#So there will be shadows on the white part since it's a hollow space and the light will still hit the iris unless the shadows are very dark

[solradguy]

I need 2 see nagos model so I can stare at his ass for research purposes ~pumpkin anon

Genuinely really impressed they gave him this much butt considering he's wearing like 900 layers of robes lol

[dee-writes-smut]

WINTER (Chapter Two)

FEATURING Azriel x Illyrian!reader

SUMMARY in the aftermath of your kidnapping, you find it harder than normal to cope and continue on with life, causing you to push the people closest to you away. (THIS IS A PART TWO)

CONTENT WARNINGS descriptions of injuries, pain, torture, severe depression, and PTSD. If you thought the last one was dark, buckle up.

AUTHORS NOTE wow, three fics in two days?! What happened to me? I have just been super motivated to write creatively recently, which is exciting! So here, enjoy the second part of the Season's series, Winter.

Winter's embrace was a bleak grip, the world laying shrouded in a suffocating blanket of ice and snow, each flake a cruel reminder of nature's indifference. The landscape stretched out before you like a desolate wasteland, barren trees reaching up like skeletal fingers towards a sky heavy with the promise of more bitter cold to come. There was no warmth to be found here, only the biting chill that gnawed at your bones and numbed your very soul.

Gone were the vibrant colors and lively sounds of spring, replaced instead by a deafening silence broken only by the hollow howl of the wind as it whipped through the skeletal remains of once-thriving forests. The air was thick with a palpable sense of despair, each breath a struggle against the icy grip of despair that threatened to crush you under its weight.

As you trudged through the snow, each step felt like a punishment, a relentless march towards an uncertain fate. The landscape seemed to taunt you with its emptiness, a cruel reminder of the futility of your existence in a world so devoid of life and hope. Shadows danced across the frozen ground, twisting and contorting into grotesque shapes that seemed to mock your very presence.

And yet, amidst the desolation, there was a perverse beauty to be found – in the stark contrast of black against white, in the delicate lacework of frost that adorned the barren branches, in the eerie stillness that hung heavy in the air like a shroud. It was a beauty born of darkness, a twisted reflection of the cruel whims of fate that had brought you to this forsaken place.

In the heart of winter's icy grip, you found yourself consumed by a sense of isolation and despair, a prisoner in a world that had long since abandoned any pretense of kindness or compassion. It was a season of suffering, of unrelenting cruelty, of darkness so deep that even the faintest glimmer of hope seemed but a distant memory. And as the cold crept ever closer, you couldn't help but wonder if there would ever be an end to the endless winter that had consumed your very soul.

(Wintertime, Velaris)

As the first rays of dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, I sat alone on the edge of my bed, my gaze fixed on the empty space where my wings used to be. The pain, both physical and emotional, gnawed at me like a relentless predator, sinking its claws deep into my chest, a constant reminder of everything I had lost. My once majestic wings, the very essence of my being, were gone, severed from my body by those who sought to break my spirit.

With trembling hands, I traced the scars where my wings had been, feeling the phantom sensation of membrane-like skin against my fingertips. The memory of their hard, bone-like ridges, their graceful span; it lingered like a bittersweet melody, haunting yet achingly beautiful. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the world around me with their shimmering veil, but I refused to let them fall. Crying felt like admitting defeat, acknowledging just how shattered I truly was. So instead, I pushed the pain down, burying it deep within me, where no one could see.

But the emptiness inside me was a vast abyss, yawning wide and hungry, impossible to ignore. I had always prided myself on my resilience, my strength, but now I felt like a mere husk of my former self. The trauma of my kidnapping weighed upon my mind like a heavy shroud, casting shadows that danced and twisted in the corners of my consciousness.

As the days stretched into weeks, and weeks into months, I withdrew further into myself, cocooning my heart in layers of solitude and silence. The world outside seemed distant and hazy, a blurred landscape of faces and voices that I could no longer connect with. I couldn't bear the pity in their eyes, the whispered words of sympathy that fell like stones upon my wounded soul. So, I built walls around my heart, brick by brick, until I was encased in a fortress of my own making, impervious to the outside world.

Even Azriel, my steadfast companion, my unwavering ally, found himself barred from the inner sanctum of my heart. He tried to reach me, to break through the barriers I had erected, but I turned away, unable to bear the thought of exposing my vulnerability to anyone, even him. I didn't want their pity or their well-meaning words. All I wanted was to be left alone with my pain, to drown in it until it consumed me completely.

