#I’d be the mimic any day honestly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rotworld · 1 year ago

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3: Eye For An Eye

(previous)

the law of prismville is reciprocity.

->sexually explicit. contains gore, body horror, decapitation, size difference.

She sits on the metal guardrail with a cigarette dangling between her fingers, watching the fog dance. Her hair is auburn and halfway down her back. “Chilly out here,” she murmurs. She nudges an acorn around with the toe of her shoe. Sometimes she leans over your shoulder, watching your pencil move. You mark New Ridgeway with an X inside a circle. Don’t come back here, it means. “Man. You do this all the time, huh? Drive around out here like it’s nothing. What do you do if you get lost? Or stuck in a shift?”

You shrug. “I figure it out.”

She exhales, stretches her arms above her head. Rolls her shoulders until they pop. “Couriers are just built different, huh? Fair enough. I’m not cut out for this shit.” She purses her lips around the filter and closes her eyes. Eventually, the tremors in her hands die down and she holds one out to shake. “Meryl Underhill. Associate Professor, Department of Verisimilibiology. Mimic studies, basically.”

“The University sent you out here?” you ask.

“Cleanup assignment. We do pest control, you know. Not really anybody else qualified.”

“Pest control? With a sledgehammer?”

“I know. Should’ve brought a shotgun. We got a letter last shift from New Ridgeway about some glass mimics nesting in a sawmill, could somebody give it a look, clean ‘em out, et cetera. I think the fucking mimics wrote that letter.”

Elisile said he knew somebody in the Stillwoods. You wonder if that was true. You wonder if any of it was true. “What do you think happened back there?”

Meryl shrugs, blowing out a line of smoke. “Mass exodus. That’s the only thing that makes sense with mirror hoarding like that.”

“They up and left?” you say, incredulous. “The whole town? Why?”

“No clue. I just got into town last night and it was already empty. Must’ve happened during the shift.” She looks at your map again, sparse as it is. Henley Creek in the center; New Ridgeway, no man’s land; the little starburst of Prismville, all in a line. Highway squiggles snake out of Verlinda in five directions and go nowhere, vanishing into the vast unknown. The whole thing might be obsolete in a day or two, or a week. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” Meryl says. “What kind of apocalypse works that way. It’s gotta take years and god knows how much money to import all those mirrors, sneak ‘em past border inspection. What kinda thing goes so slow you can wait that long to run from it, but when you leave, you gotta go to a whole other fucking dimension?”

You sit in silence, watching the road for a while. The sun’s setting, somewhere beyond the fog and the clouds, a shadowy gloom settling over the Drift. A harsh wind rattles the trees. Something yips and screeches far away. Meryl shivers. “We should get moving,” you say gently.

“Yeah,” she says, clearing her throat. “Yeah, yeah. Definitely. Damn, I shoulda brought better shit to trade. Honestly I’d give my kidney for a bed right about now.”

“They barter in Prismville?” you ask.

She chuckles as she limps back to her car. “You’ll see.”

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: LUNA (MOON OF CLAIMING) BY CEMETERIES]

Night strips the roads of detail. Everything beyond the gaze of your headlights is shadow play, mere shape and silhouette. The path slithers, jagged sidewinder, down corridors of evergreen. The underbrush goes thin and patchy beyond the guardrail, tufts of hardy wildflowers swaying in your wake. You crest a hill and below, nestled in a crater-shaped valley, city lights glitter like grounded stars.

The Prismville welcome sign is suspended on a highway overpass, blocky lettering affixed to a metal scaffold. It’s not neon but it glows like it in your headlights, sanded gemstones scattering slivers of rainbow. Ahead is the busiest, most bustling city you’ve ever seen. There’s traffic—real traffic like you’ve only heard of it, bumper to bumper, crawling snail’s pace through intersections. The roads are glassy and glittering, geode avenues shimmering with bands of indigo, cyan and pale shades of rose. Highrises of gigantic quartz cut a jagged, angular skyline and the streetlights are capped with prismatic crystalline shades like painted glass.

It’s dark, you realize. Bright enough to see, but dimmer than you expect a city this size. They keep the lights low where they have them, strangled and split through thick gemstone panes. It’s a full moon tonight but the clouds seem thicker here, slow-moving. They form wispy, dangling funnels and hide the stars.

The first hotel you spot has a holographic courier sticker on the automatic doors. Meryl parks beside you, off to grab a luggage cart before you can stop her. “It’s the least I can do,” she says. You don’t have much to deliver but the crate’s unwieldy and you don’t want to risk dropping anything. The lobby is opulent, black marble veined with gold. What you mistake for potted plants by the door is carved stone, thin stalks of obsidian topped with emerald leaves and pale chalcedony blossoms. An artificial waterfall trickles softly behind the front desk. Someone, somewhere, is playing the piano.

“Thanks for the escort. And, y’know. Saving my ass,” Meryl says, the closest you’ve seen her to sheepish. “I owe you one. If I ever make it back to the University and you’re ever in the neighborhood, ask around for me.” She drags herself to the front desk as soon as one of the receptionists are free and you find a quiet place to sit, settling on a leather sofa. Shrugging off your backpack, you check your map again, widening the boundaries of Prismville. You stretch your legs and watch people come and go.

You’re far from the only late night traveler. Guests, new arrivals, and the hopelessly lost trickle in and out. Two women in cocktail dresses link arms on their way to the elevators. A man in a suit keeps checking his watch, watching the circle drive outside the front doors. A child sits unattended on the couch across from you. She might be nine or ten. Long, unruly hair hangs in her face but you feel her staring intently. Strangest of all is the table of miners still in mud-covered boots and uniforms, playing cards around a table. One of them is covered head to toe, features obscured by a hard hat and respirator mask with the long tube hooked to a canister at their hip. They hiss something that makes the others laugh uproariously.

“You’ll have to tell the front desk.”

You flinch, startled. Someone walked right up behind you, a hand resting on the couch beside your shoulder. He’s wearing gloves. The leather crinkles when he shifts slightly, noticing your discomfort.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” he says. He’s average height, tall but not too tall. His hair is neither particularly long nor short. He wears a white button up and black slacks. Unremarkable, except for the gloves. There’s some kind of glittering dust on the palms. “This is a big city. They’ve got more than one courier spot. If you tell the front desk, they’ll call the other locations, get everything organized. Very efficient.”

“Thanks,” you say.

He smiles, waves. Walks away. The man checking his watch looks up and the two of them leave together. You’ve already forgotten what he looked like.

But he was right. The front desk handles everything. A few phone calls later and grateful strangers arrive. The specimen jars go to a petite woman in a University sweatshirt. “They didn’t make any noise, did they?” she asks.

“I don’t think so,” you say. She looks relieved and hands you a hefty hardbound tome. There is no text on either cover. The edges of the pages are gilded. “Where do you want me to take this?”

“Oh! No, it’s for you,” she says kindly, shaking her head when you offer it back. She leaves before you can stop her. That’s strange, you think. Maybe it’s a local custom to pay couriers.

The letter is for an older man in a wool coat. He rips open the seal and reads it in front of you, sighing deeply. He shoves a bottle of wine at you and turns to leave without a word.

“Atticus Gosse, where do you think you’re going?”

The man freezes. The lobby is utterly still and silent. The miner in a mask stands from the table, and only now, as the dangling, teardrop diamonds of the crystal chandelier scrape their helmet, do you realize just how enormous they are. They saunter closer, their footsteps sounding like grinding stone. Their voice is a brittle rasp, wheezing and muffled through the filter of their mask. They speak slowly with small, slight hand gestures. Their gloves, like the rest of their clothes, settle strangely on their body, saggy and shapeless in places, clinging tightly to hard lumps and ridges in others.

