#Shapeshifter!Deceit

[thegreatcrowdragon]

You’ve heard of Shadow Milk possessing Pure Vanilla now get ready for Shadow Milk pretending to be White Lily just so he can have Pure Vanilla all to himself

[cuppajj]

"Shadow Milk being a shapeshifter makes sense because shapeshifting is the greatest form of acting and deceit" -big brained people in my tags

[moonselune]

Idea! Romanced Companions reacting to a shapeshifter attempting to seduce tav. Only when they transform to what tav is most attracted to, It's literally just an exact copy of whoever tav romanced

Something possessive jumped out of me when I was writing this so might be slightly different to what was expected hehe

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach:

Karlach was engrossed in a lively conversation with Wyll, her laughter ringing through the campfire-lit clearing. Their discussion about battle tactics and recent victories was abruptly interrupted when Karlach noticed a stranger approaching you. Instinctively, her hand moved to the hilt of her axe, her keen eyes narrowing with suspicion as the figure drew closer.

To her astonishment, the stranger transformed right before her eyes, taking on Karlach's own form. Anger flared within her as she watched the audacious shapeshifter assume her likeness in an attempt to seduce you. With a growl of displeasure, Karlach stepped between you and the imposter, towering over them with her imposing presence.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" she barked, her voice cutting through the air like a whip. She pointed a finger at the shapeshifter, her stance unyielding.

The shapeshifter stammered, clearly caught off guard by Karlach's fierce reaction. "I-I was just…"

"You were just making a big mistake," Karlach interjected, her tone low and dangerous. "There's only one Karlach, and you're looking at her, in all her glory. Get lost before I make you regret it."

With that, the shapeshifter wisely chose to retreat, disappearing into the shadows of the camp. Karlach turned to you, her expression softening as she approached, her arm wrapping protectively around your shoulders.

"You alright, babe?" she asked, concern evident in her voice. "Don't let these idiot cultists get to you."

You nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude for Karlach's fierce loyalty. "I'm fine," you assured her, leaning into her comforting embrace.

She brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, her touch gentle yet reassuring. "Good," she murmured, her fiery eyes meeting yours. "You're mine, and no one's going to mess with that."

Despite the intensity of the moment, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Let's get back to Wyll," she suggested, her voice returning to its usual strength. "He's probably lost without my expert advice."

As you walked back together, her arm still securely around you, you couldn't help but marvel at Karlach's protective nature and the depth of her affection. It was moments like these that reminded you just how fortunate you were to have her by your side, fiercely guarding your heart against any who dared to challenge her claim.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Shadowheart:

Shadowheart knelt by the campfire, her brow furrowed in concentration as she tended to her wounds from the day's battle. The air around her was tense with the aftermath of combat, yet she remained focused on her task. Her keen senses alerted her to movement, and she looked up sharply to see a figure approaching – a figure that soon transformed into an exact replica of herself.

Her eyes widened momentarily in surprise, then narrowed with suspicion and barely restrained fury. Shadowheart stood up swiftly, her hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of her dagger, her grip tightening with resolve.

The shapeshifter, now wearing Shadowheart's form, approached you with a disarming smile. "I know what you truly desire," they whispered, their voice honeyed with deceit as they closed the distance between you.

Shadowheart's voice cut through the air like a blade of ice. "You think you can deceive me?" Her tone brooked no argument as she stepped decisively between you and the impostor, her posture defensive and protective.

The shapeshifter faltered, caught off guard by Shadowheart's unwavering composure. "I-I can be what they want," they stammered, attempting to maintain their facade.

"You are nothing but a cheap imitation," Shadowheart hissed, her dagger gleaming in the firelight as she held it steady, a silent threat. "Begone, before I decide to end you."

Realizing the danger, the shapeshifter hastily retreated, their illusion shattered by Shadowheart's unwavering determination. Once the threat had dissipated into the darkness of the camp, Shadowheart turned to you, her stance relaxing slightly though her guard remained.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice softer now, filled with genuine concern. She reached out tentatively, as if uncertain of your reaction, yet her touch conveyed reassurance. "I won't let anyone come between us."

You nodded, grateful for Shadowheart's swift protection and unwavering loyalty. "I'm fine," you replied, feeling a rush of relief at her comforting presence.

She nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Good," she murmured, her gaze meeting yours with a depth of emotion that spoke volumes. "You're safe now."

As you stood together in the quiet of the camp, the warmth of the fire casting flickering shadows around you, you couldn't help but admire Shadowheart's strength and resolve. Her fierce protectiveness, combined with her vulnerability in moments like these, made you realize just how deeply she cared. In her own quiet way, she had shown you once again that you were not alone in this journey – that she would always stand by your side, ready to defend you against any threat, real or illusionary.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

Astarion reclined near the crackling campfire, idly sharpening a dagger with precise strokes when his keen senses alerted him to an approaching figure. His sharp eyes narrowed with suspicion as he watched the stranger draw nearer, then gasped in disbelief as the figure transformed seamlessly into an exact replica of himself, down to the smug curve of his smirk.

The shapeshifter approached you with a confident stride, mirroring Astarion's sultry charm with unsettling accuracy. "Isn’t this what you desire?" they purred, their voice a distorted echo of Astarion's own, as they trailed a finger provocatively down your arm.

Astarion's amusement quickly turned to indignation. He sprang to his feet, dagger flashing in his hand as he closed the distance in an instant. "Flattery will get you nowhere, darling," he drawled, his tone laced with a dangerous sweetness that belied his lethal intent.

The shapeshifter blinked, clearly caught off guard by Astarion's swift reaction. "But I thought—"

"You thought wrong," Astarion interjected smoothly, pressing the dagger's tip against the shapeshifter's throat with a precise and threatening grace. "Leave now, before I make you regret ever coming here."

Realizing the gravity of the situation, the shapeshifter hastily retreated, their illusion shattered by Astarion's unwavering determination. Once the threat had evaporated into the shadows of the camp, Astarion turned to you, his expression softening as he approached with a hint of concern in his eyes.

"Are you alright, my dear?" he asked softly, his usual teasing edge softened by genuine worry. "I can't have anyone thinking they can replace me."

You chuckled softly, reassured by his protective instincts and touched by his genuine concern. "I'm fine," you assured him, reaching out to squeeze his hand in gratitude for his swift defense.

Astarion smirked, the tension easing from his shoulders as he returned the squeeze. "Good," he murmured, a playful glint in his eyes returning. "After all, no one can match up to the original, can they?"

He leaned in closer, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "Though I must admit, seeing someone try to mimic my irresistible charm is quite flattering."

You rolled your eyes fondly, unable to resist teasing him back. "Oh please, you love it when someone tries to be as devilishly handsome as you."

Astarion chuckled, the tension of the moment dissipating into playful banter between the two of you. With his arm now draped casually around your shoulders, you felt a rush of warmth and reassurance. Despite the danger that had briefly intruded upon your camp, you knew you were safe in Astarion's capable – and occasionally teasing – hands.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

Gale sat cross-legged on a weathered log, deep in thought as he pored over the ancient tome spread out before him. The soft glow of arcane symbols illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced across the campsite. His scholarly reverie was abruptly shattered by the approach of an unfamiliar figure. His sharp intellect registered the anomaly before his eyes widened in disbelief as the figure transformed into an exact replica of himself, down to the intricate patterns of magical tattoos that adorned his skin.

The shapeshifter, now wearing Gale's form, exuded confidence as they strode towards you with a disarming smile. "I can be everything you need," they declared, their voice carrying the cadence of Gale's own scholarly certainty, reaching out as if to draw you closer.

Gale rose to his feet in one fluid motion, arcane energy crackling around his fingertips. His expression hardened with resolve as he stepped decisively between you and the impostor, his stance authoritative and protective. "This ends now," he stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of command.

The shapeshifter blinked, momentarily taken aback by Gale's sudden assertiveness. "But I thought—"

"You thought wrong," Gale interrupted, his tone unwavering. "There is only one Gale, and you are not him."

With a flick of his wrist, Gale conjured a swirling vortex of arcane power that surged towards the shapeshifter, compelling them to retreat hastily, their illusion shattered. Once the threat had dissipated into the night, Gale turned to you, his features softening with genuine concern.

"Are you alright, my love?" he asked tenderly, his scholarly demeanor momentarily replaced by a gentler expression. "I can't have anyone thinking they can replace me."

You nodded, touched by Gale's protective instincts and grateful for his swift defense. "I'm fine," you assured him, stepping closer and reaching out to place a reassuring hand on his arm.

Gale's gaze softened further, his lips curling into a small, relieved smile as he covered your hand with his own. "Good," he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance. "After all, there's no duplicating true scholarly prowess."

He chuckled softly, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as he glanced back towards where the shapeshifter had fled. "Though I must admit, seeing someone attempt to replicate my intricate tattoos is rather amusing."

You couldn't help but smile back, grateful for Gale's steadfast presence and the depth of his affection. As you stood together amidst the lingering traces of magical energy, you knew that no matter the challenges that lay ahead, Gale would always be there – both scholar and protector, steadfast in his love for you.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

Wyll sat cross-legged near the edge of the camp, his skilled hands methodically polishing the blade of his rapier. The glint of the campfire danced off the silvered steel, casting a flickering light over his focused expression. His senses on high alert, he noticed a figure approaching—a stranger whose form shifted before his eyes into an exact replica of himself, scar over the eye and all.

His grip tightened instinctively on the hilt of his rapier as he stood up, muscles tensing beneath his leather armor. His brows furrowed with suspicion as he took in the audacity of the shapeshifter's deception. "What kind of trickery is this?" Wyll demanded, his voice cutting through the quiet of the night like a blade of ice.

The shapeshifter, now wearing Wyll's form, smiled with an unsettling familiarity, attempting to mimic Wyll's charismatic charm. "I thought you might appreciate a familiar face," they said smoothly, extending a hand towards you in a gesture of false intimacy.

Wyll stepped forward, his posture protective and resolute as he positioned himself firmly between you and the doppelganger. "There is only one Blade of Frontiers," he declared sternly, his gaze unwavering. "And it’s certainly not you."

With a swift, practiced motion, Wyll unsheathed his rapier, the blade catching the firelight as he leveled it at the impostor with unwavering precision. "Leave now," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument, "or face the consequences."

Realizing their ruse was exposed, the shapeshifter hastily retreated into the darkness, their illusion shattered by Wyll's steadfast resolve. Once the threat had dissipated, Wyll turned to you, his demeanor softening as he sheathed his rapier and approached with gentle concern.

"Are you alright, love?" he asked tenderly, his usual confidence softened by genuine worry. He reached out to gently brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch warm and reassuring.

You nodded gratefully, comforted by Wyll's protective presence and touched by his unwavering loyalty. "I'm fine," you reassured him, offering a small smile to ease his concern.

Wyll returned the smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a mixture of relief and affection. "Good," he murmured softly, his hand lingering on yours as he squeezed it gently. "You know I'll always have your back."

As you stood together in the quiet of the camp, the crackling of the fire providing a backdrop to your shared moment, you couldn't help but feel a surge of admiration for Wyll's courage and dedication. His swift defense against the shapeshifter had not only protected you physically but reaffirmed the depth of his love and commitment. In his arms, you knew you were safe and cherished—a feeling that strengthened the bond between you, forged amidst the trials of your journey together.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Lae'zel:

Lae'zel's keen eyes scanned the perimeter of the camp with hawk-like intensity, her warrior's instincts finely attuned to any potential threat. When she spotted the approaching figure, her gaze narrowed with suspicion, and her grip tightened instinctively on the hilt of her sword. Her initial curiosity turned swiftly to ire as the figure transformed before her eyes into an exact replica of herself, mirroring her fierce demeanor and steely resolve.

The shapeshifter, now wearing Lae'zel's form, approached you with bold confidence, their voice echoing Lae'zel's commanding tone. "You know you can't resist me," they purred, their eyes fixed on you with unsettling intensity.

Lae'zel surged forward in an instant, her blade drawn and poised for battle. "You dare to mock me with this charade?" she spat, her voice laced with barely contained fury.

The impostor recoiled, caught off guard by Lae'zel's swift and ferocious response. They attempted to retreat, but Lae'zel pursued relentlessly, slashing at them with calculated precision. "There is only one Lae'zel," she declared fiercely, her strikes relentless and unforgiving. "And you are not worthy to even speak my name."

With a final swipe, the shapeshifter narrowly escaped, fleeing into the darkness with their illusion shattered by Lae'zel's unyielding determination. Once the threat had dissipated, Lae'zel turned to you, her expression softening marginally as she sheathed her sword and approached with a rare display of vulnerability.

"You are mine," she stated firmly, her voice holding a mixture of possessiveness and protectiveness. "Do not forget that."

You nodded, touched by the depth of Lae'zel's loyalty and the fierceness of her defense. Her unwavering commitment to your safety and her intense dedication resonated deeply, forging a bond between you that transcended words. As you stood together amidst the quiet of the camp, the tension of the encounter giving way to a sense of solidarity, you knew that with Lae'zel by your side, no challenge could threaten your connection or your shared journey ahead.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Minthara:

Minthara's keen eyes swept the campsite with a vigilance honed by years of command, her gaze piercing through the shadows to spot the approaching figure long before they neared you. As the shapeshifter transformed into an exact replica of Minthara herself, duplicating her sharp features and the cold disdain in her eyes, Minthara's lip curled in unmistakable contempt.

The shapeshifter, now wearing Minthara's form, approached you with a calculated mimicry of her icy charm. "You know you desire me," they whispered seductively, their voice carrying the chilling allure that Minthara wielded like a weapon.

Minthara stepped forward with swift, purposeful strides, her presence imposing and her expression stone-cold. "You are a poor imitation," she hissed, her hand drifting to the hilt of her weapon. "And I do not tolerate pretenders."

The shapeshifter's facade wavered under the intensity of Minthara's glare, their confidence giving way to uncertainty. "I-I can be whatever they want," they stammered, attempting to salvage the illusion.

"You will never be me," Minthara snarled, her blade drawn now and pressed against the shapeshifter's throat with lethal intent. "Leave," she commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, "and pray I do not hunt you down."

With a final, chilling warning, the shapeshifter fled, their deception exposed and their retreat hastened by the threat of Minthara's wrath. As the tension of the encounter ebbed away, Minthara turned to you, her demeanor softening imperceptibly but significantly.

"You belong to me," she stated quietly, her voice a rare blend of possessiveness and vulnerability. "And no one else."

You nodded, feeling the weight of Minthara's protectiveness and the depth of her commitment. Her fierce defense of your bond left an indelible mark, solidifying the strength of your connection amidst the trials of your journey together. As you stood together in the aftermath, the firelight casting flickering shadows over the camp, you knew that Minthara's unwavering devotion would always be your steadfast anchor in the tumult of your shared adventures.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

Halsin knelt by a wounded animal, his hands tender and skilled as he tended to its injuries with the gentle touch of one intimately familiar with the ways of nature. His brow furrowed slightly as he sensed a disturbance, his keen senses detecting the subtle shift in the camp's atmosphere. Rising slowly, his movements deliberate yet fluid, he observed with a mixture of concern and determination as the figure in the distance transformed seamlessly into a perfect replica of himself.

The shapeshifter, now wearing Halsin's form, approached you with a disarming smile that attempted to mimic Halsin's warmth and wisdom. "I know what you like," they murmured softly, stepping closer with unsettling familiarity.

Halsin's voice resonated with quiet authority, his tone carrying the weight of years spent attuned to the natural rhythms of the world. "This deception will not stand," he declared firmly, his eyes unwavering as he moved closer to intercept the impostor.

Caught off guard by the real Halsin's presence, the shapeshifter faltered, their illusion cracking under the intensity of Halsin's gaze. As the druid's form shifted seamlessly into that of a bear, a low, menacing growl rumbled through the clearing, sending the impostor recoiling in fear.

The shapeshifter abandoned their facade in a panicked retreat, fleeing from the camp with the echo of Halsin's protective wrath still ringing in their ears. Returning to his elf form, Halsin approached you with a calm reassurance, his hand coming to rest gently on your shoulder.

"You are safe with me," he murmured softly, his voice a soothing balm against the lingering unease of the encounter. "Do not let such trickery disturb you."

You nodded, grateful for Halsin's stalwart presence and the steadfast comfort he offered in the face of uncertainty. His unwavering commitment to your well-being and his innate understanding of the natural world were pillars of strength that grounded you amidst the shifting tides of adventure and intrigue that defined your journey together. As you stood together in the tranquil aftermath, the bond between you strengthened by each shared trial, you knew that with Halsin at your side, there was nothing you could not face with courage and resilience.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope y'all like it - Seluney xx

[the-moon-files]

I’m not sure if I’ve said this one already or not, but I wanted to tell you anyways! It’s about the humans-are-not-hylians AU!

You know the uncanny valley evolution? That thing where when you look at something that resembles a living being too closely and some part of your mind is screaming that it’s not whatever it looks like and to get away from it? Imagine that with the reader! They can spot shapeshifters easily because of this, but it instills the same extreme primal fear we’d experience, so it might be hard for the reader to confront them at first and they’ll instead just tell the Chain for a while.

This might be a double edged sword, though, because when Twilight is in his wolf form, the reader still gets that same feeling when “Wolfie” is looking at them, whether or not they know it’s Twilight. In this case, the first time the reader spots Wolfie approaching the camp, they probably freak out and try to avoid him, even if the Links are okay with him or if he seems familiar to them.

The bottom line is that wolf isn’t a wolf, so what is he?

“It’s okay, he’s a really friendly wolf!”

“...That’s not a wolf...”

