Why, it might even have surpassed his master.

And his masterpiece, it had helped him bring itself to fruition. It thanked him for giving it life. They were friends now.

How could anyone ask Hanar to give this up to unappreciative hands? How?

No smith of any artistry could.

___

When Finwe first beheld the Silmarils, cupping each reverently in his hands one-by-one, he knew what he had been gifted immediately.

He kissed his beloved son and smiled sadly as he said, "Are you still so scared of your mother's fate?"

Feanaro denied it, but Finwe knew the truth.

___

If Mairon could grind the Silmarils down into dust, he would.

His beloved master returned home with them in hand, burning in hand, burning down to the soul so that the wound could not be wiped away. They were beautiful and powerful. At the time, the prospect excited Mairon. His master tasked him with forging a crown for his prizes, and he'd grinned in excitement.

What creations, what strange creations, smithed by an Elf? Mairon could not wait to break them down and build them back better and recieve praise for his genius.

Except... Except.

Except, that proved... difficult. Difficult, at first, it was just +difficult. Why couldn't he cut into them? Alter them with temperature? Remove that pesky burning? Why could Mairon not peer inside and break down the molecular structure and understand?

He didn't understand. What was he working with? He couldn't understand!

His master issued a warning when he took too long to make the crown, and Mairon was forced to retreat.

It wasn't a defeat. It wasn't impossible for him to alter, to better the Silmarils, it wasn't. He would recreate them.

Then master would see that he was the better smith than this Elf. Maybe the first try didn't work. Maybe the second didn't either. And the third, fourth, fifth-

Mairon screamed and raged and razed his smithy to the ground, taking a dozen servants with it.

He tried again. Not light, but darkness. Something more fitting for his master's reign! And then he'd give up on the Silmarils. He only had two now, why did he even still care?

He would keep trying and trying and trying and trying-

Mairon would dissect Curufinwe Tyelperinquar as many times as it took, physically, mentally, alive or dead, as many times as it took to understand.

___

Elwing really knew nothing of the Silmaril but what she learned herself.

There was no one to tell her what the Silmaril had whispered to them, shown them. Many hands it had gone through, and not one was around to impart any wisdom. She wasn't frightened of this gift, though.

On her twentieth birthday, her people draped the Nauglamir, Silmaril front and center- around her neck and named her queen. Elwing took on the Silmaril and was struck with familiarity.

It sung her a song that she recognized. It was the one that soothed her as she was spirited away from Menegroth, silver and diamond necklace weighing down her little body, family dead. A song that told her not to cry, to not be scared. Oh, how the Silmaril hated the sound of crying children.

She started to wear the Nauglamir often, more the sign of her queenship than any crown. It gave her people hope. It made her feel stronger. More... connected to something.

That night and many thereafter, she dreamed of shores she'd never been to, and started to recognize traits of Idril's as belonging to people she'd never met, and learned which songs Finwe would use to sing his children to sleep. Strange treasure, curious relic. It had life and memories of its own, and it communicated feelings.

The Silmaril was fond of her. Sometimes, in snatches, it told her of what it'd seen of her own family. That made Elwing happy. Their connection made her own soul brighter.

She told Earendil of all this and only him. At least, only her husband until-

Elwing sneered in the face of Maedhros, and said, "Why do you even want it? He would hate you as you are."

___

"You are not my father," Maglor said, holding the Silmaril before his face, collapsed upon the shore, defeated. His hand was still burning, though his flesh was long since ruined. At once, he wanted nothing more than to hold on and let go.

"You are a shadow. A remnant. An echo. But a piece of him, capable of communicating memories and the basest of feelings and impulses, but no higher thought. My father, distilled. But not him.

"Which is a shame, I- I never believed Curufin's theory about my father's spirit only being recoverable with the Silmarils, but I'm disappointed now that it is not him speaking to me. I have so much to say, but I find myself mourning only one lost opportunity thing: it would have been nice to debate poetry movements with him again.

"You're not my father. You're a will-o-wisp, a taunt. A false light, guiding us to our doom. Our fault. Our stupidity. Our end."

He ambled to his feet.

"Yet, I feel your love for me, and I'm glad. I feel your horror, and I'm ashamed. To sadness, I respond with anger, and to regret- Do you feel regret? Are you capable, strange little reflection? Am I seeing what I want to see or disregarding what I cannot stand? I don't know. I don't know. I wish I didn't know. To have died in pursuit and not know would be preferable."

Fury gripped Maglor's heart and hot tears came to his eyes. He pulled his arm back.

"You are not worth what has been done in your name!"

He screamed, and the Silmaril was gone. All was silent. Then, Maglor started to weep. He had not realized until this moment how much he had forgotten about who his father was, beyond the last words he said.

How much the world had forgotten about Feanor, beyond the scope of a Silmaril.

___

If you hold a Silmaril, you're going to get to know Feanor. When you get to know him, you're soul will brush up against his. When you possess his soul and he stains yours, you might just start to understand him.

[whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk]

Hold Me Like a Knife (ii) (ao3)

Chapter 2 for @nessianweek day 6…. because uh… viking!Cassian is a legend? We're squinting with this one.

After an evening spent in the lord's mead hall observing the Danes and their ways, Nesta finds herself in trouble when an unfriendly Norseman follows her through the streets of Jorvik. Fortunately for her, she's already caught the eye of a man who'd sooner spill a river of blood than see her harmed...