Atticus frowns tightly. “Do I know you?” he says tersely.

“Gosse,” the miner sighs. “You’re making me look bad. What��s the law in Prismville, hm?”

“I paid them.”

“A bottle of wine, for news like that?” The miner takes another crunching step forward, beside you now. The rough material of their glove settles on your shoulder. It feels more like reassurance than a threat, but you’re still intimidated by their shadow falling over you. You have to crane your neck to peer into the darkened portholes of their mask. Something glints inside. “You got the cheap stuff, too. Not that it matters what it cost, but you wouldn’t even drink this swill yourself. That,” they point to the letter crumpling in his fist, “is near priceless to you. Isn’t it? Are you seeing the problem here? You’re a tourist but you know better, I know you do. What’s the law?”

Atticus tries to speak but all that comes out is a sharp, wispy sound; chalk squealing softly on a blackboard. He touches his throat with a shaky hand, eyes wide, disbelieving. Blood trickles from the corner of his mouth. You don’t know what’s happening but you feel like it’s your fault. “He really did pay me,” you insist. “And he didn’t have to. Nobody usually—”

The miner squeezes your shoulder, hard. A warning. “The law of Prismville is reciprocity,” they say. Atticus sinks to his knees convulsing, nails raking desperately over his own neck. He scratches and claws at himself until his fingers are wet and red, until he’s torn through his skin and sunk his fingers into the glistening meat underneath. There’s something there, protruding between muscle and tendon. Thorny starbursts. Hard mineral growths. Gemstones, you realize, veiny and bloodsoaked. He tries to pull them out but his fingers are slick and trembling. He makes a strangled sound and something rattles in his chest. The blood he vomits on the floor is gritty like sand.

“What’s that even mean to you, Gosse? You spit in the waiter’s face when they bring the check?” The miner lets you go and lumbers forward. Atticus is bleeding from the eyes and ears now, thick and sludgy like lava down a volcanic slope. He coughs up a chunk of tourmaline with grimy bits of esophagus clinging to its jagged edges. One massive gloved hand seizes his head just as he starts to droop. The miner lifts him off the ground without even a grunt of exertion and carnelians scatter from the yawning wound in his throat. Their other hand grasps his shoulder. You watch in horror as they start to pull.

Atticus comes apart like a ragdoll with its seams snipped. Skin stretches taut, splits, unravels, and finally snaps apart with another gush of slow-moving blood. It oozes onto the floor in a long, igneous clot. Small, colorful stones skitter across the marble floor. His head leaves behind a gaping, ruby neck wound studded with turquoise and zircon, harder and sharper than bone. The body slumps and the miner, soaked in quickly drying, hardening garnet blood, looks at you.

“Take what you’re owed, courier,” they say. You don’t move. You see yourself reflected in the black portholes of the mask, shrinking back. “But it’s all yours. As much as you want.” They hold out the head by the hair as though you might find it enticing. You shake your head.

“No. No thanks,” you say quickly.

“The law of Prismville is reciprocity. You did a service. Now you get paid.”

“I don’t want…that.” You’re acutely aware of the silence now that it’s crept back in the absence of someone struggling and trying to scream. “If you really want to pay me, then—if you have any eggs…”

“Eggs?” the miner repeats. You can’t tell if they’re angry or just incredulous.

“Please,” you add.

They chuckle, dropping the head atop the body. “You poor thing. Of course. Let’s get you some eggs.”

Just like that, gentle ambience washes over the lobby again. Chatter, laughter, the tinkling notes of the piano, back like they were never gone. Someone in a staff uniform begins collecting the gruesome gemstones. Someone else wheels in a cart of cleaning supplies. You flinch when the miner approaches you. They bend slightly, plucking your last delivery from the luggage cart; the crate. It should take a crowbar to pry off the lid but they snap it open with barely a flick of their fingers, peering at the contents. “Perfect, thank you. Now I owe you, too.”

“Just eggs,” you insist fearfully.

“You’ve never been here before, have you? I’m sorry, I really must’ve scared you with all this.” They nod towards the elevators. “Come upstairs. Rest a while. You don’t have anywhere to be, do you?” You stammer an excuse as they reach up, lifting off their helmet and setting it in your lap. They have no hair but strange, swirling stone in the shape of it. The straps of their mask are pulled taut over twisting rock formations, white and gold-speckled granite forming frozen waves and nautilus curls. When they unlatch the clasps and pull off their masks, your breath catches in your throat.

She’s pale like limestone but prettier, a colorful sheen across her skin like the inside of an abalone. The striated stone of her hair forms delicate, framing curls around her face. Her lashes are glossy onyx and and her eyes banded agate. Full, nacre lips curl into a smile and the sound of her facial movement is the scrape of stone. “Do I still scare you?” she asks, her voice the same breathless rasp even without the mask muffling it. You’re too stunned to answer. She chuckles and nods towards the elevator again. “Come on, courier. Let me do something for you.”

She takes up most of the elevator, ducking slightly to fit inside. You squeeze against the wall but it’s impossible not to brush against her. The texture of her body is distinct even through a bulky layer of clothing. You feel curves; dips and grooves; some sharp, prodding things. “Call me Iridesce,” she says. “Welcome to Prismville. I’m a supervisor at the chameleite mines.” She studies you, smile widening at your confused expression. “You’ve seen chameleite before. They call it other things, depending on its tinge. It’s used for construction in some places. Computer parts. Proofing mirrors. Jewelry, of course. It’s extremely malleable. I could show you how we treat it sometime, if you’d like it.”

The numbers tick higher as the elevator rises. You’re headed to the sixteenth floor, the very top. PENTHOUSE, the label reads beside the button. “What are the laws here, exactly?” you ask. “You said reciprocity. I just want to make sure I don’t, uh…”

“Earlier? Ah.” She tucks the crate one of her arms. Her other hand settles on your back, gently rubbing. Her fingers are unusually long; you can feel them through the glove. She digs them into your muscles, easing tension you didn’t realize was there. “It’s simple. Reciprocity. If you receive, then you give something back. The value must be equal. Not monetarily, of course. Sentiment. Meaning. Intention matters most.”

“I’m not sure I understand. Who decides what something is worth?”

She just smiles. The elevator stops, doors sliding open. Iridesce leads you through a winding labyrinth, black walls inset with swirling crystal panels. The penthouse is at the very end of a hallway and just as luxurious as the rest of the hotel. Iridesce sets the crate aside and sheds clothing across the floor as she walks deeper inside. A thorny patch of amethyst and rose quartz grows from one of her moonstone shoulders. Her stone skin is open in places. Honeycomb indentations litter her chest and torso, little mouths of geode full of glittering crystal, but she is smooth between her legs.

She perches on the edge of a canopied bed, parting the velvet curtain with one large, long-fingered hand. A ridge of aquamarine glitters in her wrist.

“Courier,” she says, beckoning you with one curling finger and half-lidded eyes. “Come here, precious. The road’s eaten into you. Let me soothe those aches.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, but you go to her. Her fingers aren’t as cold as you expect, the warmth faint, buried somehow. They’re perfectly smooth as they trace your jaw and lure you closer. She’s close enough to kiss and then she dances away. Your palms sink into the mattress as you crawl forward, beneath the shadow of the canopy. The bed is enormous, easily able to accommodate both of you, but she pulls you into her lap. Her thighs are thick and veined with swirls of sapphire like porcelain.