Sorry i took forever to respond!! im slow as always, life is too busy for even my hobbies lately sobs 😭

bro this is especially true bc someone looked back at TP games and how he looks in his “wolf” form, and apparently he is actually a dog lol - like at most a wolf-hybrid, i added this in to support this Hyrule-is-hella-Uncanny AU lol

Moon: Guide! - Gender Neutral/Masc!Reader (”you”/he/him)

Orbit: Short headcanons

Stars: mentions of most of our Links <3

Comets & Meteors: CWs: typical LU/Loz violence, mild swearing, etc & TWs: mild possible derealization trigger, talk of Link’s Awakening and Koholint.

Please comment if I missed any. /gen

The Yiga clan members have never fooled you, not Once in person, unlike back when hyrule was still a video game

it was the constant smell of bananas, the way their eyes were always a little unfocused or they moved their head to move around their eyes, rather than their actual pupils moving, the facial muscles all stiff, usually stuck in an uncomfortable smile-

it makes more sense once u realize that they technically have a mask under that glamour hylian face, but its never not hilarious to see Wild look over his shoulder at you before approaching a lone traveler on the roads and watch him get increasingly frantic to get ur attention to see if theyre yiga lmao

u bet ur ass every link was relying on you on their adventures to know shapeshifters/illusions/glamours/etc. on sight and tell them to better prep them/warn them

tbh they all got at least a little better at being able to tell the difference the longer they heard you point out stuff/talk abt exactly why it was off-putting

(that said some of ur heroes are better at it than others, both in general, and certain aspects of it: like Twilight isn’t able to pick up illusions/glamours for the life of him, literally, sometimes, but he is more likely to figure out shapeshifters by scent after you Guided him)

(no, your heart didnt crack a little after learning that the boys had a harder time with deceit after you stopped playing the game = “were forced to leave after their adventure” bc while they were better at detecting it, they werent on ur human level yet..)

(…the only deception you ever really fell for was Koholint. It was so painful too, because Legend quietly disclosed to you one late night that you would constantly get strange feelings/uncanny disturbances, but were never able to put a name to it for him, which both made you jumpy/paranoid on the island, but made him regret ever letting his guard down all the more or feel guilty for what felt like dismissing ur instincts the more he relaxed… Legend never doubted your sense for the uncanny ever again. He takes it seriously every time now.

When you feel as if you should apologize, he tells u not to, that these days he takes comfort in it actually, it makes him feel safer. Legend looks to your face for confirmation that something isn’t a dream, and if you look at ease, so is he.)

its the way you casually laugh at Twi being called “Wolfie” when he’s obviously a wolf-dog hybrid or just a big dog

and when everyones confused u just explain smth smth, wolf heads are larger in comparison to their body, their legs are narrow, their paws are big, dogs are like the oppposite, or way more proportional like “Wolfie” is, dogs bob around when they run like “wolfie”, and have shorter legs,

smth smth wolves cant have eye colors like blue, only dogs/wolf-dog hybrids can silly-

and Wolfie is just like, 😐 😑 😐

turning around and walking away, bc hylias knotted fucking braid- he really cant escape the dog accusations now, you literally used ur freaky truth-seeing instinct and read his shapeshifter ass from head to literal toe/paw-

Wild/Hyrule look fascinated, Wind and Legend cant breath theyre laughing so hard, Time is coughing suspiciously into his fist and pops back up smirking, Four is laughing but also encouraging you to keep going, Sky is desperately trying to keep it together while also trying to get Twi to come back lmao, Wars is literally pointing and laughing ashkljdl-

ok but Twi gets his revenge later by tricking you into yapping abt how Hyrule/Four/Time all kind of look “off” sometimes too

like how u swear Rulie is glowing subtly when the moon is full, or how the world distorts behind his back sometimes,

or how Four’s eyes change colors all the time, his fighting style looks like its rotating between 4 diff ppl’s techniques,

or how Time’s face wrinkles like smile lines/crows feet at the corner of his eyes will randomly appear and disappear, how he’ll have some stubble one day then 3 days later despite having not shaven (u literally saw him wake up and do his morning routine) it’ll disappear like it was never there in the first place-

and when Twi has stopped asking you abt the others as they all reel over the knowledge of what all u can tell abt them,

(ur quietly relieved no one asked abt Wild.

You resolve urself to just lie if anyone asks, even to Wild himself.)

☆

hey im alive!! im slow yknow how it is,

ive been doing too much, and i cant wait to be done with this class so i can have free time guilt free again 🥲

god thats one good thing abt getting out of academia i dont miss and would only wish on my worst enemy,

the anxiety of doing smth, even necessary stuff like eating/sleeping/showering, and feeling liek you should be doing homework instead, god its so awful

cant wait to feel like an adult with my own life again lmao

that certification better work and get me a white collar job goddamit 🤞

anyway, hope ur all having a good weekend,

and just to let u know, im so happy acc that im alive to see the first zelda game that actually follows what i originally thought the plot of zelda games was when i was a kid lmao

(zelda as the protag, saving link!!)

Peace out,

🌙

[reality-detective]

Masters of Deceit: Abduction by Grays and Mantids Through the Eyes of a Witness 1/9 🧵

Drew, a teacher from rural Montana, experienced a series of regular alien abductions over several years. Her case, documented by Ardy Clarke in the book "More Encounters with Star People: Urban Indian Americans Tell their Stories" is quite unique. Unlike most abductees, Drew was able to resist memory manipulation and mind control, allowing her to consciously remember her experiences.

Her account closely aligns with a typical abduction scenario described by David Jacobs and other researchers who used regressive hypnosis. This immunity from mind control enabled her to act as a dispassionate observer, almost like a "spy," and here is what she discovered: 👇

Masters of Deceit: Relying on Secrecy 2/9 🧵

Aliens who perform abductions don’t want publicity and witnesses, so they often choose lonely targets in rural areas. 👇

Masters of Deceit: Shapeshifting 3/9 🧵

Aliens can take any visual appearance, including a human form, to fool abductees. 👇

Masters of Deceit: Pretending to be Benevolent 4/9 🧵

Aliens often manipulate abductees through strong emotions and feelings of being special or “chosen” 👇

Masters of Deceit: True Form 5/9 🧵

Two groups are usually involved in abductions - the Greys and Tall Insectoids visually similar to a large Praying Mantis. Drew mentioned the frightening appearance of Mantids, a pungent odor coming from them and claw like hands with three digits. 👇

Masters of Deceit: Experiments and Hybrids 6/9 🧵

Drew’s experience confirms what other researchers have discovered as well - these alien groups are involved in a hybridization program: 👇

Masters of Deceit: Why don’t they Disclose Themselves? 7/9 🧵

Drew believes that these aliens will not disclose themselves because it is in their interest to maintain secrecy. They treat us as their property. 🤔

Masters of Deceit: Punishing Resistors 8/9🧵

Abductors demand compliance and punish anyone who dares to resist. 👇

Masters of Deceit 9/9 🧵

Alien abilities of deception and manipulation of the human mind should be always taken into account by researchers into abduction phenomena. They are masters of deceit. 🤔

[miguel-manbemel]

There's one thought that came to me today about Sanders Sides, and specifically the nature of the Sides. So many people have missed one important, crucial point about the Sides. They're not human, and I don't mean that they can shapeshift, appear and disappear and all that stuff. I mean that each of the Sides represents just one limited zone of c!Thomas' psyche, and therefore they're only confined to that zone of Thomas.

What does it mean to judge them as humans? It means many people demand of them the complexity of action humans have, the same capacity to grow and evolve as if they were a fully fledged human, and that, my friends, just cannot happen, because it's not in their nature. I'll try to explain my point. We've seen the Sides learn and grow from different situations they went through in the past, and I say "have we?"

Don't mean they didn't go through the situations, I mean, did they really get a long term growth? In some cases they did, in others, the growth was incomplete or null, because the Sides are only able to grow in their own area of action in Thomas' psyche, and will remain, not oblivious, but, like that student that simply doesn't get how to solve a problem at school, and tries and tries to solve it right, but it just doesn't stick in their head. They will only learn the part of the solution in their area of expertise, and the rest will simply not stick at all.

For instance, Virgil knows if he causes a panic attack, Thomas will suffer and that will help no one, but he just can't help it, it's in his nature to cause panic attacks if the conditions are met. Other example, Roman knows that too much fantasy can be harmful, it can disconnect you from reality and that can break Thomas' heart. He knows, he's been told, but he can't help it. He's literally Thomas' dreams. Same way, Patton cannot escape the morality he was created with during Thomas' growth, Janus can't help making Thomas deceitful, Remus will show his creative thoughts at all cost no matter how it makes Thomas suffer, and Logan will always have problems to put feelings in the equation when trying to find solutions to an issue.

Does that mean that the whole show is a lie and the Sides are hopeless beings that can't learn from their mistakes? Not entirely, because when they face issues, they all face them together as a team, they go through them together and find a global solution that can help Thomas grow.

Then why do they revert back after learning so much about Thomas in the past? As I said, any item the Sides are not capable to learn according to their nature will not fully stick and they'll be prone to repeat problematic attitudes, even if they try not to.

What can be done then? The solution comes from Thomas. The Sides are Thomas and Thomas is all of them, and most important, he knows, or is learning, how to combine the different aspects of himself. In another analogy, the Sides and Thomas are like an orchestra and the orchestra conductor. Each instrument has only access to their partiture and can only play their own sound, even if they know how they're all supposed to sound together, only Thomas has the full information of the song, and only he can tell any of the Sides when to play and when to stand back.

To be fair, Thomas still doesn't have the full partiture ready, he's still writing on the fly, that's why the song is incomplete and both the Sides and Thomas are still struggling, but as the series goes on, the song keeps writing itself, slowly but surely and when it's complete, Thomas will have the full song and will learn how to make their Sides sound perfect in harmony...

Well, most probably, the song will never be fully complete or perfect, but eventually it will reach a grade of completion enough to make Thomas and his Side harmonious enough to make good, melodious songs. That is, eventually, Thomas will know how to be the best of a person he can be, because no one is perfect, but he will learn how to feel good enough, and how to be happy with himself and get as best as he can be.

That means the Sides will learn how each can help the other Sides in the areas they lack expertise so they don't repeat the same mistakes from the past. But they must learn to work together to reach that goal, they can't do it each on their own. When they learn this ultimate lesson, everything will get better for Thomas and the Sides.

[nomsfaultau]

The Lambs Wolves Wear part 7

Dark SBI AU where Philza’s human children were replaced by monsters. Start of The Lambs Wolves Wear is here.

“You promise you won’t get mad?” “Tommy” asked nervously, pacing before him.

“I could never be mad at you,” Philza gently told the thing that had stolen his son from him. The shapeshifting demon dithered, wringing his claws. Then the towering beast crouched before him, piercing yellow eyes skewering the tiny mortal. The muzzle housing sharp fangs and rancid breath butted its nose against his chest. 

“Can you pleeeease make that a blood oath?” A growl hissed in his throat as Philza refused, but it turned into a whimper as Philza gave him a disappointed look. Philza wasn’t exactly sure how he’d gained dominance over a demon, but “Tommy” was utterly terrified of his wrath today. Strange. Usually he scoffed at mortal disapproval. The demon mulled his quandary over, then declared: “If you get mad at me, I shall slaughter you and raze your land. I shall curse your bloodline to a thousand generations so that your ancestors are ashamed and your descendants revile you. 

“What have I said about death threats?” “Tommy” snarled in a lash of embers, and Philza braced himself not to flinch. Fear only encouraged “Tommy” further, and any threat could be turned into a bluff if you challenged it bravely enough. Not that he was all bark and no bite; the beast had wicked fangs, but only if you didn’t evade in time. After months living with the expectation he would be ripped to shreds the moment he slipped up, Philza was far less phased than he used to be. 

“But it’s a special occasion. Can’t you make an exception this one time?” Philza stood his ground, and the demon’s eyes darkened, thunder rolling overhead. Body contorting in gut wrenching ways, the shapeshifter surged forward in a blur of morphing form. “Tommy” twisted himself into the disguise of Philza’s son once more, tears blossoming in his adorable eyes as the demon begged. 

It felt like the wind was sucked out of Philza as the arms of his missing son wrapped around his waist, nuzzling into his side. So rarely had “Tommy” worn the skin of Tommy after the deceit was revealed that Philza had forgotten how potent it was. The plaintive cries mewling out of his not-son-never-my-son’s throat pierced his heart as the demon manipulated the soul of the bereaved parent. With a shaking gasp Philza remembered to breathe. “Tommy, I said no.” 

“But I’m really, really scared, and if I was allowed to rend you limb from limb it would make me feel much safer.” 

“Unfortunately, sometimes we have to be brave and kind even when we’re terrified. It becomes easier the more you try.” When Philza carded his hands through the golden hair of the thing pretending to be his son, it didn’t destroy him like it used to. Quiet was the terror so palpable he once choked on it, the grief so soul wrenching he thought he should break down weeping. He’d spent so long surviving that the revulsion no longer registered. Now, it was simply a necessity. 

The boy in his arms unraveled with a growl, the giant demon towering over him once more. “Tommy’s” fangs snapped close around Philza, ripping into his shirt and dragging him upward like a kitten caught by its scruff. “Tommy” prowled away from the home, roaming over pasture and shying away when a hoard of “Technoblade’s” undead warriors surged out in waves of phantasmal forces to rebuke him for almost trampling the crops. “Tommy’s” growl reverberated Philza’s bones, narrowly avoiding dropping the dangling human and causing him to splatter on the ground far below. 

Eventually, Philza was dropped a nearly safe amount. Groaning, he peeled himself off the grass. Having grown comfortable with the demon, who hardly ate any of them ever, the cows didn’t even look up from grazing. Well, save for a young calf, who blinked with languid eyes and trotted up to Philza, nudging him for treats. “Tommy” dithered, pacing in a fashion that left scorch marks across the ground. He scowled at the calf and shoved it carelessly away from Philza. “--and, and you promise you won’t get rid of me. Right dad?” 

“I could never.” What type of power did “Tommy” imagine he had? The beast butted his horned head against Philza, and he stroked “Tommy’s” muzzle as scarlet slit eyes narrowed upon him. He’s never seen the demon so cagey, but his assurances seem to soothe his bristling spines. 

“Tommy” sighed as he was scratched behind the ears, and came to a resolve. Before he could react, a nova built in his maw, plasma crackling fiercely into blinding radiance. His jaw unhinged into bristling flames, and “Tommy” breathed out pure hellfire in an all consuming column, smiting the calf. Philza sighed. Sure. Why not. “Did you drag me out here just to barbecue a cow?”

“You said you wouldn’t get-!”

And then Philza saw the charred husk of the calf. Or rather, the lack of it. Because sitting in a pile of charred grass was Tommy. He crawled away to fresh vegetation, and continued happily munching grass. 

Philza whipped around to the demon. “You turned my son into a COW?!” 

“YOU SAID YOU WOULDN’T GET MAD!”

“What if I sold him? Or ate him???”

The demon paused. “...I didn’t think about that…” 

Tommy was incredibly disorientated as Philza helped him to his feet. He didn’t stop chewing the grass in his mouth. “Oh hey Dad, I had the weirdest dream…” the rest of his sentence was muffled by Philza wrapping him in a bone crushing hug. Philza sunk to his knees, clutching his child to his chest. He felt so, so cold, absent of the hellfire that coursed under the skin of the demon who wore his small body like a pretty mask. The real Tommy. His Tommy. He cradled the boy’s face reverently, soaking it in. 

“Huh?” Tommy blinked at him as Philza began to cry. “What’s wrong dad?” 

“Nothing,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. “Nothing at all.”

And then Tommy was ripped from his arms, “Tommy” snarling at him. “You said you wouldn’t replace me. You SAID–” The demon was cut off as Philza gathered him in a tight embrace. “Tommy” went utterly still, but Philza didn’t let go even as his skin began to burn, thanking the demon for returning his son. At his words, “Tommy” began to tremble. “I’m sorry. I’m really, really, sorry, I should’ve given Tommy back weeks ago. I thought– I thought you’d get rid of me once you had him.” He sounded guilty for his doubt, despite the fact that had been Philza’s plan for months. 

“Of course not. My heart is big enough for the both of you.” He held the both of them close. 

Tommy squirmed, not entirely sure what was happening. “Uh that’s nice Dad. Can I go back to eating grass now?” 

“Tommy” brightened. “Yeah! Now that you know you can stop worrying about him! He was really happy as a cow, I promise.”

“NO!” It snapped out harsher than Philza intended, and his stomach flipped. He couldn’t ruin this now that he had his real son back. In fact, it would only become harder now that he had to protect a vulnerable child incapable of matching the monsters wit for wit. A deep breath. Okay. “It’s not nice to turn people into animals, okay?” Tommy was at once enticed, demanding to know if the demon could turn the baker into an ugly toad. The pair’s mischievous smile matched perfectly, and Philza winced. “And, now that Tommy is back, I don’t want the two of you to get mixed up. It will be a lot easier if you pick a different name and form. We talked about indoor forms, remember? Like the cat? You make a very formidable cat, I think-”

“Nah,” Tommy dismissed. He stuck his tongue out, and “Tommy” matched it with a forked one. “I think I can work with this.” An evil grin spread over both Tommy’s faces.

Next>

[mofsblog]

OKAY SO I WAS RE READING THE SECTION ABOUT THE NOTES FROM THE GUY TRIED TO MAKE THE GATEWAY IN PART 38 AND I FOUND THIS?? The way he details his relationship with 'Scratch' is interesting and I'll probably make a separate shitpost about that but rn I just want to focus on the description. Like on top of being Lillith is Scratch fuel (which I've already accepted as canon tbh) with the mentions of a seductive element near the end (which sounds almost similar to trance John went into in part 37 when he looked at her painting), it just paints an interesting picture of her and also makes me wonder how deceitful she can be (also HELLO SHAPESHIFTER) since it's later stated she wanted to open the gateway so she could be free and enter this world (Earth) or possess the writer. But I'm also questioning how sympathetic she'll end up being because the vibe I'm getting is that she might've been trapped in a different dimension (STARES AT KAYNE.) (Since it feels weird that shes around the same power level as him but lacks the ability to travel between realms, like earth and the dark world or smth) and that's interesting to me. I'm really wondering what her true goals since she's clearly after something greater, or it's just wants freedom

Also on a character standpoint, it makes me really curious what her actual personality is going to be like. I wonder if she's picked up some theatrics from Kayne/hj.