But even in my darkest moments, a flicker of hope danced on the periphery of my consciousness, a tiny flame that refused to be extinguished. It whispered of resilience and redemption, of healing and renewal, but I pushed it away, hiding from its warmth like a frightened child. For now, I would remain adrift in a sea of darkness, lost and alone, clinging to the fragile thread of hope that promised a way out of the abyss.

The memories played out in my mind with vivid intensity, each scene etched into my consciousness like a brand of torment.

I remembered the moment I was jolted from unconsciousness, the harsh voice of my captor slicing through the haze like a blade. "Wake up, whore," he hissed, sending a shiver down my spine and igniting a primal fear within me. Blinking against the darkness that enveloped me, I felt the oppressive weight of a bag over my head, suffocating and disorienting. Panic surged through me as I realized my bound state, my struggles against the restraints futile in the face of impending doom.

The voice, dripping with malice, mocked my defiance. "No need to struggle, sweetheart," he sneered, his words a cruel reminder of my helplessness. As I strained to make sense of my surroundings, fear clawed its way through my throat, leaving behind deep grooves of despair. The familiar scent of damp earth and mildew filled my senses, a chilling reminder of the unknown horrors that awaited me.

A flicker of hope emerged in the form of Azriel, my steadfast protector, but it was quickly extinguished by the looming presence of Lyris, a childhood friend turned tormentor. His eyes gleamed with sadistic delight as he brandished a dagger, the cold metal glinting ominously in the dim light.

With a cruel smirk, Lyris descended upon me, his voice filled with twisted pleasure. "Time to finally take what's mine," he taunted, the blade poised to inflict unimaginable pain.

The first cut tore through me like a bolt of lightning, a searing agony that ripped through flesh and soul alike. My cries echoed off the walls of the chamber, lost in the darkness that enveloped me.

But the torment did not end there. With each merciless stroke of the blade, Lyris carved away my very essence, leaving behind a shattered shell of my former self. I watched helplessly as my wings, once symbols of freedom and strength, were mutilated and discarded like worthless scraps of flesh.

And as the last remnants of my identity fell away, a hollow emptiness consumed me, leaving behind only the cruel scars of my torment. I was no longer whole, no longer the person I once was. I had been robbed of everything that defined me, my essence stolen by the darkness that lurked within the depths of my captor's soul.

As the soft rap echoed through the hollow corridors, it felt like a distant echo of a life I once knew, one filled with warmth and camaraderie. Reluctantly, I approached the door, each step heavy with the weight of my turmoil, the heavy thud of my heart matching the rhythm of my footfalls.

Feyre stood there, framed by the soft glow of the hallway lanterns, her presence both a comfort and a reminder of the bonds I had once cherished. In her hands, she cradled a delicate tray, a small offering of sustenance amidst the darkness that engulfed me.

"I brought you some food," she offered, her voice a soothing melody in the stillness of the room, a fragile thread of connection in the vast expanse of my solitude. "I thought you might be hungry."

My response was curt, a reflexive defense against the vulnerability her kindness exposed. "I don't need your pity, Feyre," I retorted, the bitterness in my voice a stark contrast to the warmth of her offering. "I can take care of myself."

For a fleeting moment, hurt flickered in her eyes, a silent plea for understanding that cut through the barriers I had erected around my wounded heart. But she quickly masked it with a forced smile, her resilience a testament to the depth of her compassion.

Without another word, she set the tray down on the table beside me, the scent of warm food mingling with the heavy silence that enveloped us. It was a gesture of kindness in a world that had grown cold and indifferent, a fleeting glimpse of the friendship I had once treasured.

As Feyre lingered in the doorway, her gaze lingered on mine with a quiet intensity, a silent invitation to let her in, to share the burden of my pain. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked, her voice a gentle reminder that I was not alone, that there were still those who cared enough to reach out a helping hand.

But I shook my head, my walls still firmly in place, my pride a shield against the vulnerability her presence exposed. "No," I replied curtly, my voice a harsh echo of the emptiness that echoed within me.

With a nod of understanding, Feyre turned to leave, the weight of her disappointment a heavy burden on my already burdened soul. And as the door closed behind her, I was left alone once more, the silence of the empty room a stark reminder of the walls I had built to keep the world at bay.