“But it’s my pleasure,” she murmurs, massaging your shoulders. “Repayment doesn’t have to be a chore. And you’re so lovely.” Her lips are softer than you expect. The kisses are chaste at first, fleeting. She eases off your jacket and slips her hands under your shirt, teasing you, flicking her thumbs over your nipples. “Do you want what I’m offering, courier?” You nod and she chuckles, cupping your chin. “Don’t be shy, my sweet. Have as much as you like.”

The next kiss is hungrier. She coaxes your mouth open and her tongue is warm and wet, licking into you. One hand stays on your chest but the other slides down, clutching your waist. You’re reminded of just how much larger she is; the spread of her palm alone wraps around your body, her spidery fingers clutching nearly halfway around you. She guides you into a languid grind. The grooves and bumps on her thigh create pleasant friction. She hisses when you move your core against them.

“Does that hurt?” you ask. She makes a pleased sound, a hum of laughter, her breath fanning across your lips.

“Mm. Just the opposite,” she says. She reaches down and lightly scratches the end of her finger against one of the rounded gems embedded in her skin. Her eyes fall shut and her hips jump beneath you. “Why don’t you keep rubbing yourself on them, hm?”

You lose your shirt next. Iridesce strokes the newly-exposed skin, sliding her hands up and down your sides. Your hands settle on her chest, cupping the heavy spill of her breasts. They’re firm, the first part of her that looks as stiff as it feels. But when you drag the pad of your thumb over the rose quartz embedded along her collarbones, she grips you tightly. You keep stroking them as she draws you in for another kiss, gaping softly into your mouth.

It stops too soon, too suddenly. Iridesce pulls away and stops you from following, pressing her finger to your lips. “Everything off, my dear,” she whispers. The concentric mineral rings in her eyes have widened like a dilated pupil. “Let’s see if I can fit inside you.”

You watch her as you strip off your pants. She knows where you look and lets her legs fall apart. There’s nothing there. Smooth stone, not even adorned with little gemstones like her hips. You wonder if she’ll use her hands—they’re smooth and long, surely satisfying, large enough that just a finger or two could fill you—but then she twists to reach into the bedside drawer. You hear the click of plastic. She drizzles cool, clear lube into one of her hands.

“Come back to me, lovely. In my lap like before, but facing away.” The textures of her body rub into your skin. It’s not unpleasant, nothing too hard or sharp unless you dip your fingers into the jagged geode openings. You settle atop one of her thigh crystals and it’s warm, startlingly so. She spreads your legs wider. One hand holds your hip and the other reaches down, feeling for your entrance. She traces her finger all around the opening, teasing. Her breath warms your ear as she eases just the tip inside. You lean your head back against her shoulder. “That’s it,” she whispers. “Relax. Oh, you’re so tight. Are the roads lonely?”

“Ahh—sometimes,” you stammer.

“You won’t be lonely tonight.” She stretches you slowly, murmuring praise against your ear. She’s up to two fingers before long, slow, deep strokes that reach just the right spot inside you to make your breath hitch. “Should we stop here?” she asks. Her tone is airy and teasing. She doesn’t mean it, but you still whine when her hand stops moving. “You’re such a small thing next to me, and you’re already squeezing so tight. It doesn’t seem like you can take much more.”

“Please.” You’re begging before you’ve really thought about it. You stroke her thigh, thumbing those raised spots that make her moan. She presses her lips to the nape of your neck and curls her fingers inside you, pressing against that same spot until you whine. You’re not happy when she withdraws her fingers but then she reaches over again, grabbing something from the drawer again.

Impossibly long and as thick as your arm, it’s the same shimmery color as her body. The head is a tapered mushroom shape and there are bulging veins carved along the shaft. The underside bulges slightly, studded with small bumps the same size as her thigh crystals. Iridesce grips it by the base, laying the entire length between your legs so you can feel its strange, pulsating heat against your skin. You give it a light, testing squeeze, cupping the throbbing bulge along the bottom, and Iridesce inhales sharply. She rocks her hips against your back.

“Here, courier. Take what you’re owed,” she murmurs. She urges your legs apart again, spreading you over her lap. The toy—if that’s what it is—slides in easily until you reach the thick flare at the base of the head. Iridesce gives you short, shallow thrusts but you can feel it’s not enough. Her movements are shaky, the hand on your hip squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. There’s a pause, a shared grunt when she pulls it out. Then she’s pushing you down on the bed and rolling you over onto your back.

You’re struck again by her size, how completely she takes up your vision looming over you. “Legs up, darling,” she says, her voice ragged. You struggle to hold them yourself so your knees go over her shoulders. The spongy tip of the dildo pushes back inside you, and then it goes deeper. The first small, bumpy ridge drags just the right away against your inner walls. You think you’re full by the second but there’s still so much more. Iridesce starts a rhythm she can’t maintain, slow, steady thrusts becoming faster and harder.

“You’re—oh, you’re perfect!” she moans. You didn’t realize how gentle she was being before, but now she’s pounding you with the full length and you can barely breathe. You’re full now, you’re sure of it. You’re stretched as far as you can go and twisting your hands in the sheets, the bed shaking and your thighs trembling over her shoulders. Beneath her, seeing her lashes flutter against her cheek and her lips part in a soft moan, hips moving, you can’t tell whether the thick cock inside you is in her hand or between her legs. “Cum for me, precious,” Iridesce whispers, thrusting harder, fucking you into the mattress. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

She kisses you, trails her lips from your cheek to your neck and sinks her teeth into your skin. The length inside you drills fast and deep and throbs, the bulge rippling, every little bump massaging your inner walls, and it’s all you can take. You cum with a cry and arch into those last frantic thrusts. Iridesce swallows your moans and buries the tip of the dildo as deep as she can. It twitches, little sharp movements like a dry orgasm, before it gradually softens inside you.

Awareness becomes foggy and distant. Your thighs ache. There’s something hissing—water running. You’re lifted, carried into another room. Hot water engulfs you and you sigh, leaning into the pleasant pressure of Iridesce’s hands on your scalp. “I should order us some room service,” she muses, kissing your shoulder. “Maybe after we luxuriate for a bit, hm?”

You nod in agreement, relaxing against her chest. She rests a hand on your thigh and you feel the striations of the stone like muscle fibers. It occurs to you suddenly that she is what the man downstairs was becoming. “Have you…?” You hesitate, unsure of what to ask or if you even should. She hums encouragingly. “Have you ever…not repaid someone the way you should’ve?”

“A long time ago,” she tells you. “A long, long time ago. Prismville was hardly a town then. I stole little things here and there, just to make him mad. Well…not just for that.”

“Who?”

Iridesce laughs and strokes your hair. She never answers you.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #normally i try to arrange things so my octobers are quiet and orderly lol but i was unlucky this year and havent had as much time as id lik #so please bear with me i will try and get to asks soonish!

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cleolinda · 11 months ago

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Weekend links, March 31, 2024

My posts

Easter is a big day in my family because I have a young nephew and my mom has always loved putting together Easter baskets. She asked him if he thought he’d been good enough for the Easter Bunny to visit him. “I don’t have to be good, Grandma!” he said patiently. “He’s not Santa.” Me, I’m hoping to get a visit from the Easter Wolf. At any rate, this week on my end was mostly Hot Lady reblogs while I was out at the garden shop (fresh pictures next week).

Reblogs of interest

All the Hot Vintage Lady Round 2 polls are up! I have gone in hard for Ava Gardner, and the people-pleaser in me hates upsetting Jean Seberg fans, but I can’t put on the jersey and then not fight when the numbers are this close.

Round 3 starts Saturday, April 6th! It won’t get any easier!!

“dual propaganda: Dolores del Río and Marlene Dietrich being pals (who are gals) masterpost”

The voters’ ages are breaking down about the way I expected.