[bharv]

So fun wording about Doppelgangers from the monster manual:

Doppelgangers are devious shapeshifters that take on the appearance of other humanoids, throwing off pursuit or luring victims to their doom with misdirection and disguise. Few creatures spread fear, suspicion, and deceit better than doppelgangers. Found in every land and culture, they can take on the guise of any individual of any race.

Stealing Secrets. A doppelganger’s adopted form allows it to blend into almost any group or community, but its transformation doesn’t impart languages, mannerisms, memory, or personality. Doppelgangers often follow or capture creatures they intend to impersonate, studying them and probing their minds for secrets. A doppelganger can read a creature’s surface thoughts, allowing it to glean that creature’s name, desires, and fears, along with a few scattered memories. A doppelganger impersonating a specific creature as part of a long-term plot might keep its double alive and close at hand for weeks, probing the victim’s mind daily to learn how to behave and speak authentically.

Hedonistic Swindlers. Doppelgangers work alone or in small groups, with group roles shifting from con to con. While one doppelganger takes the place of a murdered merchant or noble, the others take on a number of identities as circumstances warrant, playing the parts of family or servants while they live off the victim’s riches.

Changelings. Doppelgangers are too lazy or self-interested to raise their young. They assume attractive male forms and seduce women, leaving them to raise their progeny. A doppelganger child appears to be a normal member of its mother’s species until it reaches adolescence, at which point it discovers its true nature and is driven to seek out its kind to join them.

That last point is particularly interesting if you have your Dark Urge meeting Orin when they are children (despite using the world changeling she is a doppelganger, as changelings exist in Eberron not Faerun.) I'm assuming that it's not a mothers-only thing, but you take on the dominant genetic material. What happened when she started to shed her resemblance to Sarevok? Did that impact their relationship? When she killed her mother, did she look exactly like her at that age, as they would have looked only like their father?

Imagine going through puberty and literally shedding your old skin and becoming a changeable mass. Phew.

[weemssapphic]

in my head (series)

Chapter Four: The Not-Date Date

Larissa Weems x f!reader

previous chapter | next chapter | series page

words: ~4.5k, ao3 link

chapter-specific warnings: indirect mentions of anxiety and insecurities

chapter summary: The day starts with a little hiccup, however Larissa and our dear reader are determined to move forward with their little date - that totally isn't a date, thank you very much.

“Larissa?” You tried to sound confident but your voice shook as your eyes roved over her form.

The young woman stood slowly, turning to face you. A blink of an eye later it was your Larissa standing before you again, face white as a sheet. 

You blinked. 

“How did you…” you could feel your heartbeat in each of your limbs as a lightbulb went off in your head. “You’re a shapeshifter.” 

Larissa’s cheeks turned pink and she crossed her arms defensively across her chest. 

“I am.” She held her chin high, her face stony, though you could see the trepidation in her eyes.

You took a slow, careful step towards her, as if trying not to spook her. “Was that… The woman… Was that you? I mean, you a couple years back you?”

“It was.” Her replies were curt, her tone guarded. You knew you weren’t supposed to see what Larissa had done - that her shifting was something private for her, and that you had walked in on some sort of intimate moment. You could practically see her walls coming up in real time, walls that you’d thought - you’d hoped - you’d torn down long ago, when you’d started getting closer.

“Larissa,” you pleaded, taking another step towards her. She didn’t move, though from the way her fingers twitched and her right foot shuffled ever so slightly, you could tell she wanted nothing more than to run. “Talk to me. I’m sorry that I walked in unannounced, I just thought… I just thought you were getting ready. I know I wasn’t meant to see that but please, don’t shut me out.”

The apprehension shining through the cracks in her carefully guarded mask overwhelmed you, and you wished nothing more in that moment than to get in her head, to see what she was thinking, what sort of internal war was going on beneath the surface. But you knew you couldn’t - you wouldn’t risk your closest friendship over a moment of indiscretion, you couldn’t break her trust like that. You seemed to be on thin ice already as it was.

Finally, Larissa closed her eyes, letting out a deep breath and dropping her arms to her sides before sinking down onto the stool in front of her vanity.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, fighting the lump in her throat. “I would appreciate it if you would keep the knowledge of my shapeshifting to yourself. There is a reason I don’t tell people.”

You nodded furiously, closing the remainder of the gap between the two of you and kneeling in front of her. “I promise I won’t tell a soul. I just don’t understand why you keep it a secret?”

Larissa laughed bitterly. “I would hardly want the entire school, let alone the entire population of Jericho, thinking I’m trying to actively deceive them. Shapeshifters are not often welcomed, darling. At worst, people see us as manipulative and deceitful - after all, how can you be sure this is even the real me? At best, people seem to think they can bend us to their will. I would rather not have to deal with the implications.”

“I understand.” Of course you did. Manipulative and deceitful were words often used to describe you, able to see into people’s minds and glean the most private of information, able to use this information against others on a whim. It was nothing you hadn’t heard before, and it made sense that Larissa, in the position she was in, would choose not to divulge this information with anyone.

Still, though, it stung a bit that she hadn’t even felt safe enough to tell you, had even become defensive when you’d found out. 

“You could’ve told me, you know. I guess I get why you didn’t. But I would’ve understood, you know? I’ve spent my whole life fighting against people’s prejudices against people like me - people who supposedly have the ability to manipulate others for fun. I would never think to judge you.” Your voice was gentle, a bit sad, and Larissa’s gaze softened slightly as she looked down at you.

“I…” Larissa seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t consider that. I simply didn’t want to lose your trust over something so trivial.”

You couldn’t stop your heart from swelling at the thought of Larissa being afraid to lose you. “It’s not trivial, it’s a huge part of who you are. You could never lose my trust over something like that. Please know that.” Your hand landed on her thigh and you began to rub calming circles over the fabric of her dress.

Larissa swallowed visibly, nodding and choking out a quiet “thank you”.

“Can I ask you something?” Larissa tensed, but nodded again, and you bit your lip, afraid of her reaction. “Why did you shift, just now I mean?”

Larissa’s eyes darted between yours. If you would’ve decided to read her mind, you would’ve seen her inner struggle between lying to you and feeling guilty about it, or telling you the truth and feeling a deep, burning shame for her own perceived shortcomings. What she settled for was a half-truth.

“I’ve been feeling a bit… old lately. Older. As if my career is finally catching up to me. This semester has been… trying, and I feel as though you can tell.” Good enough. You didn’t need to know it was your perception of her, your own validation she had been craving most when she’d shifted. 

“Do you want to know what I think, Larissa?” Your heart was cracking at her confession, but you tried not to let it show. She avoided your gaze, but cocked her head nonetheless. “I think,” you took her chin between your fingers, forcing her to look at you. “That you are the most beautiful woman I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. The lines on your face don’t detract from that beauty. In fact, they make you even more stunning.”

It was true - you loved the little crinkles next to her eyes when she smiled, the laugh lines that showed how often she had something to smile about. You adored the crease between her brow when she was deep in thought, the lines on her forehead when she would raise an eyebrow at you.

Larissa’s cheeks were pink and a small smile was slowly taking shape on her face. She let out a shaky sigh. “Thank you. I hope I haven’t made us late…”

You took her smile as a minor victory and grinned back, gently squeezing her thigh. “Not at all - if you still want to go? We could always-”

Larissa cut you off. “Yes, I still want to go. I’ve been looking forward to it. I just need a moment to collect myself.”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll wait in your office.” You stood, leaving Larissa alone at her vanity and settling on the edge of her office desk to wait for her.

She stepped out into the office a few minutes later, locking the door to her quarters behind her. She looked regal as usual, now wearing a matching coat over her dress and sporting black heels. The smile on her face gave nothing of your prior conversation away.

You led her to your car and soon you were on the road.

“Do I finally get to know where we’re going?” Larissa seemed to finally be relaxing. You, however, were fighting the unexplained butterflies that were fluttering about in your tummy at the reality of the situation - Larissa Weems, in your car, for the very first time. How silly, to be so affected by something so mundane.

“We’re going to Burlington,” you quipped, grinning widely as you heard Larissa huff next to you.

“That much is obvious, darling. What will we be doing there?” You didn’t have to look at her to know that her eyebrows were raised, that her lips were turned down into a disapproving frown as a result of your obstinance.

“We’re going to a spa to get massages.” You glanced to your right to gauge her reaction. She looked surprised for a moment, before her face broke out into a pleased smile.

“You certainly know how to woo a woman,” Larissa teased, and you felt your heart skip a beat. She’s just being cheeky, you reminded yourself. She doesn’t mean it like that. Your cheeks began to heat up and you forced out a chuckle. 

“I guess.” You tightened your grip on the steering wheel, forcing your eyes to stay on the road ahead of you rather than drifting over to the woman occupying the passenger seat. “The ladies are just lining up for me, huh?”

Larissa remained silent and you couldn’t help yourself - stealing a glance in her direction, you could see she was turned away from you, gazing out the window with a frown on her face.

Great, now you’ve done it. You have to stop pushing her.

Your mind began to race, searching for another subject, anything to distract Larissa from your idiocy. You cleared your throat. “Can I ask you something about the shifting? You don’t have to answer of course…”

“Hmm?” Larissa hummed, as if pulled out of a trance. “Oh. Yes, ask away.”

“Is this, um… Is this your ‘natural’ form?”

There was a beat of silence in which you wondered whether you had, again, pushed too far, but just as you were about to backtrack, Larissa spoke.

“Yes, it is.” There was another brief silence, but then Larissa chuckled lightly. “My days of experimenting with my appearance are long gone.”

“Can you change anything about yourself?” You were curious, you’d never known a shapeshifter personally, as it was a more rare and easily hidden ability, and you’d never had a reason to do much personal research on the subject.

“I can change my physical appearance, yes, though I am limited to human forms. It’s easier if I have a clear picture in my mind, if it’s someone I’ve seen before, though I can also change certain features and body parts at will.”

“Wow… I’m ashamed to say I don’t know much about shapeshifting… You might be the first shapeshifter I’ve met.”

“It’s a rather rare ability, I’m afraid.”

There was so much more you wanted to ask, but the drive to Burlington was quite short and you found yourself pulling into the parking lot of the spa. Your questions would have to wait.

Larissa trailed behind you, allowing you to lead the way to the reception counter. The spa was just as nice in person as it had been in the pictures on Google. Marble floors, plenty of lush green plants, and a small fountain off to the side of the reception area gave the place a serene atmosphere.

“What can I do for you?” The receptionist smiled brightly. 

“Y/N Y/L/N, I have an appointment at 2:30?”

The receptionist, whose name tag read ‘Maria’, turned to her computer screen, scrolling idly until she found what she was looking for. “Ah yes, the couples massage.” You could feel Larissa’s eyes boring into the back of your head, and you tried to ignore it as you nodded your confirmation to Maria.

“Perfect. If you two could just fill out these forms, our waiting room is over to your right. Once those are filled out we can lead you back to your private room.” Maria slid two clipboards across the counter. You took them, thanking her, and headed towards the waiting room she’d mentioned; a large, open space with plush couches.

“A couples massage?” Larissa raised an eyebrow at you as you sat down, handing her one of the clipboards.

“They’re not just for couples,” you argued, not quite able to meet her eye. “Plus what fun is it if we don’t even get to spend time together.”

Larissa appraised you for just a second longer before letting out a low hum and dropping her eyes to her clipboard, filling out the intake form. Once both forms were filled out, you dropped them off with Maria. Two massage therapists showed up moments later, ushering you and Larissa down several hallways into a private room with two massage tables at the center. The room smelled faintly of a mixture of essential oils and there was soft, ambient music playing. You could already feel some tension leaving your body.

“So as you booked the full body massage, you can undress and put on the disposable underwear you’ll find on the massage tables,” one of the massage therapists stated. “Just go ahead and get comfortable and we’ll be back in a few minutes. If you’d like, you can pick out an essential oil blend to use for the massage.” 

The two women left the room and you and Larissa were left facing each other. 

“So…” Larissa trailed off, fingers fiddling with the sleeves of her coat. 

“Nothing we haven’t seen before,” you joked, thinking this might not have been the best idea you’d ever had as you shrugged off your jacket. Clearly, you had not considered all of the ramifications of booking a full-body couples massage with the woman you were trying desperately not to have a crush on. Larissa chuckled nervously as she slipped out of her own coat.

Before you could lose your nerve, you undressed, finding the disposable underwear the massage therapist had mentioned and slipping them on. Larissa followed suit and you averted your eyes, taking a particular interest in studying the minimalist decor of the room to avoid gawking at her.

Of course you’d seen her naked plenty of times, hell you’d had your face buried in her cunt multiple times a week for the past month or so, but something about seeing her like this, in such an innocent situation, brought a strange flush to your cheeks. It felt more intimate than anything you’d ever done, and it sure as hell didn’t feel the same as when you’d gotten a similar massage with your friend from back home.

Larissa had turned her back to you as she pored over the little card listing the various essential oils and their properties. You padded over to her, peering around her shoulder to take a look at the card and trying to ignore the way your bare skin tingled where it brushed against hers.

Once you’d made your choices, the two of you settled onto the massage tables and you wiggled your hips to get comfortable.

“I hope I didn’t overstep - booking this, I mean.” You couldn’t help but voice your concerns to the blonde, who looked over at you, head resting on her folded arms.

“What makes you think you overstepped?” Her face was unreadable, her gaze piercing as she searched your face.

“Uh… I don’t. I think. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable or anything.” You bit the inside of your cheek as you waited for Larissa to say something, anything. Her gaze softened. 

“You could never make me uncomfortable, darling,” she murmured, her lips curling up into a small smile. “In fact, I appreciate you doing this for me.”

You returned her smile, opening your mouth to say something just as the door to the room opened and your massage therapists returned, asking about your preferences for essential oils. Larissa opted for a ylang ylang blend, while you opted for sandalwood.

You could feel yourself relaxing as warm hands began to rub the oil into the tense muscles around your shoulders. You hadn’t realized how badly you’d needed it, but after a stressful beginning to the semester, perhaps a massage wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

A soft moan from your left caused your entire body to tense up again, heat filling your belly. You could feel yourself growing hot as an ache began to build in your core, and you were finding it hard not to rut your hips against the massage table. Nevermind. Terrible idea.

You turned your head to look at Larissa. You had never seen the principal look so relaxed before. Her eyes were shut, her lips parted slightly to allow light, barely audible sighs to escape her. As one particular, very breathy sigh fell from her lips, you couldn’t help but buck your hips into the table a bit.

“Someone’s a little tense,” your massage therapist commented, working deeper into the muscles at the base of your spine. You squeaked out in surprise and Larissa’s eyes fluttered open, meeting your gaze as you flushed a deep red. She smirked before shutting her eyes again, allowing a groan to pass her lips as her own massage therapist dug into a knot near her shoulder.

This woman was going to be the death of you. Focus, you thought. You can do this. Surely the whole thing must be over soon, for how long you’ve already been laying here. With Larissa’s eyes closed, you allowed your own eyes to drink her in, free of inhibitions. 

Your gaze traveled along her elongated neck, down the curve of her spine, to the dip just above her ass which was, tragically, covered by a towel. You mapped out the freckles dotting her shoulders, allowed yourself to get lost in the sensual way that her eyelids fluttered as she reacted to the massage.

Another gentle moan had your eyes snapping to Larissa’s lips, those soft, plump lips… Heat pooled between your legs and you could feel yourself growing wet. Get yourself together, before you ruin the massage table. You were almost certain she knew what she was doing to you, and you would make her regret it later.

You had never been more grateful for anything than when the massage came to an end and you were allowed to dress again - more specifically, when Larissa was allowed to dress again.

As you stood in front of the reception counter, swiping your card to pay for the massages, Larissa allowed her chin to rest idly on your head, her hand coming to rest on your waist.

Maria smiled at the two of you. “I hope you enjoyed our services today. I must say, it’s refreshing to see a same-sex couple here, we don’t get too many for our couples massages.”

“Oh we’re not-” you began, but Larissa cut you off.

“Thank you,” she replied, her grip on your waist tightening. 

~~~

Your brain was short-circuiting all the way back to your car, and it was a wonder you managed to fish your keys out of your purse without dropping them at the rate that your hands were shaking.

“Larissa?” You breathed out as the two of you had settled into your seats.

“Yes?” She leaned back in her seat, a serene expression on her face.

“Nevermind.” You shook your head, trying to gain enough mental clarity to turn on the engine and begin your drive back to Nevermore.

“Someone’s a little tense,” Larissa quoted, and you could hear the smirk in her voice without looking at her.

“Don’t be an ass,” you retorted, trying to hide the way your cheeks burned by putting the car in reverse and making a show of checking your mirrors.

“Relax,” Larissa giggled, placing a hand on your thigh. It was meant as a comforting gesture, but it only made you feel more nervous. “Thank you for taking me here, Y/N. I really enjoyed myself.”

“Me too,” you murmured, a smile slowly spreading across your face. “I’m almost sad it’s over,” you joked.

Except you weren’t joking, not really - you wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the weekend with the blonde, but you were worried you’d overdo it, that she’d tire of your presence. 

Larissa broke the silence that had engulfed the both of you. “Are you hungry? We could pick up something to eat and share the evening in my quarters.”

“I would like that.”

~~~

You ended up agreeing on sushi and picking some up in Burlington, before driving back to Nevermore and making your way to Larissa’s office.