(previous chapter // next chapter)

The business of negotiating land, it seemed, took hours.

In the lord’s hall, behind a wooden door carved with the image of a great tree encircled by a snake, the men disappeared. After briefly being shown to their lodgings, Nesta and the other ladies of the court had been escorted back to the hall, like the Danes didn’t trust them enough to give them free reign about the city just yet. And so, as the king and Rhysand and their most trusted men remained ensconced behind those doors, locked away for hours to debate the lines of their treaty - which towns and rivers would fall under the rule of the Danes, and which fields and roads would remain Saxon - Nesta studied that tree. Seated on a long wooden bench, she traced each meticulously carved branch that stretched towards the edges of the door, admiring the craftsmanship as she followed the tail of the snake that curved around the tree. 

Somebody had told her, once, that the Danes thought their world was a mighty tree, and as Nesta sat and watched, she wondered if it was true. If the world was cradled by the boughs of a great oak, then where exactly did they sit, now? Were they in the branches, high enough to feel the light of the sun? Or was their little corner of England the roots of the tree, buried underground, so near to the scales of the beast that surrounded them?

She didn’t know who to ask to find out.

Every now and then, Tomas would leave the room, letting the door slam behind him as he left to fetch whatever parchment or deed the king had requested. Her husband muttered under his breath as he went, glaring at the walls, and not once did he stop to tell her - or any of them gathered outside that room - what was happening inside. 

It was only when Rhysand stepped out into the hall and cast his eyes over the court of Wessex assembled before him - interspersed with Danes - that the news was shared. The Norseman’s face split into a ruthless smile as he took in the scene before him, the gathering lit by candlelight as the sun beyond the windows started to wane. The hall seemed to glow, the fire in the middle stirring as logs were added to the dwindling embers.

With a smooth, slippery kind of smugness, Lord Rhysand announced that the vast swathe of territory henceforth to be known as the Danelaw cut diagonally across Britain— so many miles and miles of land, surrendered to the heathen invaders that had looked at these shores and decided to make them their home, at any cost.

It was a wonder, Nesta thought, that King Alfred had left the room with the crown still upon his brow. 

“This land has given me many things,” Rhysand began after his announcement, his violet eyes casting over the crowd with an intensity that made Nesta want to shudder. Beneath his eyes, somehow she felt like he could see into her soul— read her mind. “It has given me a new home, and comforts that I could not have dreamed of across the sea.” With a smile that felt almost genuine, Rhysand looked to Alfred like one might look to a brother. “With this treaty between us, I look forward to days of peace.”

Murmurs rose among the crowd; whispered agreements.

But Nesta saw the way Rhysand’s eye glinted in the firelight, the curve at the corner of his lip that made his smile more wolfish than anything else. And somehow, she didn’t think the peace would last.

There was a hunger in Rhysand— in all of his people, too. Did Alfred think a pretty parcel of land might be enough to sate that hunger, to slake their thirst for blood? Nesta looked to the snake carved on the door, its jaws wrapped around the tree that made up their world. The sharp teeth were shadowed by the firelight, the branches of the world-tree seeming to shake as the flames trembled, the light quivering like the sails on one of their ships, caught in the wind. 

Servants appeared along the walls, and as Rhysand announced the feast and welcomed the Saxons to his hall and his hearth, Nesta looked back at that snake, and wondered if they hadn’t just walked right into its jaws. 

***

In the lord’s hall, woodsmoke tangled with the scent of spices imported from far-off lands— places Nesta had only ever heard about in stories. Places where there was sand underfoot more often than stone, places where the sea was so blue it was deeper than the colour of a summer sky. 

We had a ship arrive last week filled with spices— pepper and saffron and cumin. Entirely foreign to these shores without our extensive trading networks, of course, Rhysand had said, filling up his goblet with mead.

Nesta had never tasted anything like it— the meat so delicately spiced, the taste of smoke lingering deliciously on her tongue. Suddenly, she was ravenous. She tilted her head at the mention of the spices the Danes imported. Her father was a merchant after all, and yet… they spoke of lands so distant, where floors were made of tile and temples were erected in the name of yet more gods she couldn’t recognise. She followed the tales Rhysand told with interest as platters of food were laid out on the long tables that housed Dane and Saxon alike, the embers in the fire-pit glowing a vibrant red as smoke drifted up to the hole cut in the roof above, curling past the decorated wooden beams that stretched up from the floor; all of them carved with the faces of great beasts: serpents and dragons, wolves and bears. Mead and ale were poured liberally as conversation rose like the tides, and through it all Nesta sat silently, observing. 

“Not good for the soul,” Osbert muttered as he plucked up a piece of chicken between his thumb and forefinger. “Such a rich diet. It heats the blood, fosters sin.”

Tomas scowled, poking at a piece of meat with the tip of his silver knife. “Everything about this place fosters sin, father.”

With a grimace twisting his features, he set his fork back down, the meat untouched. Like to break bread with the heathen was a sin all its own.

Indeed, as the meal ended and benches were pushed back from tables as the Danes rose from their seats to fetch more drink, Nesta noted with a sharp eye how more than a handful of Alfred’s court made haste to retire. Thegns and their wives made their excuses to their king, slipping away into the safety of their lodgings, like they couldn’t bear the peace any longer. Nesta, for one, found that she didn’t so much mind the food or the wine or the hall they found themselves in, and though there was a healthy dose of reservation as she looked at the Danes assembled on long benches either side of the hall, she had to admit that her curiosity was burning like a pyre, so many questions balanced on the tip of her tongue that she knew she could never ask aloud. 