Unrelated to the bracket:

These are the climate grannies: “They have the generational wisdom, environmental activism experience, free time — and they're not afraid of getting arrested.”

An Alabama state house seat flipping blue is a great lesson about voting in general, but AL conservatives wrought this “BUT WAIT WHAT ABOUT IVF” splinter issue themselves and I’m cackling that it’s bitten them this hard.

Meanwhile, my tiny AL liberal-arts alma mater is closing and I’m furious.

Mike Flanagan: “If Netflix had released a blu-ray set for Midnight Mass, this is the blurb I’d want on the cover”

Gothic book cover heroines (I have a whole pinboard of these around here somewhere)

I will make a cheesy glittery Neocities page the hot second I can think of something to put on it.

Put Baby In Mimic Mouth. no problems ever in mimmic mouth because good Shape and Support for baby neck weak of big baby head.

A pun so perfectly calibrated that I had to go lie down for a moment

SPOSHA (space OSHA)

Several species just vibing on branches

Please accept this bunny’s wink @ u.

Video

1) I did not realize that Bette Davis was still alive when “Bette Davis Eyes” hit it big, and that she hung the gold and platinum records on her wall! 2) I was last week years old when I realized that the line was “Her hair is Harlow gold” and not “hollow gold.”

This is a video featuring shrimp on a carousel, and you have to turn the music on

This cat has a water dance

This is what happens when a bubble freezes

The sacred texts

with faith and perseverance, one day we will sauté the horrors

Personal tag of the week

Honestly, I don’t have anything this week that isn’t vintage movie stars in some form.

#weekend links #odds and ends #linkspam

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julibellule · 7 months ago

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“Hey,” Stede whispers. “You awake?”

“Mm.”

Stede draws a long, deep breath. It’s a content and sleepy sound, and Ed mimics it.

“I meant to say earlier,” Stede says quietly, “that I hope you don’t think I’m doing all of this for any reason other than to show you how much I love you. I don’t want you to feel bought or anything.”

It’s said so casually, Ed almost doesn’t catch it. But he does. He does because it sounds strange to his ears. Like a song he’s never heard before, but knows he will be obsessed with for the rest of his life.

“I just… honestly, there’s a lot I haven’t told you about my upbringing because– well, it’s not fun to talk about. And I haven’t exactly wanted to dig it up and examine it myself. Except I’ve started going to therapy again because… Oh, Ed. It’s so difficult to explain. I just know that what we have is amazing– or at least, I feel it is– and I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to lose you. So I’m going to therapy and I’m going to give you everything. Everything you could ever want or need. Because–” Stede’s head still lays on Ed’s chest, face turned away. His voice goes quieter and he pauses with a measured breath. “-- I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to get bored of me and leave. I think I’d survive the heartbreak of it, but I don’t want to have to. Not when– this is the happiest and most me I’ve ever been.”

With that, Stede swallows, throat clicking painfully, and releases a long sigh. Ed watches him in the half-dark. Stede brings the heel of his hand to one of his eyes and sighs again.

“Hey,” Ed says.

He sits up. Stede moves to allow it, and ends up sitting among the sheets like a little boy waking up from a nightmare. His bottom lip trembles. Ed’s never seen him look anywhere near despondent, let alone upset. His heart jerks with sympathy and adoration and so many things Ed can’t put a name to. He takes Stede’s face in both his hands, cradling it, trying to imbue him with all that he has. Ed doesn’t have much, but he has everything for Stede.

“Hey,” he repeats in a whisper. “I love you too.”

Stede blinks, brow twitching into a frown as if he’s misheard. And then his face crumples. “Really?”

“Really. Since the very beginning, mate. All of this is amazing. Best day of my life and all that. But you could literally talk to me about boring lawyer shit all day and I’d love it. I’m not going anywhere.”

>>> Click here for more BlackBonnet fic recs <<<

#our flag means death #ofmd #blackbonnet #gentlebeard #stede bonnet #edward teach #blackbeard #fic rec #quote #clean slated state #Justkeeptrekkin

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16-puppies · 1 month ago

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Forgotten Memories & Therianthropy

Something I think that is fairly unique to my experience (exaggeration, obviously I can’t be the only one like this) as a therian is that discovering things about my theriotypes and my therianthropy is deeply intertwined with forgotten memories, buried feelings, and just in general uncovering bits and pieces of trauma and mulling on nostalgia. I have massive gaps in my memory, usually around the ages of 4-11 but some missing memories in my teens and before 4 years old as well, and trying to pinpoint a theriotype that I feel like has been with me for a long time is difficult because of this. I remember having a character who’s story revolved around them exploring the ruins of their life after their memory had long been erased, trying to figure out what happened and how, and I feel like that describes pretty well how therianthropy discovery feels for me.

Honestly, for the two theriotypes I am aware of, I’d say I’m incredibly lucky. The blue arctic fox just one day “came to me”. The scenthound dog was easy to pinpoint when I had my childhood dog by my side. Anything further than that, I struggle to know if these fleeting feelings are old or new, if it’s just a phase or something genuine. I don’t feel like my animalistic identity has changed significantly recently, so many of my efforts prove to be a dead end because I either don’t remember or I’ve grasped at something insignificant to who I am as a person, in an effort to explain myself.

I have made some progress recently, though. After opening up to the idea of being an aquatic animal I finally feel like I’ve found a significant part of me, even if nothing is confirmed yet. I definitely know that I have more of an emotional response to seeing porpoises than I have to any other animal I’ve questioned. Seeing pictures of them, it’s hard not to smile. Most of the trails I’ve chased don’t go farther than a vague feeling of “this might be me”, void of any feelings of joy or even sadness, and looking back a lot of them have too many similarities to my other theriotypes to be sure. The porpoise so far seems different, and my feelings towards them more closely mimics my initial feelings towards my other theriotypes at the beginning of discovery. I know that isn’t much to go off of to begin with, but I still consider this significant progress in finding those missing pieces of myself.

As a bonus, here are some of my favorite images of them that I’ve compiled so far. Hopefully I’ll be able to know for sure soon.

#marimo yips #therian #therianthropy #blue arctic fox therian #scenthound dog therian #alterhuman

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foxtea · 8 months ago

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Hey I've been following you and your work for a while, and I was wondering if you would share some of your thoughts/process/philosophy (??) about the textures you use in your art. It's something I've noticed in a lot of your pieces, the kind of grainy noise effect but also the stipling and the fabric textures etc and how you use them in your shading. And I'm just blown away honestly.

I've been looking at your tridentarii piece on and off all day like how do they put all this in one piece and make it look so cohesive. I feel like I'd just make a mess!! I'd love to hear about it, but otherwise thanks for making my dash pretty and interesting!

hi hi!

thank you soo much, i’m really flattered! I only just saw this just now so i’d be happy to answer!

I take a lot of inspiration for my art from screen printed posters or aged book covers. Any time I draw I want to try to mimic a tangible feeling so I try to overlay a lot of my textures with a soft grey color on a low opacity ( usually like 10% ) until it looks like something that can be touched.

honestly something that helps me a lot is to compare my art to any reference of an old book! ( for example; when making that ianthe and coronabeth piece i looked a lot at old advertisings for the phantom of the opera! ) then i just keep adding different textures until it looks like the piece can be ‘felt’ and then I’m satisfied bahaha.

i hoped that helped! i’m always happy to share bits and bobbles about my process and thanks again for the kind words!!