When Larissa walked towards the door to her quarters, you shot her a confused glance.

“I don't want to be in my office this weekend,” Larissa supplied. “Unless it would make you uncomfortable…?” You quickly shook your head and followed her into her quarters, settling on the couch in her small sitting room.

The two of you dug into your sushi and you once again had to ignore the heat spreading in your core at the small moans of delight Larissa was letting out as she tried the different sushi rolls you’d ordered.

“Will you stop making those noises?” you snapped as Larissa let out a particularly lewd moan.

“Or what?” She quirked an eyebrow as she brought her chopsticks up to her mouth, wrapping her lips around the piece of sushi.

“I’m going to have to shut you up.”

Larissa’s next moan was your final straw. You surged forward, claiming her lips in a bruising kiss and causing her to gasp.

Larissa parted her lips for you and you wasted no time in licking into her mouth, your hands fisting needily at the fabric of her dress as you moved to straddle her. She leaned back against the couch cushions, pulling you on top of her and deepening the kiss, drawing a hungry groan from your chest.

You felt hot all over, the desire that had been clouding your mind since the beginning of your couples massage taking over your entire body as you pressed yourself flush against the blonde, slipping a hand between the two of you and hiking up her dress so you could brush your fingers against her core, feeling her wetness through her panties.

Larissa tensed beneath you, her hands dropping from your hips, her lips stilling against yours. Something was off. You removed your hand from her sex, using it instead to prop yourself up as you pulled away from the kiss, hovering over her. Her eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“What’s wrong?” Nothing like this had ever happened before, and you felt yourself begin to panic, running through the evening in your head and trying to think of anything that could’ve been different from your usual interactions.

She shook her head, turning her head to the side and gazing into the void as her cheeks went pink.

“Hey, talk to me, what happened?” You wanted to reach out, to cup her cheek, to hold her, but you didn’t want to make things worse so you sat up, trying to put some distance between the two of you in the hopes it would help her calm down.

“It’s silly,” she whispered, still refusing to meet your gaze.

“Nothing you could ever tell me is silly,” you said firmly.

Larissa struggled to find her voice as she grappled with her past, fears from past relationships and sexual encounters bubbling to the surface - fears that she’d almost forgotten about, situations that she’d buried (or so she thought) deep inside of her.

“In the past,” Larissa started, blinking a few times as if to will the tears back into her head. “I have had some… lovers, who knew of my shapeshifting.” Larissa’s voice was shaky, but she continued. “I have been asked to shift in… intimate moments before.”

You furrowed your brow, not quite following, until a thought dawned on you, though it seemed so absurd you could hardly believe it to be true. “Like what, turning into someone else? Like their fantasy or something?”

Larissa nodded, her teeth coming down on her bottom lip. “Or ex-girlfriends,” she added bitterly.

Anger bubbled hot in your veins. “I hope you told those jackasses off!” Your harsh tone caused Larissa to turn her head towards you, a mixture of anxiety and confusion marring her features. “If I could get my hands on them-”

Larissa let out a choked laugh and cut you off. “It’s in the past.”

“But it bothered you enough to stop kissing me,” you reasoned.

“You’re… the first person I’ve slept with who has known what I am in a long time,” she said quietly, so quietly you had to strain your ears to hear her.

“I would never ask that of you,” you said resolutely. “You are perfect the way you are, and there is no one - no other form or version of you or anyone else - that I would rather be sleeping with.”

Larissa’s eyes searched your own and she nodded hesitantly.

“Can I hold you?”

Larissa didn’t reply, rather, she reached her arms out, allowing you to fall into them. You hugged her back, fiercely and tightly, mind reeling at the thought of someone having this absolute goddess in their bed and wishing for her to be anyone but herself.

You remained locked in an embrace until Larissa began to squirm underneath you.

“Are you okay?” you murmured.

“I’m a bit too tall for the sofa,” she confessed and you laughed, glancing over your shoulder and taking in the awkward angle at which Larissa was holding her legs.

“I don’t want to let you go,” you pouted playfully, giving her a squeeze.

“Can we at least move this to the bed then?” Larissa teased, already pushing you off of her.

You agreed and allowed her to lead you to her bed, where you settled beside her and pulled her back into your arms. She slung an arm over your waist and rested her head on your chest.

“I’m sorry some people decided to be so cruel to you, Riss. You don’t deserve that.”

It wasn’t until Larissa’s head shot up that you realized what you had called her.

“Larissa. I’m sorry.” You worried again that you had crossed some sort of boundary, initiated some sort of unwelcome intimacy by your use of the nickname, but Larissa simply smiled brightly.

“I haven’t been called that in a long time.” There was so much wonder in her eyes that it took your breath away. “I like it.” She ducked her head, hiding her face in the crook of your neck.

You tightened your grip on her waist, smiling to yourself and relaxing against her as both of your breaths evened out.

You could feel your hold on the waking world slipping, your eyes threatening to fall shut, and you attempted to untangle your limbs from Larissa’s. She reacted by letting out a discontented sigh and pushing herself possessively against you.

“Stay?” she mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, remember?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek and squeezing her gently before slipping off the bed. “Don’t forget to take the pins out of your hair, or you’ll wake up with a headache.”

Larissa hummed, pushing herself off the bed and following you as you gathered your shoes and your bag from the sitting room. She walked you to the door and, just before you could turn to leave, pulled you in for a tight hug.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. 

“Anytime.”

x

[shapeofshifter]

[ Introduction ]

Hello!! My names are Martin/Elias. I wanted to start a blog to rant about otherkin and therian stuff but i am not very good at being active online.. I'll just post whenever i feel like it me thinks :3 feel free to dm me or interact in any way !! I am a big enjoyer of questions..

[ Info ]

[ I am 6teen ] [ My blog is not safe for littles or age regressors!! despite being a dreamer myself. i do not consider my content suitable :( ] [ I am trans masc. aroace. gay. polyamorous and genderless :3 ] [ I am a pronouns + xenogender + name hoarder ]

[ Pronouns ]

[ He/They/It ] [ Sh3/Hxr/H☆rs/H♡rselfs ] [ H3/Hxm/H☆s/H♡mself ] [ Th3y/Thxm/Th☆irs/Th♡mself ] [ Xe/Xemself ] [ Mew/Meowself ] [ Bite/Biteself ] [ Vix/Vixen ] [ Fau/Faunself ] [ Star/Starself ] [ Pon/Ponyself ] [ Arf/Barkself ] [ Fog/Fogself ] [ Eye/Eyeself ]

[ Interests ]

[ Podcasts: The Magnus Archives. The Magnus Protocol. Malevolent. Welcome To Night Vale ] [ Shows: Good Omens. Hannibal NBC. Madoka Magica. Gravity Falls. Dhmis. Sanders Sides. Our Flag Means Death. Sonic Prime ] [ Object shows: Hfjone. Its Time For The. Love Of The Sun. inanimate Insanity ] [ Games: Cookie Clicker. Metal Gear Solid. Plants VS Zombies. The Stanley Parable. Gmod. Fnaf. Roblox. DBH. Minecraft. Portal. Cookie Run Kingdom. The Beginners Guide. Animal Jam [Specifically the trading system..]. Dandy's World ] [ Misc: Despicable Me Franchise. Sonic The Hedgehog Movies. LPS. Jerma. Roleplay. Speculative Biology. Horror. Pony Town. ARGs. Psychology. Writing. Art. Online Trading Systems. All Tomorrows. Furry Fandom. Indistinct Chatter. The Oldest View ]

[ Kin Types ]

side note. things with "kin" at the end means that i am nothing specific to that species/concept ect. i am just them

[ Therian Kin Types: Wolfkin. Common Octopus. Fallow Deer. Sheep [unsure of species]. Horsekin. Ponykin. Nudibranchkin ] [ Otherkin Types: Shapeshifter. Nagakin. Angel [Throne and Principalities]. Winged Humankin. Celestial. Vampire. Galactic Whale. Object Headkin. Moth Humanoid. Demonkin. Faunkin. Deity ] [ Fictionkin Types: Eye/Stranger/lonely Avatar [TMA]. Stranger!Martin Blackwood. Martin Blackwood. Jonathan Sims. Logan Sanders [TSS] ] [ Conceptkin types: Empathy. Deceit. Theatrics. Balance. Justice. Sight. Onism. Omnipresence ] [ Objectkin Types: Computerkin. Red Rotary Phones. Red Phone Booths. Black Phone Booths. 1970s Cassette Tape Recorder. ]

There may be some kin types i am forgetting...But if i wrote everything down i would be here all day because my identity is incredibly fluid !! Apologies if the formatting is a bit bad or boring or if i made any grammatical errors. i am tired </3 https://meatboyandfriends.carrd.co/ commission info <3

tag system under the cut !!

#martin howls : general tag #martin reblogs : self explanatory #martin donations : gofundme and donation links for 🍉 #martins poetry : self explanatory

[aalinaaaaaa]

Meet the Character: Eshani Faison

For this week, I'll be talking about Eshani. She's my oldest OC, I came up with the first iteration of her when I was thirteen (even her name was different at that point, lol).

She's the dubious figure of Obsidian Sapphires, literally everyone sees a different side of her. (And not just metaphorically, she's a shapeshifter). Some believe she's Fate's second reprisal, though most don't know of her true occupation. That is to say, she's a High Councillor, one of a cursed bunch of seven who all murdered their way into the Court of Morilaste.

Of course, one doesn't survive there easily. It takes a lot of deceit and manipulation on her part to keep on top of things, and beneath her beautiful exterior, she hides a wealth of secrets.

—

Appears in:

Make Me Write Tag (Obsidian Sapphires re-write excerpt)

Obsidian Sapphires re-write excerpt no.2

A Broken Seal

Character Voice Tag (no.2)

—

General, Creators' Club + Obsidian Sapphires Taglists (ask/comment/message me if you'd like to be added/removed): @bardic-tales plus @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @outpost51 @mr-orion @the-ellia-west @guessillcallitart @thelaughingstag @thereadingfoz @glassstardust22124 @honeybewrites @ashirisu @drowsy-quill @oliolioxenfreewrites @theglitchywriterboi

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈𝐈 : The Spy’s Gambit.

after a long year — one lost due to grief and isolation and non-spoken ache — [name] archeron had finally been granted the awaited opportunity to flee from the constricting borders of velaris. what she did not predict would happen, whatsoever, was the insistence of a ruthless — asshole — spymaster on demolishing the barriers of her lone fortress and testing the limits of her powers and patience, during the single travel needed to reach their training destination.

past the illyrian mountains and west from rask, the shifter had two well-stabilished objectives in mind: one, train with diligence to finally move towards her own goals in the mortal lands; and two, try not to permanently disfigure azriel’s face with a scratch of her jaguar claws. five minutes in, and the oldest sister was sure that the latter would be the most difficult of her tasks.

the second chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

pinterest board / spotify playlist.

word-count: 14K.

“We felt the imprisonment of being a girl.”

— The Virgin Suicides, Jeffrey Eugenides.

The Gods whistled a melodic tone. One to carry a whiff of fate and purpose; one to invade a girl’s lung and fill it with her first breath into the living. The soft whisper of the divine converges with the unknown; no longer a benediction, but a sacrilegious bawl of confusion and grief. For a girl is born in a man’s world, and that is perhaps the cruelest form of torture offered by the Gods.

The room’s shutters were trembling from the strength of the boisterous storm. The wind howled, a treacherous and machiavellian whisper, an omen of disaster. Lightning brought sudden brightness to the obscure sky, and there was no natural occurrence so alluring, yet so violent. Bolts were but a fast-paced concentration of lethal energy, tearing and clawing and parting the unaware clouds.

The woman laid on the linen-sheets, coated in sweat and blood. Her babe’s voice matched the screams of the storm, challenging it with every breath. Maids moved with trained-agility, clamping the umbilical cord; cleaning bloodied legs with a white cloth, until one could no longer see a single tone other than bright red; and opening the curtains so as the father could hold the bawling babe closer to the light. All around her, there was noise and movement. Yet, she could not tear her eyes from the vile thing that had clawed through her, slicing her open as a lighting bolt would to a cloud. Her husband swooned, whispering a gibberish she did not care enough to decipher. 

“The Goddesses weep,” an old maid whispered. “A girl is born, and the skies are grieving.”

But she was wrong. The storms were not a symbol of grief, they were the purest image of violent rejoice. It shouted and celebrated for it had observed the birth of a babe meant for chaos and disappointment. The mother was disgusted, cursing the natural spell that fell upon a room whenever one witnessed a birth. No other soul could see the same as she did, all blinded by the supposed wonder of a newborn’s cries. But the mother saw past the veil. Rather than a girl, she had given birth to a vessel of malice, a child of deceit and destruction. The storm would not have matched the babe’s shouts otherwise; the wind would not have answered; the husband would not have forgotten about his wife — bloodied and vulnerable — if not for the treachery of the child.

“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, cradling the uproarious creature close to his chest. The mother had hoped for the monster to bite and pierce the father’s heart, showcasing the true horror of her spirit. Perhaps, such wishes did point to malice — only it was not her daughter’s, but hers instead.

“She’s not,” was her matter-of-fact answer. “No babe is ever born beautiful.”

The man came closer, if only to defend his daughter’s honor. She loathed him then, for allowing himself to be stolen from her opened arms, straight into the unconditional love of fatherhood; loathed the child, too, for she had dared to claim him; and pitied herself, for being a victim of a tragedy no other being could understand. The mother had spent nine months whispering to her growing belly, singing and welcoming the kicks. In her heart, with all of her motherly instincts, she knew it was a boy she carried. Surely, that miscalculation of nature had murdered her brother; surely, the doctors had missed the occurrence where her boy was discarded and eaten by his monstrous twin-sister. There was no other proper explanation, if not that one.

“Oh, but ours is,” insisted her husband, a stranger. He forced the babe into her arms, caressing the crown of the creature’s head. He did not care whether the mother remained in pain; whether she was feeling tired and dirty and in terrible need of rest and clean sheets. His eyes remained glued to that devious thing. “See the strength of her grip? The curling of her lip, the form of her nose? She is a made copy of yours.”

The woman shuddered. Was there a greater insult than being compared to one you despised? She had wanted to shout, demand them all to leave her chambers, cause a scandal and give their servants a lifetime worthy of gossip. However, the little serpent clung to her, and she had a strong grip indeed. In awe, the woman found herself pressing the babe closer to her chest, touching the skin as soft as the silk-sheets that she bloodied during childbirth. 

The presence was compelling, demanding. “Nurse me,” it seemed to shout. “Feed me,” it cried. “Love me,” it begged. The mother spent an entire year doing as she was expected and coerced to do. The babe was fed from her breast, regardless of the nipping and pain, sipping the milk along occasional droplets of her mother’s blood; received tender care and warm clothing, constant baths and cradling whenever she cried during the night — which she did, constantly.  However, the thing the woman had never managed to do was the latter. She could not love that eager and violent parasite, regardless of the motherhood instincts and the sayings that she had given birth to a physical copy of hers. The creature stole a year of her already decaying youth before it lost the taste for the maimed breast. She would no longer allow it to seize another single thing. 

The mother conquered a second pregnancy briefly two years after that disastrous disappointment, yet, she had never quite mastered the art of ignoring the small serpent and its midnight cries. Despite it all, her firstborn was the one she could not abide to watch out for. The same did not apply to those who came after whatsoever, for the woman had three more babies — three more little girls — and failed to love them at all, as if the small, twisted amount she could give had been entirely devoted to her child of chaos. 

Following-in-suit to the behavior of her firstborn, the three kicked and moved within her, but this time, she was much more prepared, and learned not to love them too soon. Motherly love was the death of logic and boundaries; it was an open door for obsession and worry, and girls were undeserving of that, for the gender inequality had long stolen the heirdom from their grips, and the mother refused not to bear an heir of her own.

[Name] had cried for two entire years. No one could understand the reason quite well. Overall, she was quite a spoiled babe, resting on a gold-made cradle and receiving professional and qualified assistance, hence the general confusion. However, when the moon grew wide in the pitch-black sky and her first sister was born, [Name] had stopped crying. It was as though she had granted herself enough time to share her discontentment, to allow the conflicted feelings to pour from her eyes and form small lakes of crystal-clear tears. Crying would no longer do her well, not when her sister had a pain of her own to be mended. Twenty-four years later, [Name] did not manage to find her tears still, for they remained buried underneath the soil of her deepest hidden fears and failures. 

Perhaps, [Name] had but used all of her tears when she did not need them; perhaps, she should have stocked a few before the damage became unrecoverable; for, as of now, alone in a house she could not learn to feel comfortable in, her eyes remained dry.

Well, not entirely dry.

[Name] cursed out loud as she went to grab a white and clean cloth, applying pressure on her closed eyelids, tearing up from the awfully strong stench of the toxins she had been experimenting with. Months prior, she had received an invitation from her sister. She was missed, said the letter delivered to her by Clotho. And in all honesty, [Name] was entirely aware of that fact; of how her absence was a dagger twisting inside her closest sister’s heart; of how badly Feyre had been hurting. [Name] couldn’t do a thing against her own numbness, her silence and lack of expression; she didn’t wish to strike a conversation with a single soul, but Feyre had called, and [Name] would always answer.

Though the female was barely there, her sister did not quit: they sat together for hours in her studio as she finished a painting, commenting on her routine in order to encourage [Name] to do the same. Between the humming reverberating on the porcelain of [Name]’s warm teacup, and her mute nods and forced smiles, Feyre had caught onto something and ended their brief encounter, no longer sending letters, as [Name] knew the youngest began to feel as though she was a bother.