What were the creatures carved on those columns lining the room? What stories did they tell, and why were they deemed so important, so beloved, as to immortalise them in the wood?

Further along the table, King Alfred got to his feet. In a move that echoed, Rhysand did too, plucking up his goblet with lithe fingers as his assembled guests began to filter through the tables, the din of conversation rising all around them as formality was shed a little. The Northern lord took a different seat, closer to the fire, and beckoned to Alfred— to the empty seat beside him, illuminated by the flames. Both king and Dane might have claimed that they had left political discussions at the door as soon as dinner had been served, but Nesta knew the world of men too well to think differently. Negotiation continued, only this time it masqueraded as pleasant conversation.

Beside her, Tomas moved too, taking up a position directly behind the king, like he thought himself some kind of protector.

He didn’t sit down.

Only Nesta remained where she was. Even Osbert rose, a grunt of displeasure leaving him as he drifted to the edge of the room, taking up a seat against the wall, like still he feared someone was going to stick a dagger in his spine. Nesta didn’t think she could blame anybody for trying; Osbert watched with scrupulous eyes, speaking to no one, and giving no one leave to approach him. His silver cross shone in the low light, and every now and then the priest would wrap his fingers around it before lifting it to his lips, like showing his reverence to the cross might protect him in a hall so filled with heathens. 

And yet Rhysand, she noted, recently baptised as per the terms of the treaty with Alfred, didn’t look particularly overcome with religious zeal of his own. 

She supposed she wouldn’t be, either. Alfred and her husband might have thought Rhysand had taken the sacrament in all honesty, but he had been raised to believe in so many gods— what was one more added to his pantheon? 

What was one more, when it brought him England?

Such a small price to pay, and even as he attended Mass on Sundays, she suspected he would still make his offerings to Odin. 

She had said as much to Tomas, when he had first informed her of the king’s plan. The treaty they had made. 

He had told her to stop trying to understand the politics of men— that it was too difficult a topic for her delicate female mind to comprehend. When he’d turned his back that night, she’d spat in his ale.

And now he stood behind the king, his chest puffed, engorged with his own self-importance, and as the firelight cast shadows across his face, Nesta half wondered if it would make her a terrible wife to wish that peace fell apart. To hope for a Danish blade to find a home in Tomas’ spine.

There were certainly enough Danes gathered beneath that roof to do the job. 

She cast her eyes across them, taking in the way they raised their drinking horns, and the game pieces scattered across so many tables as they played a game she didn’t recognise. Her gaze roved across them all, until—

Across the hall, her attention caught on one Dane in particular.

Caught and held, like no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bid her eyes to look away. 

It was the one from earlier— the one who had been fighting outside the hall. He lounged against the wall now the banquet was finished, one foot up, clad in leather with hair down to his shoulders. He looked… cleaner now. The blood had been washed from his face, his shirt exchanged for a fresh one, dyed a deep burgundy with not a single crease to mar the fabric. None of the men were armed, but there was a space at his hip where a dagger might rest, and over the broad span of his shoulders, she thought that the hilt of a sword might look at home there, peeking out from above his back. His eyes glinted in the firelight, and a well-trimmed beard graced his jaw. Silver beads were threaded through his hair, which was braided at his temples. The Northmen were known for their… vanity, Nesta thought wryly, but perhaps it wasn’t such a terrible thing. The leather he wore was polished and smooth, if a little worn, and his hair shone in a way that was unseen amongst the Saxons.

He was… curious, Nesta thought, tilting her head as she watched him beneath the candlelight. 

The distance between them felt like nothing— like she might reach out and feel the fabric of his tunic beneath her fingers, and as she watched, not quite sure of whether she wanted to widen the space between them or diminish it, he lifted his chin and found her staring, their eyes meeting with something that felt like a thunderclap, a bolt of lightning to her soul.

He raised his goblet; a toast across the fray.

His eyes sparked, and at his side, the warrior with the scarred hands muttered something before shaking his head. The first leaned close to whisper something in the ear of the second, and when the second pulled back, his lips were curved with an indulgent smile as he rolled his eyes. In tandem, both men looked across the room, pinning Nesta to the spot when their eyes found her. The first tilted his head, his eyes still trained on her as he drew his lip between his teeth, eyes aflame as he let drop the foot that he’d had resting against the wall.

Slowly, he ran a finger across his lip, his interest written plainly across his face. 

And when that look in his eyes said he was about to approach her…

Nesta’s heart stopped.

Without hesitation she tore her eyes away, back to her husband and her king, and Nesta really did feel apprehension then, like a knot in her gut she couldn’t loosen. Her blood felt too thin, like there wasn’t enough air. In her chest her heart hammered, because what would happen if that Dane decided to cross the hall to speak to her? Her mind reeled. 

Did she want to know the sound of his voice? To know what her name might sound like when shaped by his northern tongue? 

Tomas would have her flogged when they returned to Wessex.

She looked to him now, but her husband did not smile or speak as she rose from her seat and joined him at the king’s back. Tomas only glanced at her and the wine still in her hands, his lip curling. After a moment, he took a single step back from Alfred, gripping Nesta’s upper arm with a tight hand. Silent, a muscle ticked in his jaw. 