The evening air was thick with the scent of spices and laughter as I made my way through the bustling streets of Velaris, the soft glow of lanterns casting a warm hue over the cobblestone pathways. Each step felt heavy, burdened by the weight of my own thoughts, as I navigated the vibrant tapestry of the Night Court.

Amidst the lively chatter and cheerful bustle of the city, familiar voices pierced through the haze of my melancholy. Mor's vibrant laughter echoed through the air, drawing my gaze towards her radiant figure standing across the street. Beside her, Cassian, his presence as imposing as ever, offered a welcoming grin that tugged at the corners of my lips despite my inner turmoil.

"Hey, there she is!" Mor's voice carried on the breeze, her smile bright as she beckoned me over. "Come join us!"

Cassian's invitation followed, his boisterous enthusiasm contagious as he gestured towards the tavern. "We're heading for a drink. You should come with us."

My heart clenched at the genuine warmth in their gestures, a stark contrast to the icy grip of my own despair. The desire to lose myself in their company, if only for a fleeting moment, warred with the overwhelming sense of unworthiness that gnawed at my soul.

But as Mor reached out to take my hand, her touch a gentle reminder of the bond we shared, a surge of jealousy and resentment swept through me. My gaze flickered to Cassian, his powerful wings a constant reminder of everything I had lost. Anger boiled within me, bitter and consuming, as I struggled to suppress the envy that threatened to engulf me. "I appreciate the offer, but I think I'll pass," I managed to say, my voice betraying a hint of regret. "I'm not really in the mood for drinking tonight."

Mor's smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of concern crossing her features before she masked it with reassurance. "That's okay," she said softly, her words a soothing balm to the ache in my heart. "But if you ever change your mind, you know where to find us."

With a nod of understanding, I watched as they disappeared into the throng of revelers, their laughter fading into the night. Left alone on the deserted street, the weight of my solitude pressed heavily upon me, a reminder of the chasm that separated me from the warmth of their companionship. As the echoes of their laughter dissolved into the stillness of the night, I couldn't shake the pang of resentment that lingered in my chest. But even amidst the darkness of my despair, I knew that I couldn't risk dragging my friends down with me. So, with a heavy heart, I turned away, retreating into the shadows once more, the silence of the night swallowing me whole.

The faint glow of moonlight, a silver cascade, filtered through the windows, casting ethereal patterns across the dimly lit kitchen of the Night Court's sprawling estate. I stood amidst the chaos, surrounded by a haphazard array of pots, pans, and ingredients scattered across the countertops. My attempt at cooking had quickly spiraled into a messy disaster, each failed endeavor only serving to fuel my frustration further.

As I grappled with the stubborn lid of a jar, a voice sliced through the silence, its presence both unexpected and unwelcome.

"What in the world are you doing?"

Startled, I turned to find Rhysand standing in the doorway, his silhouette a stark contrast against the luminescent backdrop. His wings, a breathtaking display of power and grace, unfurled behind him like the majestic sails of a ship, the membrane-like skin gleaming in the moonlight. They seemed to pulsate with an otherworldly energy, each beat a testament to the freedom and strength they embodied. My heart clenched at the sight, a bitter pang of jealousy twisting in the depths of my soul. Once, I had known that same sense of freedom, had soared through the skies with effortless grace, my wings slicing through the air like a blade through silk. But now, they were gone, cruelly ripped from my back by those who sought to break me.

An ache, dull and persistent, throbbed in the space where my wings had once been, a constant reminder of everything I had lost. I longed to feel the wind beneath me, to taste the exhilarating rush of flight once more, but it was nothing more than a distant dream, forever out of reach.

"None of your business," I snapped, my voice a whipcrack of frustration, my fingers still wrestling with the stubborn jar lid. The last thing I needed was his pity, his condescending attempts to help when I clearly didn't want it.

Rhysand's gaze softened, a flicker of concern crossing his features as he approached with cautious steps, his movements a ballet of grace. "You're making quite a mess," he observed, his voice gentle but firm, like the soothing murmur of a distant stream. "Let me help you."

I recoiled from his touch, the anger bubbling to the surface like molten lava erupting from the depths of the earth. "I don't need your help," I spat, my voice tinged with venom, the bitterness like bile in my throat. "I don't need anyone."