When [Name] left her sister’s newest home — seeing patterns of her in every wall and furniture and color — she was fighting back tears, cursing herself for the consequences of the overbearing and paralyzing sadness that came after a particular morning, when she woke up with enough time to ponder on her purpose in that new life, and realized she had none. Although [Name] refused to linger her glance on the pieces her sister painted, they gave her a small thread of hope, an olive branch to be offered in the future. Throughout her small talk and monologues, Feyre did complain that she was struggling with a specific painting of her mate in the Summer Court. She scurried through every shop in Velaris, and still couldn’t find an ink with the exact shade of violet of his eyes when the sun shone on it. [Name] didn’t quite understand the rest — something about how she couldn’t create the colors herself because it was impossible to get it right — but what she did decide was to try and give her sister that small gift. 

Of course, that proved to be a hassle.

[Name] decided that the conventional path would serve her for nothing. Feyre was a fantastic and experienced artist, combining already-made ink and trying to get a result through red and blue and droplets of white had led her sister nowhere. [Name] would not succeed where her sister had failed, not when art, and many other matters, were concerned. Of course, she resorted to someplace else, traveled to the inside of a place that had never once left her alone: science.

Chemistry, to be more precise. It was a somewhat unknown concept, poor in substantiation and mostly filled with theories that, on their hand, inspired and fed countless experiments. Experiments that she meant to learn from in order to conduct her own; a path that, of course, was infertile and leading nowhere.

[Name] had been tied to Velaris. Her departure was inconceivable: the barriers kept the female in place, regardless of the animal form she chose to overfly it. Her options, of course, grew limited to the scarce flora of the mountains, hence her constant flights of exploration. She found wild red roses and blue tiger-lilies; squashed the petals and placed them on separate glass-jars, filled with an alcoholic solution she created with sugar, yeast and water. After that, things grew slightly more complicated. [Name] calculated the amount of petals and alcohol to create paints with different tones of blue and red, started to mix them together and attempted to achieve the said variation of violet. Once that failed her, [Name] started to collect resin from the trees, create her own solution of water and propylene that would serve as a solvent, and finally, add the pigment.

Resin, solvent, pigment. She had been creating ink after ink ever since, her eyes wet and her fingers scarred from the constant contact with acid; her limbs tired from the everyday transformations of her fae body to the body of a gyrfalcon; and yet, the violet desired by her sister was never found.

After months into that search filled with failing attempts, [Name] noticed that she had lost her reasons. The process of finding that exact shade of violet was no longer an olive branch to be offered to Feyre: it was a reason for her to remain awake in the night — to fight off the sleep that often came with nightmares from times she did not wish to remember. From overflying the mountains in the morning; to finding the spot she claimed to train her throws with daggers; to reading and studying at the library in the afternoon, weirdly mourning the absence of Bryaxis, the monster that kept her company before the war; to creating paint from dusk to morrow, repeating the entire process every single day; those were all a well-manufactured web of excuses.

[Name] did not wish to be left alone with her thoughts. She first tried it during her father’s burial — the one she refused to attend, deciding to be by herself instead — and it did not end well. Reminiscing was a troubling effort, for the previous battle was a blur. [Name] could remember overflying the field in the gyrfalcon form, dodging the attacks of the dark faeries; she could remember being in the middle of it, too far from Feyre, even further from Elain and Nesta; she could remember her father arriving with four well-familiar ships and men-at-arms to reinforce their armies; she could remember Hybern’s hiding fleet that had followed them close, with at least six thousand soldiers.

Then, came the rage.

Her sisters were fighting Hybern: Feyre was trying to connect with the Cauldron that stole everything from them; her allies were about to be faced with an unfair battle at the bay, and she could do nothing to prevent it. Once again, she found herself being an useless burden, unable to protect her sisters, regardless of her efforts and training; regardless of her wits and her words; she was never enough. The poverty, Feyre being taken away by Tamlin, her sisters being thrown inside the Cauldron, Elain being kidnapped right under her nose, were all but some of the most crucial moments in which she failed them. Despite the things [Name] did to give them comfort, the people she murdered, the lives she financially ruined, the men she was touched by, all for her sisters to suffer still, to grieve and to face horrors [Name] had, too, failed to shield them from.

Rage brought forward a boisterous roar. The clouds darkened, thunder competed against the deafening shout of a vengeful and seemingly-wounded animal. [Name] moved her head down and saw nothing but a terrifyingly huge and fast shadow, flying towards the open sea. She felt her throat burn, her jaw oddly heavy as she opened it, and then lightning: pure chaotic energy, mortal and devastating, passed through her mouth and teeth with yet another roar. It took a second for her mind to wrap around the fact that the beast — that thunderous and large creature — was her. After that, she was led by rage and instinct, her mind a fog that couldn’t process the events through the lenses of the creature.

Tapping into the dragon’s core — trying to understand it — terrified her. The feelings that it brought, the chaos and glimpses that it gave her, it was all too much. The treacherous act of repression against the dragon inside had brought her immense sadness. [Name] had watched as Feyre met her happiness, protected by a male that loved her beyond himself; had watched as Nesta moved out, her coping mechanisms against pain being so similar to the ones [Name] herself had once resorted to; had watched as Elain tried to make for a comfortable home in that new life, filled with the support of Feyre’s new family. [Name] had watched as the world — and everyone around her —  moved quite too fast, while she was stuck in the same spot, sitting alone in the cold as the realization came to mind: she no longer had use to them.

[Name], who had ceased to weep when her first sister was born; [Name], who had been raised to provide for them through the heritage of their father’s business; [Name], who had abandoned herself and her innocence to a brothel so that her sisters could have food and proper clothes; [Name], whose life had been dedicated to give them comfort, to shield them from misery, was no longer necessary. Her task had been gladfully taken from her shoulders, and [Name] couldn’t help but wish that she had clung to it a little tighter.

But then, realization came: she was no longer required to aid her sisters, but there were still people left in the mortal lands that had once relied on her. Perhaps, if she tied the business left open, if she checked on their financial situation after her departure, that would give her closure. Hence to say, Azriel’s proposition was the whiff of summer-air that caressed her skin where the cold previously hurt. He was her getaway from the suffocating barriers of Velaris, from the acid air of her room, from the shackles of her thoughts. The male was freedom.

Or so she thought. 

She had waited for his second knock for an entire week. If their matters were as urgent as he stated, then surely he meant to be his annoying-prick-self first thing on the morrow, barging in with that infuriating grin and the banters she secretly missed. But he vanished — literally. [Name] wasn’t sure why she had expected otherwise.

The sight of their piled gifts was a knife that she refused to turn inside herself; it was the excruciating pain of knowing one had been a disappointment to others, that one had failed to grab the hands of those who were extending it. However, she did grab Azriel’s gifts, presuming it was a clear message of her intentions. The male gave her a weapon she had no experience with; surely, if [Name] retrieved it from the pile, he’d understand that small peace offering of hers and they’d grow closer yet again. Because, regardless of her words and her poison, [Name] did value their once long held conversations. Azriel had been the one to strategize with her, he had been the one to search for her in the crowds, he had been the one to sit with her through a whole night after Elain’s kidnapping, and after sleep stopped coming to [Name] entirely.

He was a friend that she abruptly pushed away and that, yet, insisted on fighting against her voice. Keeping his gift close to her chest should have been enough to drive him nearer, but perhaps she had been too arrogant in her thoughts. For months, [Name] witnessed his never-ending struggle against the chains of her power, his obstination to go against her orders, to offer an aiding hand, and for months, he failed. Until, as it seemed, he stopped trying.

The worst, most devastating part of it all, was that at the time, she wasn’t sure whether his sudden absence was deliberate or a direct consequence of her power. Azriel fought against her speech for such a long time that when he ceased, [Name] couldn’t tell if he lost that battle, or free-willingly walked away. She had presumed it wasn’t the latter, no one managed to get rid of her treacherous grip once they were caught by it. Hence why she loathed the Cauldron the most, it gave her not a power but a death sentence, the living proof that her mother was right all along. [Name] was not a living being, she was a slick force of chaos that used her speech to manipulate and cheat and lie. The female could not control that aspect of herself, therefore, she failed to control the intensity with which her commands affected those around her. 

She did attempt to learn more about their extent and whether the voice intonation was of any importance when it came to her power’s usage. However, she reached no conclusion. It was a concept so simple, yet so maleficent. The results would always be the same, regardless of external speech factors; a whisper of hers had the ability of convincing a powerful foe to throw himself off a cliff, so long as he heard her and understood the language she spoke in. Cruel, dishonest, menacing. The power capable of annihilating an entire army, of sending previous allies against one another. The damage it could cause when combined to her shapeshifting was incalculable, yet the thought did not reassure her regarding her strength. Instead, it showed [Name] that in a world of capable warriors and diplomats and leaders, she didn’t fit in a single of them; she was the poison mingled with wine and ministered to those who were fair, she was the least trustworthy, the least honored one — she was a monster.

[Name] had spent nine years of her life wishing that someone would be merciful enough to attend her request to kill her. And apparently, now she was fated to spend the rest of her miserable and immortal existence commanding the acts of every sentient being around her, while actively wishing that at least one refused to obey her. [Name] had been strong ever since she was a small toddler, arguing for the privilege of having her hair combed first. Even then, she had always been prepared to fight for what she wanted or judged correct. Rather than using brute force, [Name] relied on the efficiency of well-aimed words and smiles and praises thrown at those who valued it; she was a little girl on a stage, playing countless parts and having countless masks to please whoever was near in order to achieve her ambitions. It was who she was at her core, regardless of her mother’s thoughts on the matter. [Name] didn’t know how to live, if not by fighting to convince others to respect her stance and thoughts, and deem her a valuable ally. And suddenly, there was no need for her to pick such battles, because the fighting spirit could be stolen from everyone else, if only she desired as such.

During her darkest times, it was the thrill of a debate that managed to keep her alive, the soothing adrenaline of emerging victorious from a purchase. When the touch of men grew too harsh or too violent, when their hunger and greed tore her soul apart, the solace of her being could be found in a well-balanced chess match played against herself or other activities that she considered challenging. Upon noticing that it was no longer required of her to strive, to fight, the world around her grew null. The Cauldron stole too much, in the process of giving her too much.

There was no point in entering a match, when one knew they already won. Whatever were the strategies she offered, the propositions she gave, the arguments she spoke, so long as she triggered her voice correctly, they would abide by. The prospect of their lack of opposition, of counter-arguments, was exasperating. The Priestesses simply nodded when she commanded them to grant her access to prohibited lanes. Her conversations ceased to be interesting. Even an ancient monster, one feared for it represented the concept of nightmares itself, felt victim to her commands. There wasn’t a single being residing in that world that [Name] failed to convince. 

Where, before, others around her bent to the strength of her will, the wittiness of her words, now, they just bent. She didn’t need to argue anymore, didn’t need to fight. The very reason for her euphoria regarding life was gone. [Name] had endured enough pain — metaphorical and physical — survived enough aches, to understand that the loss of what the Cauldron had claimed from her was something she could never recover from.

Yet, the most devastating acknowledgement came when she caught herself relying on such a curse. Quickly enough, the comfort of immediately having whatever she needed became addicting. Whenever she grew tired of an argument, of the debate to convince one to do something she wished for, [Name] crawled back to the comfortable bushes of control. At first, it was impossible. The words that fell from her lips were poisonous, even when she didn’t mean to order, even when it was barely a suggestion — a request — whoever heard would give her what she wished.

[Name] found herself slipping into madness, stumbling through darkness, until she understood that the curse that fell upon her might as well be the opening key for her biggest punishment. She stole a mirror from a nearby room and started to practice on herself, over and over, hour after hour, the female stared at her own reflection and polished the control of her capabilities. Her suggestions were, again, suggestions, her voice would only be harmful if so she wished to. [Name] granted herself the privilege of speaking with others without fearing to accidentally command them; yet, the more time she spent with herself and her thoughts and her frustration, the less she wished to interact with the external world.

Worst came to her when, during one of her experiments — while Nesta and the reminiscent parties of the Inner Circle had traveled to a Council with the other High-Lords — [Name] accidentally exploded her bathtub. Cassian barged in, quick as the wind and as armed as he could, fearing an intromission, only to find [Name] all covered in soot. He had helped her clean the entire thing — even though both knew the House of Wind could magically do it by itself — and all in the while, they talked. First, it was of politics and the upcoming war, followed by their Court’s plans, the Cauldron, [Name]’s trauma and even a small bit of his own. The commander was emotionally smart and entirely non-judgmental. The female relied on him and his council, watched as a small friendship started to bloom, and ended up teaching him how to polish his chess abilities until he advised they should get some sleep.

It was a pleasant day, one [Name] hadn’t experienced in months. Yet, the fear accompanied by what she confided was paralyzing, so much that she commanded Cassian to forget about it all: what she told him, the explosion, their chess matches. It didn’t matter that he, too, had told her personal things of his past; it didn’t matter that it was unfair of her to keep his secrets while actively denying him the rights to be reminded of her own ones; in that moment, she meant only to keep herself safe, to keep the mask of the unshakeable sister intact. And so, she controlled him, stole his free-will, and was met with no opposition.

[Name] found herself unable to face the general ever since, yet it seemed as though he hadn’t forgotten entirely, or, in the very least, his instincts and care weren’t as laid-back as they were before that day. Perhaps her commands lost strength if her will wasn’t as strict; perhaps a traitorous part of her wished that her voice would fail to work and, as a consequence, her grip wasn’t as strong. Regardless, she hasn’t used that power ever since. It was awful enough to have a blood-lust dragon residing inside her heart, [Name] didn’t need to be met with more trouble. Besides, she had a problem of bigger importance in mind: the reason why Azriel was immune.

[Name] left her bedroom, swiftly moving towards the library in one of the many alternative routes she found efficient when it came to avoiding the two Illyrian warriors that once insisted on checking up on her. Upon entering, she waved at Clotho, noticing the deep purple color on her fingertips. The priestess placed a white tissue on the counter, and [Name] moved to grab it, beginning to scrub her skin clean.

“You’re early today,” she wrote out curiously. In fact, she was. Usually, at this hour, [Name] would be at her training spot, in a secluded space amidst the furthest mountain range. But, because she wasn’t sure when Azriel meant to call her for their training, [Name] chose not to leave the House of Wind at all, fearing to miss his knocks.

“I’ve been adjusting my routine,” she lied. As insane as it sounded, the female could almost feel the huff that Clotho meant to give her. [Name] didn’t smile at her — she rarely did smile at all nowadays — but she did attempt to give the priestess a reassuring glance.

When [Name] was first introduced to the immensity of that library, Clotho had been the one to welcome her. At the time, granting her access to that space seemed to be Rhysand’s way of offering [Name] an agreement of peace, one that she willingly accepted, for the amount of books and knowledge and possibilities inside that place was more than enough. She didn’t yet speak at the time, fearing that her voice might come out as a command, and she could still remember Clotho’s handwritten note, slipped inside her pocket. When [Name] had found it, she almost wept. 

This is a safe place. You needn’t fear nor cower from it. We’re all females.

Females who had suffered from fates similar to [Name]’s. Females who understood the invisible mind scarring — and physical scarring, too — left by the worst a male could offer. Females who would never judge, for they shared her hurt, and fought the same battles. She had never stopped visiting since. Whether it was to read her fair amount of books, to share a moment of silence, or to, at least when it was still possible, spend time with Bryaxis. [Name] found solace inside that place, and strived not to bother whoever resided in it.

Quietly, the female made her way to the corridor reserved to the almost untouched books that were written in the ancient language. At first, the thought of mastering it seemed absurd and ambitious. The language itself was filled with trials and ambiguous phrasing — [Name] had studied countless alphabets throughout her brief mortal life, and was still left aghast at the complexity of them all. However, moving past her initial desperation, determined to spend her time with activities that could be of use in the future, [Name] began to learn through association. The ancient language was somewhat close to the Glacolithic, Runic, and Ogham alphabets: three written-patterns found in excavations and searches by the mortals from the continents beyond the great ocean. Of course, [Name] didn’t speak any of those, but she did study certain translations before, when life was easier and she had a purpose.

Afterwards, the task grew slightly less demanding, though it remained tiresome. [Name] had to resort to tactics from her childhood and teen-years, in which she would read a text in a foreign language, circle the words she did not have knowledge of, rewrite them in a separate paper and then proceed to search about their meaning. Before the war, she had Bryaxis to scoff at her naivety, correct her terrible pronunciation, and guide her through some phrases. Overall, even if it refused to do a thing more — for it enjoyed watching her exasperation — the creature proved to be quite an useful teacher. However, as of now, with Bryaxis long lost, [Name] had to work with her already-gained knowledge, which was maddening. If she was even a little more advanced, she would’ve been able to read a specific book that promised to solve more than half her problems: The Binding Magic of the Fae and Other Rare Talents. When the Archeron moved towards the shelf, she scoffed at the said book’s cover and grabbed the one next to it instead: Fables and Myths for Unruly Children.

[Name] sat at the closest table, searching for the page in which she had stopped reading the day before. Because materials written in the ancient language were rare — and such few understood it, since they lacked the basis [Name] herself had been privileged enough to get from Bryaxis — the fae gathered whichever book or text or diary they could find, so long as the pages had the complicated alphabet of those who came before them. Childishly, they believed that every book was academic, which led them to retain it, all offering the same excuse: one day, they would learn the ancient language; one day, they would get to read and understand the pages of the piece they found. Of course, they never did. Hence why, in that very moment, [Name] was finishing to read the fable of a very stupid Queen that ignored the warnings of a witch and ended up giving birth to a dragon, rather than a child.

“That’s such a terrible moral,” she muttered to herself, suddenly being reminded of why she had decided to stop reading that book in the first place.

Mid-sentence, she felt his presence without a single failure of a heartbeat. When [Name] was yet a mortal, Azriel found it amusing to arrive unannounced, hiding in the shadows until she passed by, appearing behind her with a shit-eating grin that only grew when she jumped out of her skin and cursed him out loud. The Spymaster managed to pull that prank thrice before she grew used to it. [Name] would never fail to spot his figure, regardless of how well-hid he was: the shadows around him were different, the air hung with an odd electricity whenever the male was near, and she could guess his position based on instinct alone.