The Dane across the hall retreated.

And still Tomas’ hand curled into the soft flesh of her shoulder, like she was one of his hounds to be restrained, and no wedding ring circled his finger the way it did hers; her golden band little more than a collar binding her to a single master. Had she been given the choice, she never would have married him. Might never have married at all, in fact. There were women in convents who dedicated their life to prayer. Who read history and theology and lived in peace, when the Danes weren’t raiding, and didn’t that sound like a better life than this? 

Her father had sold her to Tomas, a landless thegn, in order to better his standing with the king. She had been a bartering chip, no more. Tomas had never viewed her as anything more either, and the fact that she had yet to bear him a son and heir had him growing impatient. He was not gentle nor kind nor loving— he was everything she had feared to find in a husband, and she dreamed of that convent life now, every time he touched her.

Nesta spent all of a single heartbeat in her husband’s grip before deciding to retire.

“I’m tired,” she said, setting down the goblet that was still half-full. “The journey left me weary.”

Tomas only made some non-comital sound in his throat. His hand fell away from her arm and without even glancing at her he said, almost as an afterthought, “I may join you later.”

Nesta knew well enough what he meant. If he didn’t find a place in a whore’s bed, he’d come looking for his place in hers.

She said nothing, only dipped her chin to hide the way her jaw clenched. She turned without a goodbye, cutting through the crowd and noticing that most of the other women had already left, too. As if they could sense that the night was about to shift, that the men were getting too deep in their cups. It was a sense all women bear, Nesta thought, an instinct engrained within them all, to know when the men they were surrounded by were about to shed civility and turn into beasts, with nothing but blood on the horizon.

In that regard, no man was different, be he Saxon or a Dane.

Their hands would wander, their ears deaf to any protest.

Quickly Nesta ducked outside of the hall, into the darkness and the cool air of the street outside, and looked towards the lodgings only a short distance away. 

Beneath the moon, the narrow streets were silver. The corners were bathed in shadow, and she’d only made it a few steps before she realised there was someone watching her from the darkest of those shadowed corners. She saw the glint of something silver— the moonlight reflecting off a ring or a necklace.

Or a blade.

She pushed down the fear, lifted her chin and slowed her steps. Refused to be cowed.

“Who’s there.”

A dark chuckle answered her.

“Saxon,” a voice said, nasal and pitched too low, like the man it belonged to was trying to sound larger and more imposing than he was. Nesta might have scoffed had she not been certain that it would end with her blood on his hands. Her heart started to hammer.

He stepped into the moonlight. More boy than man, his dark hair was made black by the silver light, the sneer contorting his features making a caricature of the shadows on his face. A too-new scar cut across his nose, and his eyes were flat and cold. He manoeuvred out of the shadows until he was blocking the path ahead, and as Nesta looked behind her, she wondered if she could run back to the mead hall, make it to safety before he caught her.

She looked at the way he braced himself, and knew she wouldn’t make it far. 

Her hand strayed to her skirts, where her dinner knife was tied to her belt. It was custom to carry a knife for dining, and though the blade was fine enough to eat with, she knew it wouldn’t do enough damage to the Dane before her. It was too short, too blunted.

He smirked, a cloud passing over the moon that cloaked him with shadow.

“I don’t like Saxons,” he whispered.

“Pity,” Nesta sneered before she could still her tongue.

It was unwise, she knew, and the Dane laughed, cruel and throaty. 

“I never asked for an alliance with your king,” he spat, taking a slow step forwards as Nesta took a single step back. “I don’t want peace. I came here for blood— for glory.” He freed a blade from his belt, the curved edge of an axe raised. “And I’ll be getting it— one way or another.”

The moon was almost entirely masked now, plunging them into darkness. Only the sharp edge of his seax glinted. 

And then— footsteps. Loud footsteps. Sure and confident. 

The clouds cleared, and turning her head, Nesta beheld the Dane from the hall walking casually, carefully, down the street towards them. His eyes were fixed on the Dane with the weapon in his hand, though briefly they flicked to her, running across her from head to toe, as if to check for injury.

In his presence the Dane blocking the way ahead hesitated, the hand holding his seax raised dropping an inch, his fingers slipping on the short handle, as if searching for a stronger grip. 

The Dane from the hall closed the distance quickly. His own small axe was tucked back into his belt now, and with one smooth, effortless motion, he freed the weapon and held it to throat of his fellow Northman.

The latter’s axe fell to the floor with a muted clatter.

Nesta took a step back, her spine hitting the wattle-and-daub wall of the building behind her. Even in the darkness she could see the scowl on the face of the Dane that had threatened her, and the unkind twist of his lips as the Dane from the hall pressed the sharp edge of his axe in a little harder, freeing a thin ribbon of blood that spilled down to the hollow of his throat. 

“I’ve told you before, haven’t I, Kallon, about what happens to men who follow women down dark streets,” the Dane from the hall hissed. The one at the mercy of his blade - Kallon, Nesta presumed - tried to speak, but the effort was lost when the axe was pressed deeper against his throat, so perilously close to cutting right through. “Did the last scar I gave you fail to teach you well enough?”