There was a brief pause, a pregnant silence hanging heavy in the air as Rhysand regarded me with a mixture of sympathy and frustration. "You're clearly upset," he said softly, his words a gentle caress against the storm raging within me. "Let me help you. Let us help you."

But I refused to listen, the tempest of my emotions raging unabated, the walls around my heart fortified against any intrusion. With a strangled cry of frustration, I shoved past him and fled from the room, the echoes of his words following me like a haunting refrain, the cadence of his footsteps a melancholy echo in the corridors of my mind.

Alone in the sanctuary of my darkened chamber, I collapsed onto the bed, the weight of my own solitude pressing down upon me like a suffocating avalanche. Tears welled in my eyes, hot and stinging, as I buried my face in the pillows, the emptiness consuming me like a ravenous beast, its jaws gnashing at the frayed edges of my soul.

"Mind if I join you?"

Nesta's voice broke through the silence, her presence a welcome intrusion in the stillness of the night. I turned to face her, my expression guarded and wary, unsure of what to expect. She stepped onto the balcony, her graceful movements a stark contrast to the heaviness that weighed upon my own shoulders. There was a quiet understanding in her gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the pain that lingered beneath the surface.

"I know what it's like," she said softly, her voice a gentle murmur in the quiet expanse of the night. "To push people away, to build walls around your heart so high that no one can reach you."

I bristled at her words, the anger and resentment bubbling to the surface like a dormant volcano awakening from its slumber. How dare she presume to understand the depths of my despair, the darkness that threatened to consume me from within?

"You have no idea what I'm going through," I snapped, my voice tinged with bitterness. "You have Cassian, you have someone who loves you unconditionally. I have no one."

Nesta's gaze softened, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes as she reached out to take my hand. "I may have Cassian, but that doesn't mean I haven't faced my own demons," she said gently. "I know what it's like to feel like you're drowning in darkness, to feel like there's no way out."

I recoiled from her touch, the walls around my heart growing ever taller with each passing moment. "I don't need your pity," I retorted, my voice laced with venom. "I don't need anyone."

Nesta's expression faltered for a moment, a fleeting glimpse of hurt crossing her features before she quickly masked it with a steely resolve. "Fine," she said, her voice tinged with resignation. "But just know that I'm here if you ever change your mind. No judgments, no expectations. Just someone who understands." And with that, she turned and walked away, leaving me alone once more with the weight of my own sorrow.

The library exuded an atmosphere of solemn tranquility, its shelves adorned with ancient tomes and illuminated by the soft glow of flickering candles. I sat ensconced amidst the towering pillars of knowledge, a solitary figure in the midst of a vast sea of wisdom, my thoughts tumultuous and unruly.

"I’m joining you.”

The voice, sharp and unwavering, pierced the silence like a dagger, its intrusion disrupting the fragile peace that had settled over the room. Startled, I glanced up to find Amren standing before me, her gaze penetrating and incisive, cutting through the veil of my solitude with unnerving precision.

"Fine," I sighed, my voice tinged with resignation as I gestured for her to take a seat. Amren wasted no time in settling herself across from me, her movements fluid and purposeful, her eyes fixed upon me with an intensity that made me squirm.

"You look like hell," she remarked bluntly, her words a harsh echo in the stillness of the library.

I bristled at her candor, the urge to lash out bubbling up from the depths of my despair like a tempest on the horizon. But there was something in Amren's gaze, a glimmer of genuine concern beneath the steely facade, that gave me pause. She wasn't asking out of idle curiosity; she genuinely wanted to understand the turmoil that churned within me.

"It's nothing," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper as I averted my gaze, unwilling to meet her probing stare.

Amren snorted in disbelief, her lips curling into a sardonic smile as she leaned forward, her eyes boring into mine with unrelenting intensity. "Don't give me that bullshit," she retorted, her tone sharp and unyielding. "I may not be the touchy-feely type, but even I can see that something's eating you alive."