It wasn’t a surprise to raise her eyes from the book and catch sight of him sitting on the chair in front of her. Azriel moved his head to take a glimpse of the text at hand and frowned upon noticing the language in which it was written.

“I didn’t know you were allowed to this part of the library,” he stated matter-of-factly, waiting for a confirmation that she refused to give him: I wasn’t, until I commanded them to believe otherwise.

“It’s been seven days,” [Name] retorted, ignoring his previous point. She closed the book of fables and myths with unnecessary strength, cringing at the loud sound it made.

“You’ve been counting. Eager, much?”

His taunt made her blood boil — although she did ignore the fact that her cheeks felt hotter all of the sudden. Azriel’s grin, and the confident manner with which he placed his hands on his nape, pointed out that he, on the other hand, did not. The second he opened his mouth — whether it was to tease her some more or try to get to her nerves — [Name] interrupted him.

“Fall from the chair,” she commanded, and he rolled his eyes at her, nearly scowling. At least she had wiped off the grin from his face.

“Nice try,” the Spymaster told her with annoying nonchalance and that unknown immunity she could not track the source from.

“Couldn’t hurt,” [Name] shrugged, and he felt silent with his arms closed.

When Azriel had been assigned to a position in which he needed to return to the Archeron manner weekly, Feyre pushed her older sister aside for a private conversation. Her voice was soft — yet more mature, as if Feyre had aged five decades in five months — while she tried to soothe [Name]’s tension. She could still remember the slight heads-up, the promise that Azriel was naturally quiet and introspective, and that did not mean that he held some unspoken grudge against her or her ideas. Although that proved to be true to some degree, [Name] was quick to notice that the male was not as quiet as previously stated. Each word of his carried some sort of taunt or invite to a private competition that [Name] never failed to accept or stumble upon. The male seemed to thrive on her annoyance, and though she was not entirely amused herself, [Name] noted the clear difference between his treatment towards her, and the general treatment she received from others.

After an entire decade of misery and prostitution, [Name] saw herself as though a crumbling stone fortress, one that once stood high and tall, proudful and unshakable, but that started to deteriorate with the acid rain and the constant attacks from external forces. The fortress was filled with mug and cracks and thorns, and people grew wary whenever they approached it. No one treated her the same, as if they feared that a single touch would be enough for the entire fortress to crumble entirely; she could sense their hesitance in their contradiction, their pity and the glances given whenever they thought she wasn’t looking. Azriel challenged her, treated her like he would everyone else. Even when she was a mortal whose life hung by a limited thread, he valued her thoughts, and never once sugarcoated his words. 

As of now, she could yet feel the same determination and notice the same treatment. Even though [Name] had spent nearly a year hiding away, avoiding the reality and feeling stuck in the same place, Azriel refused to act as though she was a scared and lashing animal in the woods: he was not wary nor was he pitiful — he was ruthless, challenging, taunting, his logic and sense of duty matching her own. Azriel was everything that she needed at that moment.

However, that did not mean that she was willing to give him any further sense of amusement. Her pride was a chalice of lethal poison, one that she drank from until there was not a single droplet left. To fill their silence with an inquiry meant that he would have a possible confirmation of her eagerness, and [Name] would rather share a teacup of warm tar with her late grandmother inside the Cauldron than to fulfill his ego.

She felt a slight tug coming from his mind. Because her abilities granted her free-passage, regardless of their barriers, to the thoughts of those around her, [Name] made sure to never roam close to the limits of their brains. A single misstep was enough for her to stumble on the deep roots of one’s memories, and she learned the consequences of her accidental prying when, during a shared dinner, [Name] was bombarded with the indecent mental-conversation held by Feyre and her mate. Since it was rude — and awkward — to listen to those small things left unsaid, [Name] learned to deactivate that side of her power, and only did use them when invited to. That tug coming from his part was an invitation, as if he had opened the front gate of his mental barrier and invited her in.

With a slight raise of her eyebrow, [Name] extended the invisible string of her power, entering his mind. Surprisingly enough, Azriel seemed to have closed his fist around it, not letting go of that small connection between them. Although his expression remained that same one of nonchalance, the memories sent her way explained enough of the given situation, and what led the Inner Circle to vote for her training and participation in that particular task. 

It was a marvel to witness how one’s train of thoughts mirrored their particular personality. Azriel’s memories were brief and to-the-point; he didn’t dwell much on unnecessary details and favored an efficient approach that covered most of the basis as fast as it could. It was as though he was in a constant state of haste, a master-spy that understood the importance of offering a good résumé in a limited span of time.

“Who would’ve thought you hold me to such high regards?” Azriel taunted, and she blinked, caught offhand.

“What?”

“A master-spy?”

“You can read my thoughts as well?” [Name] inquired, too shocked to take note of his cockiness. 

“Was I not supposed to?” His grin fell from his face, giving way to a wary crease of his forehead.

“It never happened before,” and though she chose her words with care, the female could feel the sudden pressure around her reach, understanding that the Spymaster was demanding her to leave his mind. She did as it was urged, respectfully stepping away from his conscience. A further inspection of his sudden rigid features told her that he did not mean to speak on the later occurrence, and aware of his vexing capacity of staying silent for a long period of time, [Name] changed the subject to what mattered the most. “Why am I the one most suitable to breach Montesere’s barriers?”

Azriel stretched, shifting uncomfortably in his seat — one that was obviously not meant for the wings of an Illyrian warrior — and sat upright. His expression was one of concentration, whereas his stance was the same he held whenever he meant to speak in a tone of politics and strategies. It made her reminisce those hours spent inside the four walls of her office, discussing tactics based on the most accurate predictions of their opponents’ movements, and her chest ached with sudden longing.

“Montesere had a particularly rough war against Vallahan, a hundred years after the First War against Hybern,” he briefly began to summarize, and [Name] failed to hold her tongue.

“Yes, I’ve read about it,” she interrupted, mentally scolding herself.

“Why would you read about Montesere, of all places?” Azriel inquired, before realization passed over his features. “Right, their dragons.”

It was an affirmation. He did not need to ask that of her, when the answer presented itself as white as a layer of untouched and recent snow. [Name] did not mean to lie either, even if the misleading sentence was formed not longer after he deduced her past reasoning. The two had never lied to one another, or so she preferred to presume. Without a doubt, both hid their fair sum of secrets, but it was not of their character to dance around the truth whenever the other figured a thing or two out. It was a dynamic as old as their unstable friendship — if one could call it that way — and one the pair remained loyal to for more than a year. She never would have told him of her research about the dragons during the most ungodly hours of the night — at least not then — yet, since his speculations came close enough to the truth, [Name] would not lie to him either.

“I traced their origins and inevitable extinction back to Montesere,” she confirmed, the fact alone bringing an odd sense of grief to her chest. Those next words came as a whisper, hardly audible. “I figured they weren’t creatures from our world, which was somehow soothing. These realms are so filled with magic, it was a nice twist to learn of something fantastical that we had no access to.”

Azriel stared at her in silent pondering, and [Name] caught the phantom of a warmth glance sent her way before he masked it. “We don’t know exactly when the dragons roamed into our world. The most acceptable theory is that another portal opened up, one similar to the one that brought Amren, and some creatures passed through it. Amidst the chaos of the war, every King and High-Lord was too preoccupied with their barriers and battles to take note of a lone portal somewhere near Montesere. We presume it happened during or after the conflict.”

“Of course,” [Name] agreed with a slight movement of her shoulders. “They would have used the dragons against their enemies’ forces — your forces — otherwise. The fact that they didn’t merely points out that there was no time to train those creatures or tame them.”

He hummed in confirmation. “After Hybern’s defeat, his allies were left in economical misery. But we had no idea of those dragons whatsoever until Montesere’s battle against Vallahan. Considering the scarce extension of their nation’s territory, a sudden declaration of war was imminent. They had no space to train those dragons, and surely enough, Vallahan offered the expansion they needed.”

“I’ve read that those dragons spat fire,” she muttered, haunted by the loss of a sight she would never have a glimpse of. “But it was not enough to conquer Vallahan.”

“Fire can not breach solid stone,” Azriel pointed out, and [Name] did not miss how he hid his hands under his armpits. “Vallahan has the geographical advantage of being surrounded by a steep and towering extension of mountain ranges. To spit fire, Montesere’s dragons needed to reach the Capital, and once the kingdom started to retaliate—”

“I know,” she sharply stopped him. “They placed catapults on strategic points of those mountains. Even so, I hardly think those traps were responsible for so many losses. A dragon is unstoppable in the air.”

“They had a very scarce training,” Azriel retorted, and though his taunt was imminent, she fell victim to his invitation, well aware that he meant to rile her up in order to understand how well-educated she was in that particular subject.

“Most were grown during their passage, those dragons weren’t lacking in terms of flight,” [Name] scowled, sitting upright herself. Mentally, she could see a chess board unravel — those sixty-four black and white tiles that, somehow, always managed to be a metaphor whenever a conversation between them was concerned.  

“They lacked discipline.”

“They lacked purpose,” she hissed, surprised at her own rage. “Montesere sawed their back-spines to make way to their saddles, chastised them with whips, and stole them of their previous freedom. Most of those creatures threw themselves on the mountains with the intention of retrieving their free-will through death.”

The Cemetery of Rocks. [Name] once saw the name in an old map. It was written all over the mountain range of Vallahan, and she trembled with the mere thought of how many dragon skulls and bones laid on those lands. 

“It might be true but it’s not the entire reason, you know that,” Azriel half-conceded, and his trust on her judgment despite her past outburst was astonishing. [Name] blinked, regaining her composure not longer after.

“Well, obviously. The altitude of those mountains was an opponent of its own. The safest crossing option was through the highest route, but an unprepared rider would lose consciousness with the lack of air that came from such tall heights,” the female absentmindedly completed, growing tired of that conversation. It was more a genocide than a war, and at each attempt to breach Vallahan’s borders, Montesere returned with less dragons and soldiers, until there were none left. “But that’s not the point, is it? What have they done after that loss?”

“Montesere raised a magical barrier,” Azriel commented with a grimace. It was clear that, for his own reasons, he was not quite pleased with that obstacle.

“I caught on to that, what surprises me is how long you took to find out,” it was not a taunt on her part. She was merely being sincere. “Neglecting them to that extent seems reckless.”

“It was, but we all had worse worries than Montesere at the time. Hewn City, the Illyrian soldiers’ insolence towards the Night Court’s orders, and our own lack of experience on how to manage the entire territory after Rhys’ father passed away are just some examples of our concerns. We did send them letters, but those remained unanswered.”

“You’re finding excuses,” now, that was a taunt.

He broke into a grin. “Think you could have done better?”

“I’m sure that I could.”

“You’ll get to prove that soon enough. Our efforts can’t breach through their barriers, we’re hoping that your magic will be the exception.”

“Because I was Made?”

The memory was painful enough, and he merely nodded before rising from his uncomfortable seat. “Go grab your stuff, we’re leaving now.”

Although that was a thing she had anticipated, [Name] was startled with his abruptness still. Giving herself a moment to recollect her thoughts and priorities, she remained glued to her chair. “We’ll train and go to the Mortal Lands. I’m not helping otherwise.”

“I have the tattoo to remind me of that,” he bit back with a roll of his eyes. “And even if I didn’t, I could still drag your ass to our training site.”

“You’d lose both your hands before you got the chance to,” she threatened, the thought of a male touch bringing back memories that she was quick to bury.

“To do that, you’d need to shift into something more harmful than a small bird,” he spoke with a boredom that made her want to claw at his neck. How he was aware of her morning flights, she had no interest in finding out, but his remark boiled her blood regardless, and the challenging expression on his face let her know that Azriel mentioned that on purpose. 

With an everlasting sourness, [Name] strolled to her bedroom, nearly kicking the door open as she went to grab her pack. Azriel, who was close behind her, coughed immediately, and the sound made her smile briefly. She felt the phantom touch of a daring shadow on her shoulder, as if it hummed contentedly with the slight shift in her mood.

“What the hell have you been doing here? It smells like horse shit,” he complained. [Name] made no move to open up the windows — she merely closed the bathroom door — and Azriel’s eyes laid on the shadow on her shoulder.

“Leave it be,” she hissed at him with a scolding glare, growing tired of his urge to drive his shadows away from her. Azriel’s scoff was muffled by his arm as he had used it to cover his nose. “I was trying to replicate your scent, did you not like it?”

The second they moved from the stench of her bedroom and towards the main balcony, Azriel’s impossible behavior returned. “I had no idea you missed me that much. What was the plan afterwards, sprinkle the perfume on a pillow and hug it in your sleep?”

“You’re despicable.”

“You’re speechless.”

As the pair approached the main hall, [Name] did not fail to note the absence of her sisters. Her mind was conflicted, unsure on whether that occurrence was deserving of relief or grief. Falling quiet and crossing her arms, she had decided on both. No one but herself could be blamed for the insecurity of her younger sisters regarding [Name]’s feelings on a farewell visit of their part. Her emotional withdrawal had brought the solitude that ravaged her insides, a bittersweet and well-deserved fate: to miss her sisters as a punishment for how badly and frequently she had failed them.

“You’re leaving already?” A particularly deep voice came from behind them, and [Name]’s body grew rigid at the sound. Shadows curled on her nape and shoulders, seeming to whisper a soothing harmony on her ear.

“It’s been a week,”  Azriel shifted on his heels to stare at his brother, and his shoulder brushed hers slightly. [Name] almost missed his warmth.

“So? You weren’t given a deadline,” Cassian noted. The female moved ever so slightly to stare at him, unable to bear with her impoliteness otherwise. Azriel’s shadows accompanied her frame as her back met the nearest wall, and [Name] waved awkwardly when Cassian’s warm, hazel eyes laid on her. 

“Doesn’t make the situation less urgent,” the Shadowsinger retorted. Cassian tore his glance from [Name] lazily, observing his brother with his mouth tightly shut. The two seemed to have a quiet, yet heated argument, their expressions shifting as they spoke in a secret language born from centuries of acquaintanceship.

At last, Cassian’s shoulders slumped a bit. Whatever those glances and the discussion hidden in between them meant, the General raised the flag of surrender. [Name] could still see the creases on his forehead, the predictions and strategies regarding Azriel’s motivations, but it became clear that he would rather not voice them nor meddle any further.

She was slightly startled, whatsoever, at the sudden outburst of foreign thoughts that poured inside her own mind. Regardless of the barriers and training to maintain one’s consciousness on a leash, during certain stressing moments, it was natural to lose a bit of that composure and untighten the ruthless clutch, allowing the river currents of thoughts to run its wild course. Whenever [Name] attempted to put that specific occurrence into words, she felt as though a madwoman would. How could she complain to Cassian that, unbeknownst to him, he started to think too loudly? The female caught an overall understanding of his worries and hesitation before burying her power, refusing to pry on the General’s mind without his consent. 

What she heard, however, was clear enough. Although guilt tore her apart with its greedy fingers, clawing on skin and muscle, [Name] offered a nod of reassurance and a small upward curve of her lips to Cassian, attempting to demonstrate her willingness to ignite a frail ember of friendship. He was suddenly aghast, but the grin that broke free was almost a key to free her from the self-imposed prison of remorse.

“Give him hell,” Cassian told her, pointing to Azriel with his head. A single shadow roamed closer to her face at the act, and [Name]’s grin somehow found a way to her lips. 

“Planning on it.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and his brother gave his shoulder a nudge, offering [Name] a last farewell smile before he made his way to the stairwell at the end of the hallway. The female was well aware of where that path led: the training rink at the very top of the House of Wind. She had started to observe the entire architecture of the place from the first moment her feet met its surface. [Name] studied the cracks and turns and patterns, from the substructure to the truss, and was left mesmerized at the intrinsic manner with which the house converged with the mountain it was built on. [Name] had concluded that, if not for the aid of magic, the entire structure would not last longer than a single month in such hostile ground. It was, matter-of-factly, a finished subject: magic had built what the common hands could not. However, she could not help the wandering thoughts and plans, pondering the most suitable approach to use was she the one assigned to architect the foundation, with nothing more than calculus and trials.

It was a pastime that came back from when she was but a toddler, fidgeting with her hands and sitting on her father’s lap at his office. [Name] was an eager girl, aware of her responsibilities as the oldest, desperate to learn more of the Archeron trade. Of course, her father could not teach a single important subject regarding the stratagems of a merchant’s life to a child of six, for she would scarcely understand the basis. Rather than sending her off to find suitable entertainment elsewhere, the man gave her detailed drawings of the family’s fleet, instructing that she was to trace the ships’ plans and try to recreate it with as much accuracy as she could. Soon enough, [Name] began to draw ships of her own, using a ruler and the knowledge gained with the already done projects she so eagerly stared at. The interest evolved, from ships to houses to structures with many floors and windows. [Name] enjoyed the process of drawing particular projects through calculus, the right pencil and different sorts of rulers and compasses; she adored the immersion of her observation; her attempts to guess the thought-process of the one responsible to architect the base of the finished construction where she stood. 

Yet, it was an infertile and incongruous activity. Someone of her age and responsibilities could not give oneself the luxury of wasting time on straight lined-doodles and unfinished ideas.

[Name] had spent much of her years reading about economy, learning about negotiations, practicing the sweet-tongued mischief that led one to agree to a risky, yet calculated partnership. It was a necessary sacrifice, for it granted her younger sisters the freedom and privilege to dedicate themselves to more pleasant pastimes. Elain fell for the art of gardening, Feyre began to experiment with paintings, and even Nesta had, for a while, devoted herself to dancing, before their mother managed to poison that love too. It was not proper for [Name] to try and do the same — not when her passions were so strict, and scarcely as interesting as her sisters’.