Kallon tried to fight against the Dane’s hold, but his movements were pinned by the lethal edge of the axe at his neck. Resentment curled his lip even as his blood stained the ground beneath him, his eyes filled with such a bottomless, relentless hatred that Nesta’s own fingers traveled to her throat, curling around her necklace as if searching for something to grasp.

“Rhys will have my head if I kill you now,” the Dane muttered. “Something about keeping the peace while the Saxons are here. Not confirming their beliefs that we are naught but a violent and lawless people.” He snorted, the inflection in his voice making it clear that he was parroting Rhysand’s words, letting them echo in the otherwise empty street. He raised his free hand, grasping Kallon’s face roughly between his fingers. Blood spilled down the handle of the seax, coating the fingers of his other hand, but the Dane seemed entirely unconcerned as he lowered his face and met Kallon’s eye. When he next spoke, his voice was cold and dark, carrying no hint at all of an empty threat. “But trust me, the next time that I see you…”

He trailed off, letting the threat linger before pulling his blade away sharply. Kallon’s hand immediately banded his throat, covering the small wound.

He looked up at the man who had been but a moment away from killing him, and though his glare remained, he straightened. He was a full head shorter than the other Dane, and not nearly so well-built. Where the other seemed to have been born and raised on a battlefield, Kallon appeared to be the Norse equivalent of Tomas: cocksure, arrogant, and entirely devoid of skill. 

Nesta pushed away from the wall, looking away from Kallon and finding her attention snared by the powerful span of the Dane’s shoulders, the way the muscles bunched at his arms as he slid his seax back into his belt. 

“Leave,” the Dane hissed.

Kallon hesitated.

“Now.”

Kallon scrambled down the alley, his steps stumbling only once as he hurtled round the corner, bracing a hand on the wall to steady himself. A smear of blood was all he left behind, a crimson handprint made garish by the silver light of the moon. 

For a moment, relief swelled in Nesta’s chest. 

For just one moment— because then the Dane turned, and fixed all of that ruthless attention on her.

“Dangerous,” he said, his voice low and husky, “for a Saxon woman to be walking these streets alone.”

“Thank you,” she said, brushing a hand down the fabric of her cloak. “For…” she gestured to the mouth of the street where Kallon had disappeared, then nodded to the axe he’d just wielded in her defence. “…That.”

The Dane raised an eyebrow. A scar ran diagonal through it, and his nose was slightly crooked, like it had once been broken, long ago, and hadn’t set completely straight. It made him a rugged beauty, alluring and compelling in equal measure, and when the moonlight shifted and illuminated his face, Nesta thought he might have been the most dangerous man she had ever laid eyes on.

“You shouldn’t walk alone,” he said.

She bristled. “What else am I to do?”

He shrugged. “Do you not have a husband to escort you?”

Nesta scowled, forgetting that this man had just had a weapon against the throat of another. Somehow, she didn’t think he was going to hurt her. When he took a step closer, she didn’t retreat.

“I don’t need my husband to escort me anywhere,” she spat, hardly able to hide the venom in her tone.

His eyes darkened as he pulled his gaze across every inch of her. Even though every piece of her skin was covered, somehow she felt bare beneath his attention, like he was somehow able to see the parts of her she kept hidden. He drifted closer, those eyes like sparks of hazel, and he reminded her of something wild, something prowling in the dark.

He laughed— laughed.

“Tell me sweetheart,” he said, his voice a low brush against her senses. “Was he the man standing behind your king?”

She didn’t answer, letting her silence fill the space between them, but the warrior huffed a sharp laugh, one that was mocking and derisive, that should have made her afraid. But he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth again, letting his laugh devolve into a hum lodged deep in his throat, and as the moonlight drifted again across his beautifully rugged face, Nesta swallowed, and didn’t feel afraid at all.

“He looks weak,” the warrior continued, his lip curling into a sneer. “Can he even lift a sword?”

And oh, if Nesta were a good wife, she would have defended Tomas. She would have spun a tale of his bravery, of his strength, until the warrior before her backed off and left her alone. But she was not a good wife— not made for such things, to be shaped and moulded by her husband’s hands. So instead she shrugged, and looked the Dane before her straight in the eye. They liked their women outspoken, she’d heard. Allowed them to fight beside them in battle, did not consign them to breeding and childrearing— no, these brutish men from the north let their women be as fierce and as ferocious as themselves, and knowing that…

For the first time in her life, Nesta did not hold her tongue.

“He says he can.” She paused, words balanced on her tongue that she’d longed to say out loud since the day she was married. She’d never had the courage, but here, in the presence of this man, she found it— found it in abundance. “But then again, he says he can use his prick, and I’ve never seen proof of that, either.”

The Dane laughed again— louder this time, a true laugh, deep and sure. It echoed. Delight shone in his eyes as he took another step closer. 

“Why did you follow me?” she asked, breathing in the scent of him, all leather and smoke and honeyed mead.

“Because these streets are no place for a lady,” he answered easily. When she said nothing - because what was there to say anyway? - he hummed a little, shrugging idly before continuing. “Besides, you were looking at me. In the hall.”

Nesta blinked. “You followed me because I looked at you?”

He grinned. “I followed you because it was clear to me that you liked what you saw.”

God in Heaven, this man. 

A breathless laugh escaped her, one softened with surprise. “Are all Danes so direct?”

“Usually.” He lifted his head up, looking to the sky as he took a deep breath. “Life is short, sweetheart. I am a man born and raised for battle. Valhalla could welcome me any day now, should an enemy blade pierce my flesh, so why waste time?”