#foxtea inbox #foxtea posts #art process

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spooniechef · 2 years ago

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Gluten-Free Condensed Cream of Mushroom Soup (1 spoon)

Anyone with any kind of gluten intolerance knows how hard it is to cook even some really simple stuff without running into the Gluten Problem. Especially those nice simple-sounding recipes that call for tins of soup that invariably contain wheat flour as a thickening agent. In my case, it was wanting another batch cooking recipe in my repertoire and turning my attention to tuna casserole. I knew it contained cream of mushroom soup, and that tins of cream of mushroom soup always seem to contain wheat flour as a thickener. So I hit Google. I could not find tins of gluten-free cream of mushroom soup. However, I did find something nearly as good - a really easy recipe for home-made gluten-free condensed cream of mushroom soup. Basically this seems to be a recipe that you could thicken the soup with anything, but it gives the measurements for cornstarch and that’ll probably do for all involved. I found the recipe on the Salad in a Jar website, but I figured I’d share here, with the usual notes. The recipe used a regular food processor. I only have a handheld one, and the bit that mimics a food processor bowl is too small for what I was doing, so I’ll write down how I did it and do some notes on what they said about using a food processor after.

Here’s what you’ll need:

1 cup 2% evaporated milk (8oz)

3/4 cup fresh mushrooms, sliced

2 tablespoons cornstarch

1 tablespoon oil

1 teaspoon onion powder

1/4 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon white pepper

Pinch granulated sugar

Note that everything after the oil can probably have “or to taste” added to it. Just the recipe from the website is more a copycat from store-bought sort of thing.

Here’s what you do:

Add everything but the mushrooms to a 2 quart microwaveable bowl; with handheld food processor, blend until smooth

Add mushrooms; with handheld food processor, blend until mushrooms are chopped

Microwave on high for two minutes; whisk

Microwave for another minute; whisk again

If it’s not thick enough, microwave for another 30 seconds and whisk again; repeat as necessary

That’s pretty much it; that’s what it takes to make one tin’s worth of condensed cream of mushroom soup that a coeliac sufferer can eat. I just finished mine and I ended up with what I’d have got if I’d opened a tin of soup and emptied it into the bowl - just hot. So now, notes.

The recipe calls for an actual food processor, and it says the first stage should be “pulse until smooth”, and the second should be “pulse 2-3 times until mushrooms are chopped”. Honestly, the handheld processor was fine - I figure the extra effort in blending is cancelled out by fewer dishes to wash.

It doesn’t say how long this keeps, but it’s so quick and easy that if you need condensed cream of mushroom soup for anything, it’s easy enough to make on the day and set aside to use in whatever recipe.

If you just want cream of mushroom soup, just do what you’d do if you’d opened a tin - add water / milk / stock / whatever and simmer on low heat for a few minutes, stirring occasionally.

Now to add tuna casserole to my batch cooking repertoire

#The Spoonie Chef #recipes #gluten-free #soup

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bramblebeau · 2 years ago

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I honestly don’t have anything to ask. Just. Damn. Bea. Your art is so fucking stunning I have to stop and stare everytime it shows up in my periphery. I am seriously in awe of your work, pal.

Or wait! I do have a question: what would you consider is your like signature style of art. Like if you had an art era named after you what would you want it to be(a) lolol

Examples:

The Beanassaince

Art NouBeau

Art Beaco

BEAux Arts

Bearoque

RoBeauco

Bealism

Or if that doesn’t work for you, what’s a style/movement in aesthetic history that you’ve always wanted to play with in your art/style and haven’t had the opportunity to?

MDHWKSHDKD CON ILY 😂❤️ Bealism 😂 I do have an oc called Nu so Art NuBeau is tempting dbksbdmd

Oh boy I love SO MANY different movements and styles of art, even if they don’t appear in my own art I love and appreciate most of them. I really want to go to more galleries, even if it’s on my own. I could spend all day looking at art and architecture.

In terms of art styles I’d love to try to incorporate in my work when I have more time, I love portraiture and figure painting, and look a lot at the works of artists like Jules Joseph Lefebvre, William-Adolphe Bouguereau, Caravaggio, Leyendecker, and others. My favourite professional artist who is active now is Matt Rhodes (fucking GOALS), and then there’s a whole host of queer artists on tumblr and twitter who I adore, and of course I’m completely in love with everything about the Arcane art style.

I don’t think my art really looks like any of those artists, and my style is certainly not where I’d like it to be, but that’s absolutely fine, I’m not trying to mimic anyone or achieve my brain’s idea of perfection, just do my own thing with the time I have and see where I end up! I’ve come to realise that it’s about enjoying the craft, that’s what’s important to me ❤️

#thank you Con I appreciate the hell out of you!!!#bea replies

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shares-a-vest · 1 year ago

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i'm late to wip weekend!! 😭 IF you still want to, eddie month? 👀

Sage!!! Thanks for the ask 💖 Honestly, I'll take a wip ask any time because my writing is in shambles as I scramble to write for the final days of Spooky Season 😭

An impromptu WIP Wednesday snippet from my WIP Weekend post. For Day 27 of Eddie Month, aka, Haunted House. I'm trying to turn it into a Ghost!Eddie situation while keeping it funny:

“I don’t know!” he whines, screwing his eyes shut even more as he waves his free hand about, “Do one of your douchebag cafeteria rants? What do you call them in drama class, a monopoly?” “Not sure what I’d give a monologue about,” he chuckles, leaning over, “Hell, I think my mere presence would be enough to make whoever you’ve got downstairs crap their pants.” “Eddie…” Steve sighs, pinching his nose. “Fine, fine,” he says, chopping his hand through the air, “Not talking about that part,” he mimics zipping his mouth shut even though he continues prattling on, “What if you just run down the stairs screaming that your house is haunted?” Steve laughs, though it’s a little strained, and rolls onto his side.

Also, thanks for the tag on the other WIP thing, I'll get it when my folder isn't an endless list of abandoned stuff from earlier in Oct 😅😘

#writing wip #cranberrymoons #lily answers

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detective-wraith · 4 months ago

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“Well, honestly I’d be more confused than anything.” I responded honestly. “It would probably take until at least the third time it happened for me to actually attack the person.”

The Mimic gave me what I believed to be an incredulous look. “That says more about you than it does about us.”

I shake my head in disagreement. “You lot have probably had strangers reaching down your throat since the day you were born. It’s honestly more of a surprise that you aren’t used to it by now.”

The mimic is shaking its… head? Body? I can’t tell the difference, but it doesn’t matter right now. The mimic shook itself in disagreement, and then told me an honestly surprising fact; “it really doesn’t happen all that often. Only people who do it are rude adventurers.” It shoots me a meaningful look that I take to mean it classifies me as a rude adventurer.

“In my defense, you had every opportunity to clarify that you were not a chest before I tried opening you. If you don’t want people to think you’re a chest, don’t act like one!”

The Mimic was getting agitated. “I WAS ASLEEP YOU DIM-WIT. I NEED TO SLEEP IN ORDER TO STAY ALIVE, JUST LIKE HUMANS DO! IF YOU WANT TO TRY DOING ANYTHING ANIMATE WHILE SLEEPING, BE MY GUEST,” it shouted, sending reverberations off the walls nearby and nearly deafening me.

“Whoa there! Calm down before you try to kill me,” I said placatingly.

The mimic, on the other hand, didn’t seem to want to listen to reason. Its words were becoming harder to decipher as it spoke faster “CALM DOWN? YOU’RE THE ONE WHO STUCK THEIR UNWASHED HAND IN MY MOUTH! I SHOULD KILL YOU WHERE YOU STAND!”

I backed up warily. “Trust me, that’s a bad idea. I don’t want to have to kill you.” I stated in a calm voice, moving my hand to my sword at my waist in preparation for any sudden attacks.