Chess was an interesting game with valuable strategies that could be recreated in battle; chemistry aided her understanding of their world, for it could be found everywhere, and was an important tool when it came to the creation of substances and devices that didn’t rely on magic; the studies of the weather and barometric were crucial if one meant to predict the most appropriate moment to patch off a fleet of goods; and even those silly texts about body language had somehow helped her in her craft. But coming up with the structure of mansions and houses, alternative internal systems and weaponry? It was of no use.

[Name] had ceased to dream of those creations, and decided to never draw a single thing again after she had nearly crumbled at the sight of her father, coming to Velaris with four ships — the same ones she drew, the same ones she showed him, the same ones whose plans he kept safe, even during poverty — to aid in their battle against Hybern. It should not be hard to abandon those childish desires after such a brutal loss. However, during most of the times, the female caught herself observing and predicting, as she was doing just then, and had to tear her gaze from the walls, forcing her mind back to the present.

“There’s drool on your chin,” Azriel called out through gritted teeth and an odd, ironical smile, as she moved to touch her skin, scowling at him immediately. “We could stay for another hour if you want to stare a little more.”

Despite the venom on his words, [Name] gave the male an ironic grin. “I’m sure that wall is much more interesting than whatever you’ll have to show me.”

“Right,” he scoffed. “The wall.”

Azriel walked straight through her, and his shadows moved all around him, covering the outline of his broad back in the incorporeal of pitch-black. The sudden abandonment of both left her puzzled, and the silence that overcame their past banter was a fruit of their bewilderment.

Upon reaching the balcony, [Name] was reminded of Clotho’s note. Observing the position in which the sun held itself on the sky, she noted that it was, indeed, quite early. Time had the odd tendency of becoming a mere nuisance when one was too focused on a more pleasant task, and to [Name], who thought very little of reality and dreamt of detaching herself from it, the passage of time was constantly forgotten. She thought it was, at best, one in the afternoon. Instead, her brief glance told her it couldn’t be past nine.

Azriel leaned sideways on the balcony, staring at her with a vexing expression of impatience. Her scowl all but deepened as she followed in suit, noting how the yet-to-be warm sunrays basked on the columns, all made of white stone and marble. [Name] was sure that an artist of some sort had been a part of the construction, for architecture could only travel so far alone. The pattern of those columns, from the base to the abacus, surpassed the limitations of a ruler and calculus: it was the heritage of a talented artist who understood and valued Velaris, who managed to engrave a Starfall with nothing but marble and argil. It was magnificent, and yet, she would have enjoyed the observation better if not for a bad-mannered Illyrian soldier groaning at her delay.

“Where are we meant to go?” [Name] inquired, ignoring his ill temper. “If you try to drag me to those Illyrian mountains I’m going back to my room.”

“And survive amidst that stench?” Azriel mocked, finally breaking into a grin. “We have a deal.”

“That never mentioned where you would be training me. I ain’t going back there.”

“As much as I would love to drag you and watch as you gave them reasons to call the Archeron sisters witches,” he commented, seeming to be delighted with his own thoughts. “I, too, won’t step foot into that hole unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

The sudden bitterness in his tone made her swallow the taunt that hung prepared at the tip of her tongue. She, instead, fixed the bag on her shoulder and moved closer, seeing the fall that awaited for a misstep, as though a starving beast. Ten thousand steps. A journey she had never longed for, never had the need for either. To create wings was, as of now, as simple as taking a deep breath. [Name] wished she had been given that ability sooner. She could think of countless painful scenarios, all involving a bed, a man, and a tiled ceiling, in which flying away would have been useful. But she pushed that memory aside, observing Azriel’s wandering glance, and the experimental close of his hand, as if he was making sure that his fingers still worked, that his long-ago healed skin remained to be covered in scars rather than flames. It was a situation she understood well enough: when one was trapped into unpleasant memories and could not tear oneself from them without external help.

“Where are we going, then?” [Name] asked, her voice seeming to be enough to free the Spymaster from that trance. 

“Northwest, past the mountains and the Faerie realms.” 

The female’s next words caught in her throat as she stared at him in utter shock. Azriel outstretched his hand, the single wisp of a shadow nestling itself in the strap of her bag. She hadn’t need a phrasal command, understanding his intentions immediately. [Name] gave him her bag, and Azriel held it as he took flight, gliding over her. His frame and wings covered the sun, creating a patch of shadows that moved ever so slightly from where she stood. 

“Shift into something bigger than a swallow, or you won’t be able to keep up with my flight,” that brought her words back.

“Excuse me?” The idea of shifting into a bigger winged predator made her mouth dry with fear, the core of the dragon within her still a vivid memory that kept her rooted in place.

“When in the skies, wingspan is crucial for how fast the creature can move—”

“I know that,” she nearly hissed, irked at his tone, as if he had been trying to explain a difficult concept to a toddler.

“So? Shift. We don’t have the whole day.”

“Why can’t you just winnow us there? Too weak to do that while with me and a single bag?” Her taunts might as well have been flies surrounding his ego. Azriel was not at all moved, seeming merely out of patience as he awaited for her.

“You need to learn the path for yourself. A single shift in the wind and you’ll be overflying Rask without knowing. I’m not taking that risk.”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest. He would not drag her, nor would he insist further. If truth was being told, Azriel had not touched her once in months — and those rare times in which their bodies met were fruits of accidents or desperate measures. More than anyone, he respected her space. The Shadowsinger would not grab her and drag her body to where she needed to be, which left them both in a competition fueled by obstination and pride.

“I’m going there once and never again, why would I need to learn anything?”

If he was hurt by her statement, the pain trespassed his features as swiftly as a blink. “You can’t possibly expect us to winnow you around wherever your heart desires. It is one thing to help your sisters, who can not winnow nor fly, but you are more than well-equipped to go through those miles alone. The length from Velaris to beyond the mountains is a long one, and winnowing there would be tiresome. Move your ass and shift.”

[Name] gritted her teeth, feeling as though a child that had been scolded. He remained the same, not bothering to move a single inch, his breathlessly handsome face taken with stoic challenge. If she had dared to do as though those architects that evolved into artists of their own craft, how would her columns be? Her once frustratingly short life had but turned into an infinite thread of centuries and possibilities. Time was no longer a reaper, but a welcoming host. At last, immortality offered her plaster and resin, tools for modeling and argil. Still, she dodged it, for she would not have built a column or two, she would have sculpted him, right in that glorious stance, wings wide open, with eyes that burned with arrogance, and hands that she longed to touch after what seemed to be a lifetime of avoidance and fear.

Her eyes met his. [Name] hated the male that brought such feelings to the surface, and she hated him even more for knowing that she was not capable of tormenting him with the same urge, the same treacherous bite of desire that hid amongst roses of feigned distaste. 

“Don’t expect a dragon,” she told him at last, trying to think of an animal whose wings matched the span of an Illyrian’s, resenting those who saw her as nothing but a beast.

“I never asked for one,” he answered matter-of-factly. In his face, she noted the slightest sign of comprehension, hiding somewhere in between the cracks of that mask of nonchalance. 

Harpies and eagles came to mind at once, but those were birds of both size and violence, animals she had never shifted into. [Name] learned the hardest way that each and every animal had an instinct, one that was deserving of proper attention and care. When she shifted into a creature, the first seconds were crucial, for the very core of the chosen animal would overcome her own mind and desires. Because she failed to control the dragon, [Name] had lost the grip of her actions and memories throughout the battle, acting on an instinct that was not hers. Showing such a vulnerability in front of Azriel was not a part of her plans — especially when he was cocky enough without that knowledge. So she played it safe. In a brief of a second, she was no longer a High Fae, but an ensemble of white and brown and black feathers, eyes as pitch as Azriel’s shadows. A gyrfalcon, slightly bigger than the ones found in the wild, and the same form she adopted during the last battle against Hybern. 

“You could’ve picked something bigger,” Azriel commented, observing the bird she chose, and [Name] chirped her discontentment, flying to his eyes with her claws in position.

He chuckled, his chest rising and falling as his lips parted way to a sound she had never once heard until then. [Name] cursed him mentally, for the shape of the falcon did not allow her ears to capture the sound entirely. Azriel dodged her claws and began his descent towards the city. [Name]’s smaller and more agile frame allowed her to harness the speed faster, and her wings opened wide as she drew closer to the ground. In a swift movement born from practice, she was flapping her way up, swirling in a mute laugh at gravity’s failed attempt to keep her anchored to the soil. 

Flying was something she would never give up nor grow tired of. When the breeze shifted into a stronger current of air, when there was nothing underneath her feet, when she was being caressed by the freedom brought by the wind, it was as though she had been reborn. For the duration of the flight, there was nothing but her form, the wisp of wind and the infinity of the sky. [Name] only mourned that she had never learned how to fly the same as her sister and the Illyrians — with an actual body rather than the shape of a smaller animal.

Azriel’s shadow appeared above her in an instant, and he naturally picked up a faster pace as they began to fly horizontally. None thought that haste was necessary, and their flight to the barriers of Velaris was one of utter calmness, in which the pair overflew the city while [Name] danced around the strings of his daring shadows. Once met with the invisible barriers, she grew tense, fearing the denial that had been thrown her way countless times before. However, Azriel flew swiftly through it, and once her turn came, [Name] was met with the same lack of opposition.

The air felt different then, and so did the Spymaster’s disposition. He quickened his pace, and [Name] forced her wings to grow larger, biting back a painful chirp as her bones stretched into place. In order to shift into an animal, she learned there were a few prerequisites. The female needed to grow familiar with the creature. It went beyond seeing them in a drawing: she had to master their behavior, understand their instincts, and study their entire anatomy. For months at hand, Morrigan winnowed her outside Velaris not only to train, but for her to see those animals in the wild, and although that came into use, there was also the case of bodily difference. It was a matter of compression and expansion. When one had to shift into a smaller bird, their previous body would, of course, suffer from brief consequences of adaptation. [Name] understood it as the process of folding and unfolding a sheet of paper: the possibilities were limitless, but the more you folded, the more lines would appear on the surface that was once straight and clear. Her shape-shifting ability relied on imagination and pain tolerance. [Name]’s bones could stretch or break under pressure to give way to a different structure; she could take over the impressive size of a dragon or the insignificant form of a ladybug; so long as she was able to endure the agonizing seconds that preceded the change.

But pain and I came to an understanding a few years ago, she thought to herself, no longer suffering from the lingering ache left in her bones, ignoring it as one would do to a mere casualty.

Her eyes were trained to the perimeter as she took in the sight of the mountains. The two of them overflew an extension of rock, trees, and eventual rivers, and when she was faced with unknown and plain territory, [Name] knew they had surpassed the frontier of the Faerie Realms. Her small heart dropped and a spontaneous chirp escaped her beak. It was a land of infinite possibilities, of wonders to be unraveled in a biome of sand and heat that she had read about but never met. If fate had been kinder, [Name] would have glided to Azriel’s arms and shifted into her fae body; she would have gaped at the vision before her and wept at the opportunity to be met with such a wide extension of land; she would not have flinched at the sound of his scoff against her earlobe, would not have frozen when his grip tightened around her body. But then again, if fate had been kinder, she would never have gotten so far as beyond the Faerie Realms. With that resolution, she merely flew faster, resting on his nape with enough care as to not maim his skin with her claws.

“Getting comfortable?” Azriel mocked, and in her silence, he continued. “Or was I right and your tired ass should have turned into a bigger bird?”

A single claw scratched his nape, threatening to pierce the smooth skin. He hissed, but she did not bother staring down at his reaction, her eyes glued to the scenario that unfolded underneath them. Azriel himself grew quiet, and did not attempt to stop the scarce and frail shadows when some pooled at her feet and made her company. It could have been hours or minutes — she would not know — but eventually, the desert gave way to sporadic specks of green, that, on their hand, grew into a huge forest, miles and miles of trees and rivers, of mountainscapes covered in moss and leaves, some standing so tall that they kissed the clouds and were coated in snow. 

Azriel began his descent, and once they were sheltered from the burning midday sun, she noted the sweat pooling on his neck. [Name] had barely felt the heat back then, but dressed in Illyrian leather, undoubtedly the Spymaster had been punished by the warmth. Not wishing to add further discomfort, [Name] flew away from his nape and re-started the diligent flapping pattern of her wings, losing herself amidst the trees and enjoying the breeze on her feathers. Eventually, she nearly lost the way through all of that freedom, and had to be guided back to Azriel by one of his shadows, who grew stronger and with a bigger range after the pair escaped the ruthless ministration from the scalding sun.

It was the start of the afternoon when she heard the waves. Azriel led them west, clearing their way through the forest and propelling himself up whenever the trees grew too troublesome to dodge. [Name] had half the notion that their overall altitude decreased mid-flight, and although the increase of the heat was an imminent indicator of their destination, her mind would never have wrapped itself around the existence of a beach. It seemed unreal to her — someone who had been rooted into a home in the middle of a small town, someone who had never been allowed to travel, someone who had thought it was impossible to see the world in that life — that a single place could hold both a forest and a beach, that tree and sand could share a neighborhood, but there it was. 

The soil began to lose its domain as the pair flew closer west. The more they descended, the more the earth shifted into solid rock. Although she could point out natural coexistence, the trees and its leaves built a thicket glued to the ground, as if they had forgotten the proper way to grow and started to be pulled by gravity and its invisible string. She could see them more as huge bushes than trees per say, for the stalks were so small and thin, and palm trees were now a common sight, their movement following the sway of the wind. There was a small quantity of moss covering the rocks closer to the sea, and mountains of mid-length were caught in between forest and shore, as though it was the one thing connecting the two.

The waves kept their steady onslaught against the tall and sharp rocks of the shore, and Azriel duck, his frame a dark contrast to that haven of sun and sand and sea. She followed in suit, noting that, from a huge cavern located on the top of a cliff at her right, plummeted a thin waterfall. Once Azriel landed on his knees — a dramatic pose he seemed to treasure — he stretched his neck and placed her bag on the sand. Staring up at her, who chose to keep gliding, the well-deserved resting made for the return of his teasing spirit.

“If you want to fly some more, I’m sure those seagulls back there would be up for a good fight.”

A revolted chirp died on her throat as the opportunity ensued. Azriel got himself distracted with the disappearance of his Illyrian armor, and [Name] duck, shifting back into her fae form mid-air. She fell on his back and the Spymaster — who was still on his knees — fell face flat on the sand. The female got up as soon as her body touched his, grabbing her bag and staring at the sea.

“Did you make me wait an entire week for us to sleep under a cliff and live off the coconuts from the palm trees?” [Name] taunted him, whistling innocently once his deadly glance fell over her form. She had no doubt that he would find a way to retribute that prank of hers with twice as much force.

“Look behind you, smartass,” he scoffed. The second she did as so, hot sand was thrown on her nape, particles of it entering her jacket. [Name] didn’t need to spare a single glance to understand what had happened, and the sound of his own whistle — meant to mock her previous one — made her blood boil. However, before she could engage in a childish sand-battle that was beyond her normal behavior, her mouth fell agape at the sight above her.

There was a large cavity in the middle of the towering cliff. She squeezed her eyes to catch on it, for the entrance was covered by yet another pair of waterfalls, the two with a current stronger than the one she had seen earlier, acting as though a curtain of slight fog and liquid. The water fell on a small pool — surely one that had been made due to erosion — and followed a short route through rock and sand that disembogued on the sea. For a second, the female believed that her enhanced ears granted by the fae body had begun to fail her. She could hear the sound of the waves against the shore, the seagulls fighting for a poor, freshly caught fish, and the wind rustling the palm trees’ leaves, but she could not hear the sound of the waterfall, which was alarming considering the intensity of the flow. 

Damn were those explosions! Soon enough, her sight would fall victim to the same tragedy, due to action of the toxins she so diligently worked with, the thought made her shiver. Perhaps it was a sign to start using those stupid leather-strapped googles.

As if caughting on her confusion, Azriel chuckled somewhere behind her. “The sound is muted by magic.”

Ah, [Name] realized. Magic, of course. The very thing that made the faes’ lives easier, that granted them the means to create things that no mortal could dare to aspire, not even during their most drunk state. [Name] was unused to that kind of commodity, and would sometimes fail to phantom the extensive lengths in which one could go with the aid of magic. Magic that she wielded, and that she refused to use out of the fear of forgetting the pleasure of building and drawing with her own hands, of cooking and preparing her own bath, rather than handling it to an external and incomprehensible force. 

Azriel was suddenly by her side, eyeing her curiously before continuing. “I’ve created that cavern. It’s not born from a natural process, nor was it there already. I wanted a quiet place of my own, far from any boundary, so I grabbed a good enough pickaxe and built myself an entrance.”

“You’re fucking with me,” she scoffed, her glance holding his own. “You opened a hole through solid rock with your strength alone?”

Azriel himself was shocked. “You forget how strong we are, don’t you? How strong you are. [Name], considering the entire set of our abilities and scarce limitations of our bodies, opening a cleft is the least we are able to do.”

Her breath nearly caught on her throat at the sound of her name on his tongue. Rare were the moments in which both addressed one another by their given names, and she had only noticed it now, that not sooner he had said her name, she wanted to hear it again. And again. And again. During the most diverse of circumstances, some dirtier than she predicted; the sudden desire, a wave that the female had never thought she was capable of nurturing for someone else after all of those harsh years. She swallowed a lump of nervousness, stared at the entrance above them, and Azriel continued.

“It took me a while to create it, though. It was not the home I cared for, it was the process of reaching it. I wanted something to do with my hands after the war,” his voice shuddered ever so slightly at the mention of his scarred skin. It was a sound so vulnerable and, yet so swift, that one could even argue that they had imagined it. But [Name], who paid attention to his every movement without, had caught on it. 