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing with each passing moment as I struggled to find the words to express the depth of my despair. But before I could respond, Amren reached out and grasped my hand, her touch surprisingly gentle despite the steel in her eyes. "I'm not going to pretend to understand what you're going through," she said softly, her voice a quiet reassurance in the stillness of the library. "But I do know one thing: you don't have to face it alone. We're your friends, and we're here for you, no matter what."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, hot and stinging, as I looked into Amren's unwavering gaze. In that moment, I realized that she was right. I didn't have to carry the weight of my despair alone. I had friends who cared about me, who were willing to stand by my side through the darkest of times. But even as the realization washed over me like a tidal wave, a part of me rebelled against the idea of letting them in. The walls around my heart, built brick by brick in an attempt to shield myself from further pain, felt impenetrable, insurmountable.

With a trembling breath, I pulled my hand away from Amren's grasp, my movements abrupt and jerky. "I don't need your help," I said, my voice strained with emotion. "I don't need anyone."

Amren's expression hardened, her eyes flashing with barely concealed anger as she stared at me, incredulous. "You're a fool if you think you can face this alone," she spat, her voice cold and cutting. "But fine, if that's how you want it. Just know that when you finally come crawling back, don't expect us to welcome you with open arms."

And with that, she rose from her seat and stormed from the room, leaving me alone once more with the weight of my own despair. Even as the silence settled around me like a suffocating blanket, I couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that gnawed at my soul.

As the twilight descended, casting its ethereal veil over the Night Court's training grounds, I found myself standing alone at the edge of the courtyard, my heart heavy with the burden of my own anguish. The fading light painted the world in hues of amber and indigo, a melancholy backdrop to the tempest raging within.

With measured steps, Azriel approached, his presence a soothing balm amidst the chaos of my emotions. His silhouette merged with the shadows, his eyes alight with concern as he drew near. "Are you alright?" His voice, a tender caress against the backdrop of the evening's symphony, reached out to me, offering solace in the darkness.

I turned to face him, my heart aching with the weight of unspoken words, the tumult of my soul laid bare in the vulnerability of my gaze. "Do I look alright?" I whispered, the bitterness of my sorrow echoing in the stillness of the night. "Do I seem like someone who has it all together?"

Azriel's expression softened, his gaze a mirror to the storm brewing within me. "I'm just trying to help," he murmured, his voice a gentle melody that stirred the depths of my wounded spirit.

Tears welled in my eyes, the ache in my chest threatening to consume me whole. "Maybe I don't want your help," I confessed, the admission a fragile confession of my deepest fears. "Maybe I'm tired of everyone trying to fix me, like I'm some broken thing in need of repair."

The hurt that flickered in Azriel's eyes pierced through me, his anguish a reflection of my own. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice laden with remorse, a silent plea for understanding.

My resolve wavered, the walls around my heart crumbling in the face of his compassion. "I don't need your apologies," I confessed, the weight of my pain heavy upon my shoulders. "I just need… I don't know what I need."

With that, I turned away, the vulnerability of my confession hanging heavy in the air between us. As I retreated into the enveloping darkness, I felt the warmth of Azriel's presence recede, leaving me alone with the ache of my own brokenness. And in the stillness of the night, I grappled with the realization that perhaps, amidst the chaos of my despair, what I truly longed for was the one thing I had pushed away—the comforting embrace of someone who cared.

But even as I yearned for solace, the sight of Azriel, the one who had rescued me from the clutches of darkness, stirred within me a tumult of conflicting emotions. His Illyrian heritage, his wings—symbols of strength and freedom—served as painful reminders of the horrors I had endured. And in his compassionate gaze, I saw reflected the shadows of my past, haunting me with memories I longed to forget. It was hard to see him, to confront the echoes of my trauma that lingered in his presence, yet even amidst the pain, there remained a flicker of hope—something that clung so tight, that wouldn’t let go, and that throbbed in the presence of him.

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[imaginariumwanderer]

So I finished the latest story...

This is pretty horrifying from a cookie's perspective. One of cookiekind's main forms of happiness is their ability to express their various colorful flavors/personality. I suppose it's the same thing as tripping a living human of their sentient and individuality. Ego death. Leaving behind hollow flesh

We be committing unspeakable crimes against nature with this one✨

We be crumbling our colleagues while slowly losing our mind with this one✨

On another note, "eyecing" make its glorious return. I have no memory of it being used before the Mystic Flour update. Can anyone point out the other times it was used, if there's any?

????!!!!! OMG HIIII

MORE CJ PAWLIKOWSKI VOICE ACTING YES YES YES

Don't do it, don't give me hope...