This turned out to be a good move, as the mimic suddenly lunged at me. I swiftly drew my sword and chopped it in two, right where the hinges would be if it was a real chest. This unfortunately did not stop its momentum, and 2 halves of a still twitching mimic rammed into me full force, knocking me onto my back. As I struggled to get up, the rest of my party finally walked through the door.

As our healer looked at me, she failed to hold in a laugh. “You’ve been in here how many times? 200? More? And you still can’t deal with a mimic.”

The other members of my party were being far more helpful, pushing the mimic off of me. As they did, I saw they were laughing too, just much quieter than our healer. I let out a curse, then stated in a matter of fact way: “I hate all of you.”

"MIMICS CAN TALK!?" "Of course we can, you idiot, we're not mindless monsters." "Then why do you guys always attack adventurers?" "You'd attack a stranger too if they opened your mouth and stuck their hands in it unwarranted."

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diedeilv · 3 months ago

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You're okay!

It does make sense. Sometimes I'm overwhelmed, but that's only because I'm either incredibly nervous or I think it'd be negative.

Arabic poetry is definitely beautiful, I read a lot of it when I got into literature, and the words in English was always so pretty. It's a talent to have Arabic as your first language, it seems very complicated. Then to be fluent in English? You're smart. I've been writing since I was a child. I firmly believe it's the only thing I'm good at so I've always been inspired.

Uhhh, not really? It honestly depends on if I'm tired during the day or the night. It's very sporadic, I don't have a schedule.

I only play horror and puzzle games on roblox too, it's very fun. I also play TB: Mobile but that's about it. I've been meaning to get into yandere games though.

I like cats, and snakes, and birds, and anything in the ocean. And owls are pretty cute, I agree.

Personally I've only liked one of your posts. But liking all of them is reasonable. And I honestly don't remember if you've interacted with my posts are not.

I've been in quite a few fights, and I haven't lost one of them. I got the cops called on me once. Twice, actually.. I broke a guy's nose. Mmm. Yeah! And that's cute. You think I’d break so easily? I’m not one to kneel, and you’re not getting any satisfaction from seeing me down. You can try, though. It won’t go how you expect.

Mhm! Really depends on the person’s situation. what do you mean by “negative?” Like the advice they gave was negative? Or you found it negative yourself even though the person who gave it was supposed to be positive?

That’s good! I’m glad you were able to enjoy Arabic poetry. Sometimes I recommend it to people and they take it the wrong way.. really wish some people would get into it more and read it more often since it really is something so beautiful. Thank you for the compliments! They warm my heart a lot. It’s odd cause since just recently in October I was actually able to properly convey my feelings and thoughts in English, normally I struggle with it a lot since I feel like there’s not enough words for me to express how I feel, especially stronger feelings. Might be just me but English kind of lacks words for emotional communication? Or could be that I’m just not used to doing it in English.

I’ve did a few things as a child, I did art and drew, sang songs for people, tried dancing, gaming etc. Most things I left except writing and doing henna (you could include gaming but it’s not something I’m as into now? Sometimes I would quit here and there.) I still write a lot and do henna designs. Two things I pride myself knowing that I’m good at them.

Interesting! I sleep whenever my work lets me, it’s either I stay up the whole day and night working or I sleep the entire day, my weekends are normally used as a recharge for me to sleep and try to get those hours I miss during the week back.

Which games on Roblox have you played? I’ve played the entire series of the mimic and waiting for a new season. I’ve also played interliminality, and some smaller ones. Mm I could give you some recommendations for yandere games like “Crimson Gray” or “You, me and her” Both are popular and pretty surface level. Good for someone who’s just getting into it.

Ooh always wanted a cat as a pet but my parents would never let me, my cousin does have an orange cat which scratches me a lot whenever I come over, she’s still so adorable though.

Not surprised! Turns out you’re not “all bark and no bite.” Just makes me even more excited. I’ve done my best that whenever I fight someone I won’t get in legal trouble, so it’s always in a private area. Once when fighting a girl, I broke her tooth, bruised almost her whole body, entire face covered in blood. I also pulled out her hair so strong that some of it actually ripped off and you could see the literal bald spot, It was like an empty patch in her hair. God now I look back at it I feel bad for her.. but I hated her guts so much. The fight was pretty romantic though.. it’s weird but it gives me butterflies to treat someone else the same. I did recently punch and wrestle someone but it was very minimal compared to what I usually do, and they surrendered really quick. Yknow what I’ll learn from you and try to break someone’s nose the next time I fight someone. I’m not breaking easily either, I’m not letting you see me beg or on my knees till the day I die. I’m not admitting defeat at all. You’re definitely strong I’ll admit but you won’t see a day to defeat me.

#pakioki’s sweethearts #dear.citrus #dividers by dollywons

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atechnicalweb · 11 months ago

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Hornet, how do you feel working alongside Max?

I don’t like him. He’s disrespectful and he doesn’t know how to take no for an answer. Honestly I’d rather work with Mimic than Max any day.

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gwaeddblaidd · 2 years ago

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Feed the Wolf Chapter 6: Colours (Excerpt)

“Oh, I almost forgot to tell you,” he says almost excitedly, prompting me to turn back to face him. “A little birdie told me the Nightshades are meeting tonight.”

He stands from his chair and walks a few steps towards me. As he does he grows taller and just a little squarer at the shoulders, his arms and legs becoming longer and his clothes adjusting seemingly by themselves to conform to his new body type. His hair grows longer and his face becomes almost blurry, his features indistinct. He appears human, yes, but my eyes can’t seem to focus on his face. It only lasts a moment, though, before suddenly everything becomes clear once again. His face has changed. His cheekbones are a little higher, his brow more pronounced, his nose ever-so-slightly crooked and his jawline bearing the slightest hint of a stubble. I hate it when he does this.

“Want me to listen in for you?” he asks, sweeping his now longer fringe from his face and to the side. The red skin on his knuckles catches my eye, letting me know that he did indeed notice the state of my hands this past week, despite him not mentioning it.

I stare at the reflection of myself, feeling just as uncomfortable as ever seeing him in this state. Back when I first started at Nevermore, I wasn’t sure what to expect when I heard I’d be boarding with a shapeshifter, but I definitely didn’t anticipate a roommate that would learn to mimic my every feature within a day of meeting me. I try my best not to let my discomfort show. I’m not giving him that satisfaction.

“I didn’t get an invite,” I say, sounding almost offended. Of course, I haven’t been invited to any of their gatherings since halfway through second year, if I remember correctly. Still, they never officially kicked me out…

My father was a Nightshade during his time at Nevermore; there’s a picture of him and my aunt up on the wall of their library somewhere. He told me about the secret society when I was young, but I never really realised the importance of the information until he was gone. I retained certain important details – how to get into the library, the existence of a safe behind the portrait of Ignatius Itt – but things like ‘how to join’ evaded me. Still, getting in by myself and proving myself a legacy was enough to convince the Nightshades to allow me to pledge. Looking back, I can’t believe how careless I was in revealing who my father was; it’s a good thing no one there recognised him or my aunt as Hydes. It didn’t take long for me to become disappointed by the group, though. It was clear after just a few gatherings that the once prestigious society had fallen so very far, becoming little more than an elitist social club full of spoiled rich kids. I stopped attending their meetings upon that realisation.

“Do you ever?” Alex asks, bringing me back to the present. “If you did, I wouldn’t have to keep my ear to the ground about this stuff.”

“It’s not as great as it’s made out to be,” I say in return. The group may be secretive, but they honestly don’t offer all that much beyond overly-serious meetings about trivial matters and the occasional private party.