Allowing him to ignore that change in tone — to never address it — was the thing she loved the most about their dynamic. Azriel did not want her pity, nor did she want his, however, if one was to slip — opening an unwanted crack on the solid walls of their fortresses — rather than acting as though a listening ear to a pain neither wished to address, the other would simply wait until that fissure was mended. They would not offer each other soothing sentences or draw the illusion, born from a childish desire, of a future without battle and suffering. The two had experienced the worst that could come from the cruelest beings; had been both maimed by constant cruelty; had been scarred enough to refuse that blind idealism that drove pure hearts to the possible existence of long-lasting peace. They were born not to protect, but to survive. And silently acknowledging that single slip, granting the other a second of vulnerability, was their way to keep each other strong, to keep marching forward — without pity, without unnecessary emotion.

Like Calls to like. It seemed to be a keen enough saying when it came to the two of them.

“Sometimes, I would come here and punch the rocks until they gave in. Sometimes, I would use the power of my Siphons. Rarely, I actually used the pickaxe,” [Name] snickered at that. “I’ve built this entrance through rage and boredom and ease. It is a creation from every single feeling I’ve had during the years. When I noticed that I had opened enough space, and that it was about time I started decorating for once, I was kind of disappointed.”

She hummed, sweat pooling on her nape from where the fabric of her jacket clung to. “I’m sure those rocks back there would be up for a good fight,” the female commented, using his previous words against him.

“Better to fight a rock than a seagull, at least cliffs are tough opponents.”

“Seagulls actually move and fight back,” she countered.

“So you admit that you would struggle in a fight against seagulls?”

His tone was amused, causing her to grit her teeth. “I’ll give them your severed arm for lunch.”

“With this heat and your heavy choice of clothing, you’ll faint before managing to land a single punch,” Azriel noted, and [Name] shifted in full-force to stare at him, about to comment on his choice for Illyrian leather, just for her words to flee from both mind and tongue at the sight of him with merely a black tank-top and matching trousers.

“When did you—”

“Magic,” this time, his winning grin and mocking tone did nothing to vex her. [Name] was quite too busy tearing her eyes from his frame. She heard a dry laugh, followed by the sound of his wings propelling him up in the air.

Feyre had once said that [Name]’s transformations were one of the most beautiful sights she laid eyes on. According to her youngest sister, her previous form would vanish, giving way to the brief appearance of grouped particles that gleamed in silver, as if her magic was the manifestation of stardust. From the core of ethereal light, she arose in the newest form that suited her desires best. As [Name] took the body of the gyrfalcon, she couldn’t help but wonder whether or not the breeze born from the flapping of her wings scattered the said gleaming essence of her magic. It was hard to imagine that she could be the source of such a beautiful thing, but it was not unpleasant.

To reach the inside of the cave, she had to go through the liquid curtain of the waterfall. When [Name] shifted back, her body and clothes were drenched in seawater. Azriel waited ahead, leaning on the arched frameway of the wooden-door. He had gone through the trouble of building an entire entrance, with an external leisure area located left from the door, surrounded by fences made of polished wood. As soon as she began to walk towards him, hissing at the feeling of her wet socks, talons of shadows came to circle her wrists, guiding her to the entryway. She did not need their assistance, but accepted it still. The cave’s ceiling was enchanted, and although she could see the stalactites, they seemed awfully out of place, for rather than pitch-black darkness above, [Name] saw a mimic of the ethereal afternoon-sky of Velaris, with the bright blue shade accompanied by the faint hues of pink and lilac, a sign that dusk was near. His shadows swirled more comfortably now, as if the shore and burning sun from the outside drained them of life.

“We never managed to get the sky right,” Azriel commented as she reached the entrance, stepping foot on the single step that led to the leisure area. A shadow seemed to point the way left, and [Name] noted a set of armchairs, two common chairs, both suitable for Illyrian wings, and finally, at the corner in between the two latter, a chess set displayed on a table.

“We?” [Name] whispered half-attentively, her eyes glued to those damned pieces and that damned board, her fingers stretching due to the sudden urge to play.

“Rhys and I,” he explained, and she could sense a tinge of amusement in his voice. “The house itself wasn’t meant to be heavily enchanted or guarded. It was glamoured to avoid unwelcome visitors, but I hadn’t felt the need for further protection until I came up with the idea of bringing you here.”

[Name]’s eyes met his attentive ones, and the depth of his sea of longing was hued in hazel and golden-light. 

“Hence why you made me wait for a week?” She inquired, and the sound of her voice was almost a treacherous profanity after it slashed through their previous silence, loud with words unsaid.

He swallowed hard, gripping the doorknob. “I like to keep you on edge, impatience suits you well. The threats are my personal favorite.”

Perhaps, she went mad with the heat; perhaps, the water clinging to her ribs had made her reckless; perhaps, her mind remained filled with much too many thoughts about chess and constructions and sculptures to process another thought if not one of those subjects; because the trap was an obvious obstacle placed on the side of her foot, and [Name] chose to willingly step on it, if only to amuse the Spymaster further.

“I will punch your teeth.”

“Feeble excuse to touch my lips.”

[Name]’s mouth shot open and she felt the blush that crept up her neck. His winning-grin had given her the actual desire to punch his teeth, but then again, that would make him smile more. Azriel gave her bag a light kick and pointed with his head towards the chess board.

“Change into something fresher and we’ll play a match or two.”

“Weren’t we here to train?” [Name] questioned, ignoring his first sentence. She hadn’t brought fresher clothes; all of her wardrobe was of long-sleeved shirts and dresses, for she meant to cover the inside of her left forearm.

“We are, but it’s almost dusk and we’ve flown most of the day,” he pointed out, crossing his arms against his chest. [Name] tried not to notice the muscles of his biceps, nearly shivering at the sight.

“I don’t have fresher clothes,” she blurted out, fearing that he could catch the trail of her thoughts otherwise.

He raised an eyebrow. “Cut the sleeves of some shirts, then.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t need to.”

“We will be training under the scalding midday sun, you need to,” he stated matter-of-factly, annoyingly unbothered. 

“I can handle—”

“Why, [Name]?” The Spymaster asked again, the sound of her name nearly causing her knees to buckle. Once met with her silence, however, he continued. “Wanna strike another deal?”

The challenge left her on edge, a shiver running down her spine where the tattoo of their pact had appeared a week prior. “We’re striking deals whenever we find an impasse?”

“If that’s what I need to crack open that mouth of yours,” a sea of curses poured from her thoughts but Azriel did not give her the chance to voice them. “Only this time, I was thinking of chess rather than magic.”

“Chess?” She asked him, tentatively. The bastard sure knew how to spike her interests.

“We play a match. Winner asks a question, loser is obliged to answer honestly.”

This got her to crack a laugh, one that echoed with arrogance. “You won’t get many answers from me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” the ambient had shifted into something more electrifying, a sudden string of shared anticipation. “But I like that deal, you’ll be forced to speak up more.”

“I speak,” he countered, almost offended. 

“Sure. I’ve known you for a year and the only things I’m sure of are your name and the friends you have.”

“Well, I know your name and the fact that you have three sisters.”

“You know more than that,” she rebuked immediately.

“Like?”

She fell silent. He grinned. His hand turned on the doorknob, and the passage to his home-cave was granted.

“Alright, Azriel,” she said, and his entire body seemed to shudder. “You’ve got yourself another deal.”

Their second chess match began.

trivia: the war between montesere and vallahan is entirely made-up and not a part of canon, alongside the story of the dragons. i came up with a few things of my own for the sake of the reader’s development! ;)

general notes: i am deeply sorry for how long it took me to post the second chapter. if i am being honest, i struggled a lot with their dynamics, since what i once wanted for them seemed to be very out-of-character with the az we know. i decided to work with his silent-little-shit-self and his very brief (SJM i am inside your walls) interaction with gwyn. i hope you enjoyed this chapter and i would love to hear your opinions and criticism on it. i promise i will try my best to write smaller chapters and to post them a little faster! lots of love <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @arilindemann @bsenpai @rachelnicolee @piceous21 @forsiriussake @sassybluebird @esposadomd

[daftdrac]

Hey scenario smp fans uh

May I give you: my lore / world building headcanons .

So all the people who don't have a consistent skin/any actual features to their skin (Robert, Sean, Sneve, Ryan(?)) are shape shifters. Is this lazy? 100% but I think it's fun, actually, so fuck you<3

UNDER THE CUT !!!!! This is a bit of a read ,,.

Shape shifters in the scenario universe are commonly regarded as types of demons in majority of cultures- usually symbolizing lies, deceit, trickery- the devil has a handsome face, after all. So often times, shape shifters, when they meet, will form nomadic groups- moving from place to place to avoid persecution when found out. This leads to groups of shifters being extremely close, as they really only have each other to live and socialize with.

Shape shifters are the result of extreme cases of spontaneous gene mutation- you can't predict when a child will end up being a shape shifter. This results in tests around the fourth/fifth grade, on the children's first day of school, in attempts to catch shape shifters early before they can gain the power to fully control their abilities. Obviously, every shapeshifter child who is found, is- disposed of.

Sean, as a child, was much more capable with his abilities at a younger age (for reasons I won't get into right now:3), and swiftly learned how to hide them and act normal when the school first started to mention shifters and their 'demonic capabilities.' Robert, born in the same town just a few months after, didn't happen to get so "lucky" (hehehe).

When doing tests on the children as they were readying to enter the 5th grade, Robert was found out. Having not had much control over his abilities and not connecting his own symptoms to the idea of being a shape shifter, he had no idea what was going on, and was surprised when Sean, a strange boy who seemed to be somewhat of an outcast, started dragging him away from the staff- who seemed to be pursuing them like criminals.

He wasn't a criminal, was he? Had he done something wrong? He didn't think so. But they were scaring him, so he turned and ran with Sean.

They made it to a fourth-grade classroom, and opened a window. Sean tugged him out of it, repeating "Trust me," like a mantra to sooth Robert.

As soon as he started to fall, he felt himself change, a familiar tingly feeling washing over his entire body as he quickly realized he wasn't falling anymore. He glanced to his side, and saw a human sized bird (-or was he bird sized..?) gliding next to him, the tips of their wings just barely touching. That's when he noticed he had wings- he was a freaking bird.

Robert had heard about their town's out case, living on the very edge of the village, avoiding the rest of the town members. He'd never seen them, until now. He'd let the bird, who he'd managed to put together was Sean, lead him, and that's where they ended up.

Before he knew it, he and Sean were off. Just the two of them, traveling together.

OKAY THAT'S THE MAIN BACKSTORY I HAVE ACTUALLY WRITTEN OUT RN. I HAVE VAGUE IDEAS FOR EVERYONE ELSES STORIES AND HOW THEY COME INTO CONTACT EITH THE GROUP. I MAINLY HAVE IDEAS FOR SNEVE (Shape shifter), SHADOW (Human→weird human experiment guy), AND LEGUNDO (Human guy.. with an UNNAMED TWIST HEHEHEH. I'm still not revealing some of the ideas I have for this.) BUT IF ANYONE ELSE HAS ANY IDEAS OR SOMETHING RELATED TO KIP (HUMAN) OR RYAN (SHAPE SHIFTER) I'D LOVE TO HEAR THEM.

[yan-lorkai]

May I request Sebastian and Lilia Vanrouge as reader's father figure, pretty please? I really took a like to your Sebastian's works, they're so cute!

*･゜ﾟ A/N: Omg yes!! I love platonic yandere sm, anonie. This was so much fun to write, I hope you enjoy it! But Lilia's gonna have his own post since his part was bigger than Sebby. Read here Lilia's part.

You could ask anyone and they would all tell you the same thing: demons are not creatures that know affection and kindness, they are creatures that instill fear for fun and feed on human souls without feeling any remorse for their immoral actions. Sebastian is the same. He lies, he steals and he manipulates people just to entertain himself and to have a delicious soul to devour.

And yet, against all odds, Sebastian is challenging that old thinking right now. Because every time he looks in your direction the demon feels something uncomfortable inside his chest, a small need to protect you and hear how your day was, to hear you talk enthusiastically about your new hobby and to have you close at all times. And he's quick to understand what his newfound feeling means.

Perhaps his love is not as pure as a father has for his child, but it is as close to that as possible. And it's not like you're going to complain, he does a good job of being your father figure.

Regardless of what you are, Sebastian will teach you the arts of manipulation and deceit, he will teach you how to observe and how to sweet talk people, he will teach you who to associate with and who to avoid in order to make a name for yourself. And mainly he will tutor you in every important human issue in today's society, knowledge is a great weapon after all.

But if you're a demon, he'll also teach you how to control your powers, how to correctly shapeshift, etc. And every time he's called upon to make a new contract he'll bring you along so you get first-hand experience of what humans are like and what kinds of things they ask for. And he'll be around when you make your first contract, too, watching you in action as you outsmart your contractor and take everything you've got from them. Exactly as he taught you.

He is a really good dad who loves to tease you and tell your embarrassing stories to anyone who will listen. You and he share many hobbies, mainly because he introduced them to you as a way of having you spend your free time with him. During this spare time he also tells you about his former masters and all the funniest pacts he ever had, loving the sound of your laughter.

Sebastian never considered himself generous or loving, but you changed that. You became his child and nothing in the world would change that, from the moment you met until the end of the world he will be by your side. And even though he doesn't say those three words very often, you know he loves you through his actions and that smug smile that is characteristic of him.

[thecreaturecodex]

Hargin

"maggot princess" © @bowelfly, accessed here

[The hargin is a monster I first heard of recently, thanks to @abominationimperatrix. They're found in the stories of Gilgit, a province of west Asia currently belonging to Pakistan. The idea of a shapeshifting, charming, monster bride being a giant maggot is delightful to me, a novel twist on the various swan maidens and selkies of Western Europe. As is the idea that bioaccumulation can result in scavengers becoming magical. In Gilgit, the ibex is considered a fairy animal, and so maggots that eat a dead ibex are those that turn into hargins. I expanded it to fey of all kinds.

Also, how cool is the art? @bowelfly knocked this one out of the park. I sent them references for traditional Gilgit-Baltistan clothing.]

Hargin CR 3 CN Fey This creature has the body of a woman, but the head of a giant maggot. Her neck stretches to impossible lengths. She wears fine robes and carries a stringed instrument.

A hargin is a fey creature that becomes a fey creature through unusual means—its diet. Hargins begin their lives as the ordinary maggots of flies, laid in carrion. The difference is that the carrion is a fey creature of some kind. By eating flesh imbued with fey energy, the maggots themselves become dimly magical and sapient, and then rapidly turn on each other. By the time one had devoured its peers, it has grown to monstrous proportions, and then molts not into a fly pupa, but into a humanoid hargin. The hargin is capable of changing its shape, and then proceeds to enter humanoid society in disguise.

Hargins differ in terms of their alignments, but most have acquisitive personalities. A hargin typically wishes to gain some sort of power, prestige or fame in their humanoid form, or barring that, get rich. Some hargins turn to performance, others to theft, and others seduce their way into the households of the nobility. Although hargins are somewhat naïve, they are charming and capable, and have a handful of magical tricks to assist them in either social climbing or larceny. They spend almost all of their lives in disguise, returning to their monstrous forms only in order to defend themselves.  Hargins are more likely to view other members of their own species as threats than allies. Hargins are sexually compatible with the humanoids they mimic, and some fey or aberrant blooded sorcerers have a hargin ancestor somewhere on their family tree.

In combat, a hargin uses its bite attack as its primary weapon, but may carry weapons to defend itself as a humanoid in order to not blow its cover. Its mandibles ooze digestive acids, and it can concentrate them into a caustic bolus. A hargin’s neck can extend impossibly far, even in humanoid form, and they are sometimes mistaken for rokurokubi due to this ability.

Hargin  CR 3 XP 800 CN Medium fey (shapechanger) Init +4; Senses low-light vision, Perception +5, scent Defense AC 14, touch 14, flat-footed 10 (+4 Dex) hp 27 (5d6+10) Fort +3, Ref +8, Will +3 DR 5/cold iron; SR 14 Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee dagger +6 (1d4+1/19-20), bite +1 (1d6 plus 1d6 acid) or bite +6 (1d6+1 plus 1d6 acid) Ranged shortbow +6 (1d6/x3) or acid spit +6 touch (2d6 acid) Space 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft. (15 ft. with bite) Special Attacks extensible neck Spell-like Abilities CL 5th, concentration +7 3/day—charm person (DC 13), faerie fire, hypnotism (DC 13), ventriloquism (DC 13) 1/day—deep slumber (DC 15), invisibility, touch of idiocy Statistics Str 12, Dex 19, Con 14, Int 11, Wis 8, Cha 14 Base Atk +2; CMB +3; CMD 17 Feats Deceitful, Point-Blank Shot, Weapon Finesse Skills Bluff +10, Diplomacy +8, Disguise +10, Knowledge (local, nature) +6, Perception +5, Perform (string instrument) +8, Sleight of Hand +10, Stealth +10, Survival +5 Languages Common, Sylvan SQ change shape (humanoid, alter self) Ecology Environment any land or urban Organization solitary Treasure standard (lute, dagger, shortbow with 20 arrows, other treasure) Special Abilities Acid (Ex) A creature that takes acid damage from a hargin’s bite or spit attack must succeed a DC 14 Fortitude save or take half the damage again (minimum 1) at the beginning of the hargin’s next turn. The save DC is Constitution based. Acid Spit (Ex) As a standard action, a hargin can spit a bolus of acid. Treat this as a ranged touch attack with a range of 30 feet and no range increment. A creature struck takes 2d6 points of acid damage. Extensible Neck (Ex) A hargin has fifteen feet of reach with its bite attack, and treats cover as being one step less for the purposes of making attacks with her bite attack or acid spit. A hargin may extend its neck in order to make an acid spit attack, effectively increasing its range to 45 feet. A hargin may extend its neck even in humanoid form.