I know he's the last to be released u don't need to tease me like that

So the other-space here clearly refer to the Dark side of the Moon, right? Is there any other-space I don't know about? Also, I guess this confirmed Shadow Milk is the only one able to do this astral projection thing. On one hand, it increases his chance of appearing a bit more before his own update, on the other hand, we most likely won't see the other Beasts having any talking-role any time soon

The implications here...

So the Beasts may likely have their own voices of their Light just like the Ancients does. And "Soul Jam"... Without an (s), Shadow Milk is specifically referring to his Soul Jam here, I can't believe my headcanon of the Light of Deceit/Knowledge whispering things to him is becoming true

It's a thing unique to Shadow Milk and not the other Beasts too. Interesting how both the voices of the Light of Truth and Deceit operate differently from the other Lights' (referring to the theory that the Light of Truth have never make an actual appearance since all instances of it in-game were all Shadow Milk's disguise)

... Clownage. Whelp! time to integrate that into my daily vocabulary!

Alright, so we got confirmation Smilk is not only aware of Dark Enchantress' plans but he's actively helping her out. Whenever he's oblivious to her other, secret plans (stealing the Beasts' Soul Jams) or he's aware and already have a counter measures to it though, is still up in the air.

My money is on the latter. Shadow Milk have shown time and time again he's way more knowledgeable than he let on. The way Dark Enchantress was depicted in his previous "play" does show us a certain level of... Appreciation(?) but who's to say he actually trusts her? It really does feel like a "I rub your back if you rub mine and then we'll backstab each other" kind of deal. Now I'm curious about the other Beasts' opinions on Dark Enchantress as well.

Where's Dark Enchantress anyways? We haven't seen her make any on-screen appearance in a while. I, um, I missed her a lot actually. I missed the diabolical meema

Laughing at Wind Archer cookie repeatedly telling Smilk to stfu from the moment they've met. He's saying what we've all been thinking

Also laughing at Shadow Milk basically only here to make cryptic riddles and mocks our Wind Archer. He really does have nothing better to do lol

Yeah that's right, FRIENDSHIP will save the day!

For real tho, tons of intriguing implications about the Ultimate Cookie with this one. I gotta mulls over them for awhile...

GUYS NEW SMILK'S SPRITE JUST DROPPED

HE'S ROLLING HIS EYES. HE'S SO DONE I'M DEAD

"In conclusion, this changed nothing!"

Kidding, kidding! I was getting real worried for Wind Archer there despite knowing full-well it's not crk's style to let something happen to a character unless they're a minor villain or an elderly *grinding my teeth trying not to bring up Elder Faerie again oops too late-*

The unexpected yet sweet moment of empathy Wind Archer have toward the Ultimate Cookie combined with the stunning animation toward the end were definitely my favorite part of this little adventure. Although I half-expected for him to have his magical girl transformation like White Lily and Dark Cacao right then and there-

"Beast-Yeast EP 5 coming soon to theaters near you! Remember to stay tuned, mkay? Okie dokie? Pinkie promiseee?"

[thirdrootwriting]

Brother of my Brother (Infinite Crisis - Bad End) pt2

Tim Pov, and Prodigal flashback this chapter, because I love Prodigal Tim and Dick.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Dick's body is still, cold and perfect on the autopsy table of the Batcave.

It looks so horribly wrong, like a puzzle piece crammed into the wrong place or an egregious bit of nonsense code in a command string. A blip of the universe.

Tim still remembers how Mary and John Grayson had looked as corpses. It had been a horrific, gory nightmare with hot blood pumping from their shattered bodies and their white bones visible in the air. Their son, warm and kind Dick Grayson, who just an hour or so earlier had pulled Tim into a hug that smelled of stage makeup and chalk dust and promised to do a quadruple somersault just for him, looking down at the sight that would haunt Tim's nightmares for years to come with empty, disbelieving eyes.

The first coherent thought Tim ever remembers having is, 'He was supposed to fall too', and a close second was this, "I won't let him fall too."

Staring at the near perfect corpse on the table, that used to be his- well, there wasn't really a word for it. Brother, hero, idol, and mentor all seemed trite and underwhelming for the person that was Tim's first memory, his reason for becoming a vigilante, his safety net; the person who had taught him how to fold laundry and talked Tim through everything from his teenage relationship drama to his struggles with being Robin.