“Speak for yourself!” Alex exclaims. “I for one have greatly enjoyed the gatherings I’ve attended.”

I hesitate before speaking, my mind taking a moment to understand the implication. “Alex… Please don’t tell me you’ve been going to more of them without asking me first.”

He stiffens slightly, his eyes widening just a little as he stifles a reaction. That’s a yes, then.

“At least tell me you weren’t too… out of character.” My mind runs through so many possibilities. “I don’t need more people angry at me for reasons I don’t understand.”

“Oh no! Nothing like that!” His reassurance does little to lessen my concern. “Some of them might just think you’re… Well, let’s just say that Nightshade you is a bit less depressed, y’know?”

“Oh, well that’s fine then,” I say sarcastically. “I’m a Hyde anyway, so why not add mood swings to my repertoire?”

“Come on, it’s not that bad. You never go anyway, and you’re not exactly friends with any of them.” He crosses his arms defensively, betraying his knowing that what he did was wrong. “I needed stories, alright? How else is my blog meant to compete with Enid’s?”

It’s always about the blog… I guess that could probably be one of the reasons I stopped getting invites. I mean, me not showing up is reason enough to stop asking me to come, but it’s public knowledge that Alex and I are roommates. If someone was leaking information from Nightshade meetings, I’d obviously be the most likely suspect.

I sigh wearily. “Well, to answer your question: no, I don’t want you to listen in on the meeting.”

In the blink of an eye, his disguise fades and he becomes himself again. He doesn’t hide his disappointment. “Fine.”

“I might go myself, though. Tell me, when is the meeting?”

He looks shocked at that, his disappointment quickly giving way to something close to fear. “Nine o’clock,” he blurts out. “But if you’re really going to go, perhaps we should discuss your persona.”

“My persona?” I don’t like where this is going.

“Yeah, there’s a few things you should be aware of. Gotta keep consistent, right?”

I find myself pinching the bridge of my nose, the beginnings of a headache creeping up on me. It’s bad enough that Alex has been impersonating me without my consent, but for him to be doing so badly? I shouldn’t have to alter my behaviour to make up for his mistakes. Why do I even want to go to the meeting? Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe my newfound positive outlook has me more willing to engage with others, or maybe seeing so many others preparing for evening activities has me searching for a distraction of my own. Or, maybe the relatively impromptu nature of this meeting has me intrigued. Most Nightshade meetings follow a regular schedule – once every fortnight on the weekend – but this doesn’t fit that schedule. It’s probably nothing of note, but I’d regret missing out if I’m wrong.

I breathe out slowly and steadily, recentering myself in preparation for what I’m sure is about to be a painful briefing. I look at Alex for a moment then drop my gaze, shaking my head along with a slight chuckle. No use in being annoyed, if I have a choice in the matter. I raise my head to offer him my full attention along with a tired, conceding smile.

“Fine. What do I need to know?”

---

Title: Feed the Wolf

Fandom: Wednesday

Rating: T

Chapters: 7 of 12

Links: AO3, FF.net

Summary: As the dust settles on the Hyde incident, Nevermore is slowly but surely returning to a calmer, safer state. But for those involved, the scars may take a while longer to fully heal. Gelert Davies, a half-werewolf student, has always kept himself out of trouble as best he could, but a chance encounter will test his resolve and force him to face parts of himself long abandoned.

Tags: Enid Sinclair, Wednesday Addams, Original Character(s), Enid Sinclair/Original Male Character(s), Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Wolf Instincts, Loss of Control, Injury Recovery, Self-Hatred, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Courting Rituals, Werewolf Courting, Werewolf Culture, Eventual Romance, Family Issues, POV First Person

Thank you for reading, and have a wonderful day! :)

#wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday fandom #wednesday fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #writing excerpt #fanfic promo #this is easily my least favourite chapter #I was writing it during my exams and I think it shows #BUT there are still some things I like in here #so it can remain unchanged for the time being

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child-of-the-cataclysm · 2 years ago

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Chapter Fourteen: Children

Our rooms in the keep were small, but comfortable. After so long in the shack, however, neither of us could settle in quite as we would have liked, so Flick and I ended up spending the night bundled into the same room, curled up into one of the beds and trying our best to sleep off the anxiety of what might happen the next day.

Come the morning, we woke to beams of golden sunlight slipping through a genuine glass window on one wall. It was marvellous to see, and I confess I spent more than a minute simply watching the play of the shadows of a tree outside against our floor. It’s not as if I’d never seen such a sight - it would be present even with no glass in the window - but the glass lent a certain ethereal quality to it all, especially after the limited light of the shack. Eventually, Flick began to move to stand, and his movement stirred me into the same. Even if the guards were not coming to get us yet, we had our daily exercises to do.

These exercises came in equal parts from Flick’s combat training and what knowledge we had gained of how to practise slipping. Since slipping did seem to react to what one did within it, it was often most efficient to perform the combat training within the silver world as much as one could, slowly lengthening just how much one could do while slipped. It was always a bit awkward when one of us fell out of the silver world, since we would immediately fall behind massively, but it wasn’t so awkward as to make it any less ideal as a method for practice.

The silver world came a bit slow for me this morning - it was there, but it enveloped me sluggishly, as if upset by how long I had been in it last time. I could hardly blame it, honestly. Whatever had happened after the ‘fight’ with the dragon had been distinctly unnatural. Of course, the idea that the silver world had any perception of things was a bit strange, but after seeing a dragon explode because I touched its face, I’m not certain I was willing to disbelieve anything.

I followed Flick through the movements of a complicated kata - he wasn’t the best teacher, but he had learned the kata from Landry well enough that even just attempting to mimic him was decent enough for learning it. It wasn’t perfect, by any means, but without an instructor who could actually point out what I might be doing wrong and exactly how to correct it, it would have to do. The motions were fluid, dancelike. At each step of the kata, we were meant to pause for a moment, hold ourselves in what felt like unnatural positions meant to train our muscles to hit those positions more consistently the next time. It was exhausting.

Eventually, Flick slipped out of the silver world. I was confused for a moment, since he almost always managed to stay slipped longer than me, until I remembered the day before. Curiously, I let myself stay in the silver world, just to see if it would fall away on its own given some time, or if the seeming permanence from yesterday was now available to me at any time.

Minutes slipped by as I moved through the kata as best I could without Flick to mimic, but the silver world did not leave. Finally, through the silver filter of it all, I saw Flick complete an achingly slow turn towards me, obviously baffled by how long I had been slipped, and let myself return. He stared at me in confusion as I completed a final step of the kata and then looked to him. “How in splinters did you do that?”

I gave an awkward shrug. “It just sort of… started happening after the dragon yesterday. I didn’t think it would happen again today, honestly…”

Flick stared blankly for a moment, then started laughing manically, dropping to a seated position on the floor and letting his head drop into one of his hands as he laughed. “Of all the… I’ve been better trained than you this whole time, and all you need to totally outclass me is to be idiotically brave once?”

I grinned and sunk down to sit next to him. “Idiots have all the luck, huh?” His laughter spiralled crazier, and eventually I couldn’t help but join in.

The door swung open on us both laying out on the floor, laughing uncontrollably. Our attempts to stifle our laughter only made it worse, and the guard standing at the door looked distinctly unimpressed. “The king is calling for all those who performed with distinction in the battle yesterday. You are both requested to join a ceremony of honour in the main hall.”

Eventually, I managed to rein myself in, bringing my laughter down to nothing and rolling backwards onto my feet. Unfortunately, I couldn’t resist popping up like a circus performer, with both hands in the air, and Flick broke down laughing even harder. The grin which split open my face hurt my cheeks, but I managed to keep myself from laughing with him again - if only just barely. Once Flick managed to calm himself down, I helped him to his feet, and the guard, her face carefully masking what was almost certainly extreme annoyance gestured for us to follow her.