He took another step, and Nesta swallowed. He was close— close enough to touch, now.

“When I want something…” he continued, trailing off as his eyes dropped to her lips. They flicked back up, catching her gaze and holding it. “I don’t waste the opportunity.”

Nesta snorted. “Spoken like a true Northman.”

He quirked a brow. “Did you expect anything less?” He dipped his head, leaned in close, his lips close to her ear, his breath warm on her neck. “Did you think all men are like your pitiful excuse for a husband?”

Suddenly, Nesta couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She had never been one to lose her senses over a man, and yet here she was, feeling her heart racing for all the wrong reasons in the presence of a heathen. It would be so easy for her to reach up, to drag her fingers across his beautiful, rugged face. To feel his heat. 

When he laughed, the sound was like honey. Thick and warm and sweet, washing over her as he lowered his head, his lips a breath away from her neck. His hand hovered over her hip— not touching, not yet, but close enough that one wrong move would bring them crashing together, colliding so forcefully she didn’t think there would be anything left of her by the end of it.

When I want something…

His voice echoed in her head, burning and burning in her blood until the heat made her tip her head back, searching for the cool brush of the night air. The Dane took it for an invitation, his hands coming to rest at her waist. 

She was too stunned to move.

Her body froze, so entirely still that she half thought she might have forgotten to breathe. And yet the space at her waist was warm, his palm seeming to mould to the shape of her, like it was what his hands had been made for.

“Odin has blessed me, it seems,” he muttered, his voice sultry in the dark.

Still, she didn’t move.

And Nesta thought of those hands— the hands he had on her, spanning her waist, his fingers at her spine as his thumb grazed her hip. Strong hands, firm. She swallowed, fighting the urge to pull herself away, grasping for composure as his thumb made another pass over her hip, a long swipe that had her blood heating. 

She didn’t think of what it meant that he was a Dane. 

Of the lives those hands had ended.

Of the monasteries on the coast, raided and burned to the ground.

He smiled at her, all lethal grace and beautiful, exhilarating possibility, and Nesta didn’t think of what it meant that his hands were soaked in Saxon blood.

And wasn’t this the worst kind of treachery— the most despicable treason? To not pull back from a Norseman’s touch, when a century’s worth of Saxon blood had been spilled at the hands of raiders just like him?

Maybe it was the mead. Maybe she’d lost her senses.

But damn her— when he held her, when he touched her, part of her wanted to fall right into him, like he was the sea, beautiful and dangerous, and she was standing alone at the edge of a cliff, hands outstretched.

She tilted towards him, each pounding beat of her heart resounding through her with a force that she thought could shatter a shield wall, and when his hand lifted to drag a finger down the column of her neck, lingering at her collarbone, she felt her eyelids flutter, her lips part. It was a question, an invitation, and she felt the heat of him, his lips so close to her own, and knew that he had understood, that the hand he still had circling her waist was an answer in and of itself.

And then—

From the direction of the hall, suddenly light spilled out into the street. Warm and golden and bright— a candle or a lantern, held in someone’s hand. Voices drifted out from the hall, loud and raucous, accompanied by footsteps. Whether a Dane returning home or a Saxon seeking their lodgings, Nesta didn’t wait to find out.

She hurled herself backwards, her mind clearing as the Dane’s hands slid from her waist. 

In the absence of his touch, common sense came screaming back. She stood in the dark, in a foreign city, with a Dane’s hands on her— a Dane’s lips close enough to kiss. Madness. It was utter madness. No matter what peace had been agreed between her king and his…

He had killed his way to these shores. 

She cleared her throat, putting a safe distance between them. When she glanced up, the moonlight illuminating the planes of his face, she expected to find anger colouring his cheeks, or displeasure narrowing his eyes— the signs she’d grown accustomed to when a man was robbed of what he desired. Instead there was mirth lining the corners of his generous mouth, the starlight reflected in his dark eyes. He didn’t look like a man who had been refused something— no, he looked like a man ready for a challenge, the smile playing on his lips telling her that this might as well have been a game to him.

And the chase, it seemed, had just begun. 

“Good night, then,” he said, offering her a shallow bow as he took a step back. The moonlight gleamed along the edge of his seax, the sharp end of the blade shining like mercury in the darkness of the street, Kallon’s blood still staining the edge, and as the Dane rose to his full height, he shot her a wink that had her standing stunned. 

“Good night,” she answered.

A grin answered her like a slash in the dark, one that imprinted itself in her memory, carved there like the beasts on the pillars in the hall. And as the Dane slipped away back into the shadows, Nesta didn’t look back as she made her way towards the rooms Rhysand had set aside for Alfred’s court, not daring to glance over her shoulder until she had reached the door, standing in the circle of candlelight emitted by the small tallow candle sitting on a ledge beside the window. 

And a small distance away, like he’d followed a hundred paces behind to ensure she got back safely this time,  Nesta saw a glint of silver— and that same smile, white in the dark. 

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[fioreofthemarch]

yearnings

[✨ this was written for zelink week 2023 organised by @zelinkcommunity and is a companion piece to 'repast' and 'kin'] Fandom: The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom Pairing: Link/Zelda Words: 1140

Despite all that time has taken from her, the Light Dragon can still recall names.