The hall was almost completely transformed from the day before. While the bones were still the same, the tables had been set with massive rows of silverware - and not the wooden stuff we called silverware out of some long-gone tradition, but genuine silverware, by the looks of it - with servants milling about with trays of food whose scent filled even this massive room. Only a few dozen people were in the hall so far besides those servants, but it still felt warm and full in a way that it hadn’t the day before, as if the hall itself were as alive as the people inside it.

The king stood next to the throne, chatting animatedly with a small group of people. One of those he was talking with was dressed like a servant, and was shifting awkwardly at being included, but the king kept drawing him in to the conversation, apparently not seeing the awkwardness. The others looked to be soldiers, for the most part, by how they held themselves, although one was very clearly a noble from the shimmering cut of his clothes. It was fascinating to see how easily the king folded them all into his wake. He really did remind me of Nileas, albeit with less of the ethereal beauty and more of a simple, direct charisma that made everyone around him like and trust him almost immediately. Even the servant began to visibly relax and begin to laugh and talk with similar animation after a few moments.

Our escort nodded to us. “The ceremony will be starting in an hour. Guests of honour are being brought in periodically before start, other guests may arrive a bit early as well. Check in with his majesty, then find a seat.” Carefully, I arranged myself into a tiny bow and thanked her. She smiled a little and gave a little bow in return.

With more than a little awkwardness, Flick and I moved around the edge of the table on our side of the hall, towards the throne and the king’s circle. Before we got too close, the king glanced past the shoulder of one of the ones he was talking to and locked eyes with me. As I opened my mouth to speak, he shook his head. It wasn’t much, small enough that those who were in the conversation likely had other things to fix on, but it was enough for me to close my mouth and look on with confusion.

As we stood there, unsure of what to do, a servant came up, a platter with small spheres of bread stuffed with meat extended. When he saw our silver eyes, he shuddered and turned, as if he was never coming to us in the first place. My lips knit together into a thin line, and I took a seat at the table, with Flick sitting just beside me. “Do you think they’ll keep doing that after the ceremony?” he asked, sounding more tired than anything.

I shook my head. “If the king grants us our freedom and the honour of our names, it would be disrespectful enough that by Crown law servants would be compelled to-” I cut myself off, seeing Flick staring at me. “Uh. No, I don’t think they will.”

“Weren’t you a bandit or something before this? Where did that come from?” He asked, sounding almost offended at the idea of my education somehow surpassing his own.

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I shrugged. “I wasn’t lying. I’m a Sentrica. Even in exile, my mother made sure I got an education.”

Flick leaned back, putting his elbows onto the table behind us and letting out a breath through pursed lips. “Figures. Seems like everything I had over you is slipping away.” He was joking, to some extent, but his tone was still genuinely pained.

Leaning over, I nudged him in the side with my elbow. “You’ve still got your combat skill over me. Without the silver wor - slipping. Without slipping, you’d beat me any day.”

He grinned. “Yeah. Without slipping.” Flick let loose a sigh, then shook his hands out. “Oh well. Only got myself to blame, I guess. I could have been the one to go slap about that dragon too, I bet.”

Just as I was about to respond, I heard an all-too familiar voice from the direction of the king’s group. A voice I had heard dozens of times on the way to the capital. A voice ingrained into my head by its owner’s actions. A voice I had hoped never to hear again.

(~)

Dark eyes peered out from underneath bright hair. It had grown longer since last I saw him, and was worn loose around the head of my enemy, bound around the forehead by a thin metal band. His voice lacked much of the irritating calmness it had held at one point, instead carrying the rage of unchecked rapids as he pointed at me, demanding to know why there were monsters among us.

The king looked past Rahkor to me and gave me an apologetic look, then circled around between us. “Stand down, Leamin. These children are not monsters today, or ever again. Today they are the saviours of our city, and very likely the only reason many more of us are not dead and buried.”

I noted that the king’s use of ‘children’ did not bear the intonation people tend to give it when talking about the Children of the Cataclysm. He referred not to our origins, but our age. It was a rare thing. I pushed myself to my feet, adopting a laconic tone. “I can defend myself, milord. If this soldier-” I snarled the word, making it as close to an insult as I could without saying what I really meant “takes issue with our presence, perhaps he would like to challenge it more officially.”

Lazily, I drew a semi-circle with my right foot on the floor between us. The hall was far too well-maintained for there to be dust to mark the line, but by the way Rahkor’s eyes stuck to the path, I know he saw it just as well as I did. “By the laws of the Crown, if Leamin challenges my right to be present at a ceremony initiated by the king’s command, a challenge may be made before the king, for the right of both the challenged and the challenger to participate in said ceremony.”

Staring at Rahkor with as much venom as I could possibly muster in my eyes and voice alike, I let the dragonskin begin to cover my hands, purple fire beginning to dance around my fingertips. “Of course, if Leamin only wishes to insult, rather than challenge, I rather think it might be him who does not deserve his place in this ceremony.”

The king stepped back a bit, leaving an open line between Rahkor and I and falling into his official voice. “If a challenge is to take place, I will witness it. Otherwise, Leamin, you are directed to control yourself in the presence of your equals.”

A ferocious grin ripped its way onto my face, and I stared at Rahkor, watching his eyes dart nervously between the king, my hands, and my eyes. After a moment or two, he awkwardly stepped back, making apologetic gestures with his hands. “It is. My mistake. My mistake, young lady. I… Retract my statement.”

I stepped forward after him, watching him flinch backwards. Behind me, Flick restrained a chuckle, and my grin grew wider. The fire still dancing around my fingertips, I reached my hand out towards Rahkor as if to shake hands. He stared down at my hand, eyes simultaneously angry and terrified, flicking over to the king and back as if begging for the king to step in and save him.

With an exaggerated sigh, I let the flames and dragonskin fall away, rolling my eyes and adopting a posture of overdramatic accommodation, as if irritated that I had to stoop so low for Rahkor. I heard a few nervous twitters of laughter from around the hall, and had to restrain myself from letting my grin become positively predatory. “Come on, Leamin. Shake and make peace. We are equals, after all.”

Rahkor’s lips pressed together into a thin, white line, obviously restraining some hateful comment. Reluctantly, he took my hand and shook it - a single shake, firm and strong, but clearly not meaningfully conciliatory to anyone who knew of courtly manners. As he attempted to pull away, I held tighter to his hand and pulled him down to my level, so his ear was right next to my mouth. “The next time you call me a monster, I’ll let you see just what a monster does to a little pissant like you.”

Releasing him, I pulled back, spinning gracefully into an overdramatic bow before turning away. “My king!” I said, dramatically lowering myself into a kneeling position, my back pointedly towards Rahkor. “My comrade and I have come to check in with you, as we were told to by our escort.” Flick stood and scrambled to join me, and the king stared down at both of us with amusement dancing on his lips.

“Stand, young lady. Young lord. On this day, you need bow to no-one.” Raising his voice, he made sure it would be heard by everyone in the hall, echoing off the walls and causing the flames of the lanterns to flicker slightly at its magnitude. “Monsters do not save a city from a dragon. Demons do not keep hundreds of soldiers from death. Omens of some apocalypse we do not understand do not kneel before the man who built the kingdom that oppresses them and speak of the laws of that kingdom. These are no monsters, no demons, no omens. These are our children.”

Softly, his eyes shining with barely restrained tears, he continued, whispering so quietly that I almost could not hear it, even so close to him.

“My children.”

#CotC

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