The skies in which she swims belong to Hyrule, and her sister dragons that she shares them with are Naydra, Farosh and Dinraal. Yet the Light Dragon no longer has a name, and her heart cries out in search of one — though she does not know why.

Each day at sunset, her sisters join her above the clouds. Sister, they say, come with us, to where the land meets the sky and where the mortal beings dwell. Each day, for many years, the Light Dragon cannot accept. She awaits another, one who will awaken on the Great Sky Island that she dutifully guards. This purpose, though its details are lost, burns within her.

When the swordsman finally awakens, the Light Dragon senses him immediately. She watches with muted curiosity as he begins to explore her island in the sky. Why had he come to this place? Were all the mortal beings so small? Soon she finds him on the ancient circular landing behind the island’s temple, and watches as the sword in his hand disappears in golden light. She is drawn to him then, called by a voice within: the swordsman must have a sword. Perhaps on the surface, where her sisters call to her, he will find another. Determined, the Light Dragon splits the clouds guarding the island from the world below. The swordsman does not wait; he leaps, surface bound. The Light Dragon follows.

The vast lands below swallow the swordsman whole. There are deep valleys that cut the earth and mountains that pierce the skies. There are churning rivers and yawning bays. There are open plains, marshy swamps, and rolling deserts. He must be out there, somewhere, and across all four corners of Hyrule the Light Dragon searches.

In winding canyons flooded with water, she meets her sister Farosh. Have you seen a swordsman? she asks. Farosh answers: None with valour and courage enough to impress me, sister.

Among rocky crags and cooled lava, in the shadow of a great volcano she meets her sister Dinraal. Have you seen a swordsman? she asks. Dinraal answers: Hyrule has seen many, sister, for blood flows here as easily as water flows to the sea.

Between gentle mountains, as snow feathers down, she meets her sister Naydra. Have you seen a swordsman? she asks. Naydra answers: Yes, he flies as we do, sister. I am sure he will visit you soon.

But he does not. The sorrow the Light Dragon feels at this is powerful and achingly fresh. Against her will, tears well in her eyes. She begs them not to fall; each time they do, they take more of her with them. She tries to hold on, and hold fast, but the tears fall anyway. The Light Dragon forgets why she was crying.

It is not long after this that he finds her. And it was as Naydra said; the swordsman could fly like the dragons, capturing the winds to soar through the sky. He lands softly on her back, his footsteps tickling, almost pleasant. Then he is holding onto her mane, holding very tight; is he worried he might fall? Then she can hear weeping. She hopes he is not unwell.

After some time, the swordsman speaks: “Is that really you, Zelda?”

She does not understand nor does she answer the question.

“Gods… you have the Master Sword. You’ve really had it all this time…”

Then he is moving, light feet padding about her mane. “Sorry, old girl, I’ve gotta take it from you.”

She is just thinking that she likes the gentle weight of him when a blinding pain rips through her head and down the length of her body. She lurches skyward, roaring, but the pain doesn’t stop, and it’s like something is tugging very hard on her head. It is not nice! Whatever it is should let go! It is her fur there! It keeps her warm! Let go! Let go!

The sky suddenly flashes white, and next she knows she is enveloped in clouds of shimmering gold. Calm washes through her and she relaxes, allowing herself to float. The swordsman is still there, murmuring: Hylia help me, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that’d hurt— Are you okay?

Yes, it is all going to be okay. She closes her eyes and recalls the final piece of her memories that had not yet slipped away; she has the sword, which she guarded much as she guarded her island in the sky. How this came to be, and why, is lost to her. But it is no matter. Her purpose is fulfilled. She is at peace.

After this, the swordsman visits her often. He brings her apples cooked in butter, which she eats even though she can’t really taste them, doing so because it seems to make him happy. Then he brings her flowers, threading them into her mane, which she likes for the soft pull of his fingers through her hair. Sometimes he comes to talk, telling stories of the surface, using words she doesn’t understand but enjoys for the sound of his voice. Sometimes he just comes to sit, clinging to her mane, always clinging.

Then, the last time he comes, she is sitting with him on top of the temple on the Great Sky Island, dozing. Her sisters have teased her for this. Sister beloved, what need does a dragon have for sleep? The swordsman sleeps, she has told them, and often sleeps for entire days. It seemed a pleasant activity to try, and she has found it helps her to enjoy the feeling of the sun on her back.

On this final day, she awakens to find the swordsman brushing her mane, running his hands through the strands.

“I have to go soon, Zelda,” he says. “I’ve stalled for a long time. I need to finish what you started.”

He has an apple in his hand, which she obligingly eats. “If I don’t come back, old girl, you know I love you, right? If there’s even a tiny bit of Zelda in there, I want her to know…”

Zelda. She yearns to understand this word. Is that a name? If it was, could it be hers? She does not know how to tell the swordsman this — that she can be his Zelda, if he wants. Instead she pushes her snout into his hand, nuzzling against him.

In response he wraps his arms around her, holding tight. At his back is a noble sword, in a scabbard of blue and gold. Then he lets go, runs a gentle hand across her fur one last time, and departs.

The Light Dragon Zelda returns to the sky, unmoved. He has left her before, and always returns.

Content to wait, she flies away free.

[radiance1]

A random au thought that I barely thunk up before splotching it on here.

So basically, Danny, Sam, and Trucker are doing some bullshit thing and somehow manage to create a whole ass world out of a tabletop game they were playing or something.

Basically DnD I guess.

But anyways, the three create this world so that they can play and do whatever they want. All three of them have legends about themselves from the npc's they's inhabited the world with.

Tucker is the Pharaoh of the night less desert, known as Duulaman. Freeing the citizens from the rule of the Tyrant god Abanoub and brought peace and prosperity to all across the land.

Sam is the Queen of Nature known as Terra, directly on par and sharing interests with Mother Nature. Her legend is that she freed the Forest of Vita and defeated a powerful void entity who sought to use the powers of Gaia to further its own ends for power. Joining forces with Mother Nature who almost fell to its corruption to end the void being once and for all.

Danny, known as Astraeus, unlike the other two, have two different aspects to his legend. Prince of the undead, and the constellation Star Child.

The first one as you should know, is basically Danny being the prince of ghosts, wherein in the world they made the ghosts (and extending too other undead), were disorderly and running rampant among the other races in the continuation of a war that should have longed ended. So, he rounded then all up and took control because the person who was originally supposed to be doing it was... indisposed.

(Cough, real reason is that Pariah Dark somehow got his ghostly hands on the world cords and was like "Hmmm, my son's world is awfully boring time to spice things up" and then shit happened.)

Which in turn, ended the eons long war between ghost kind and the other races.

Constellation Star Child is one he kind of got on accident, his friends made a joke about him being the spawn of death and time itself and being molded from a star. Which the npc's took seriously.

Also doesn't help that he goes out to explore the void and space around their world on numerous occasions to identify any threats that would require his attention (Which is literally just an excuse so he can go and explore space to his hearts content.). And whenever he comes back, it's like a shooting star falling down to earth.

So, after they've done all of their adventures and when it was time for them to just scrap this world and move on. They just, couldn't.

This world grew extremely on them during their time in it (Despite the unexpected inclusion of Pariah Dark), and they just didn't want to destroy it so they just, stayed.

Not like stay stay, more so they come back to it a lot more than they should. Fermenting themselves as these deities or god-like beings who protect and care for their followers or something.

They created a space for the three of them to converse, known simply as the council. A realm sitting on the plane of reality between the world and the void, basically heaven but not really heaven?

Anyways.

So, continuing on with this, the trio splits apart, a feud in reality carrying into their game world that caused Danny to just leave and explore the calmness of the cosmos so he can clear his head.

Sam went to Mother Nature to talk about it and seek aid about the recent crack in three's friendship.

Tucker just went to take care of his kingdom and confide in one of his trusted advisors, much like Sam.

This is when something unexpected happened. Danny never came back to that world, not as if he went back to his reality.

He just never came back.

Something is keeping him from going back, some powerful threat that he's keeping at bay with all of his might while out in the endless nothingness that is the void.

With the absence of his presence, a powerful void creature who managed to slip between the cracks of Danny's notice suddenly sees he's not there anymore for an extended period of time and has its sights on the core of the world, Gaia, and the two goddesses protecting it. Mother Nature and the Queen of Nature.

To distract the one known as the Pharoah, it managed to find what remained of Abanoub and gave him some of its power to combat Duulaman.

Abanoub worked behind the scenes, slowly rising back to his prime state of power and with the added power of the void entity, he managed to corrupt the roots of Duulaman's kingdom and sow discord.

Unfortunately for Abanoub, it couldn't exactly kill Duulaman, so it instead caught him by surprise and put him into eternal slumber.

The void entity who named itself Akasa, just like the previous one. Sought to use Gaia as a power source, but not just the core, but the two goddesses as well.

And with Duulaman and the Star Child of death out of the way, it was free to do so however it wished, though not to say it wasn't extremely careful when it enacted this plan.

Sam didn't know that Tucker was sent into eternal slumber, nor that Danny was never going to come back as soon as she hoped he would. So, when she went to the council and found that she was the only one there, she knew something was wrong.

Mother Nature was attacked while she was on a different plane, with such a coordinated attack on both her and Gaia by Akasa, Abanoub's army, and a recent addition, Chiwa the undead duchess' pawns. She unfortunately fell and became nothing more than power source.

Sam tried, oh she tried. But in the end, after a drawn out battle between her, Akasa, Abanoub, and Chiwa. She fell as well, with the added power Akasa gained from Gaia and Mother Nature, now with the added source of the Queen of nature. He was basically unstoppable.

That didn't mean all hope was lost, with the last bit of her power, she managed to seal all three of them to specific areas.

Abanoub, the Night less Desert. More specifically Tucker's throne.

Akasa, the realm between the world and the void. The council.

Chiwa, the blood lake of the eternal lady.

Their forces were still at large however, with the ghosts under Chiwa's command wishing to continue the war from eons ago. Abanoub's armies spreading across the world to take over their various kingdoms and be forced under his rule.

All two wished to free their master's, who in turn promised to free Akasa when they were free as well.

The rest of the races didn't take this laying down at all, immediately going to war and managing to hold their ground relatively well.

Both sides were at a standstill, with Abanoub, Chiwa and Akasa sealed they lost a signifcant portion of power.

Whereas with the Star Child gone, the Queen of Nature captured, and the Pharaoh of the Night less Desert sleeping, they couldn't push forward no matter how hard they tried.

So, what did they do?

They came together and summoned people from another world of course!

And who did they summon?

The Justice League.