Staring the corpse of a person who had made up so much of him, Tim feels hollowed out and unable to bear the heavy weight of his failure.

His mother, his father, Stephanie, and now Connor,

 . . . and now Dick.

. . .

. . .

No. No, Tim has to think. He's not a civilian, Dick's not a civilian. He's Nightwing, leader of the Titans and protector of Bludhaven, the prince regent of Gotham's night as the only other person who has done justice to Batman's cowl. He's been fighting crime longer than more than half the JLA, been to different dimensions and space and …

He's Robin. Dick's Robin, he can't be dead for good. What type of world would it be if fucking Jason Todd can come back, but Dick Grayson would stay dead?

Tim bites his tongue and steps closer to the table holding Nightwing's corpse and closer to Batman, still cowled and staring at his first son's cold body. The darkness of the cave and Batman's stillness make him even more inhuman appearing than usual, like he's a natural feature of the dank cave, a demon of shadows only visible out of the corner of your eye.

Neither of them, nor Alfred, have worked themselves up to removing Nightwing's mask.

Tim clears his throat, forces his voice to come out above a whisper, "The Lazarus Pits." He swallows, "I'm sure there are a couple the League of Assassins doesn't have control over that we can search out."

Nightwing in an unthinking rage would be terrifying, but between Crane's fear gas, Joker's venom, Ivy's pollen, and occasionally Bane's stuff they'd all been dosed up and compromised before. Not to mention, Nightwing's always been best out of all of them at staying calm and rational when dosed or altered like that.

A trained acrobat since birth, his fear response is to assess and rationally respond, and luckily his anger response to curl up and only lash out if prodded, it takes lot to get him to really attack.

(Not the heads in a duffel bag and midnight ambushes to write messages in blood type, unlike some people).

Tim looks down, more critically now. Nightwing's suit is torn and dusty and there is some faint visible bruising, but no large gaping wounds or grossly deformed bony structures. He mentally catalogues the damage, reaching out a hand to remove Dick's mask, "We should put him in one of the cryo freezers till then to prevent decomp-"

Batman's hand shoots out, grabbing Tim's wrist with a bruising strength, "The ray Alexander Luthor shot him with was a type of modified sonar. All his hollow internal organs and many of his blood vessels burst when he was hit. Despite the lack of outside damage, he's completely broken inside."

The grip on Tim's wrist gets harder and harder as Batman continues to speak, toneless, his face inhuman and unreadable behind the cowl.

"A Lazarus Pit can only revive someone from death with a near intact corpse, and whether it brings back the soul is still a matter of debate."

Tim feels something in wrist crack slightly, but the pain is secondary to the emptiness he feels as Batman shoots down his plans,

"Rob-, Dick Grayson is dead. He's not coming back. He's gone. We failed."

Batman lets go of him, He takes the hand that probably just cracked Tim's wrist and gently runs it through Dick's hair before carefully peeling the mask off of his son's face. Then with that same hand pulls off his own cowl. The expression on his face is . .

Tim steps back, his right wrist aching and his heart pounding with something, Maybe heartbreak, maybe fear.

He doesn't think Bruce notices. There is nothing in his eyes except the corpse, as if Batman and death are the only things in this cavern, as if Bruce wants nothing more to protectively cradle this dead body and his own grief till the very end of the world. It's the same way he stares at the bloody Robin uniform in the memorial case or his parents' portrait in the Manor, but so much worse.

Normally, Tim would try to stop him, because that's what Robin is. The light to Batman's darkness, the person that reminded him that they did this for the living as well as the dead. Normally, Tim would pull Batman back, and if he failed he'd run to Bludhaven to …

Robin is dead, there is no stopping Batman.

Tim leaves the Cave. All he can do now is search for the answer to his own grief.

---------------------------

Three years ago

Tim knows the situation, with Bruce and Alfred being gone from Gotham, and trust in Batman at an all-time low cause of all the stuff Azrael did in the cowl, is bad but there is still a sort of guilty, giddy excitement he feels in chest when Dick comes back with him to the manor to be his Batman.

Like yeah, the situation is really bad, but Dick Grayson is going to be his Batman, and Tim gets to be his Robin!

It has him near bouncing in place, even though Dick seemed gloomy, especially as he took in the state of the Alfred-less Manor all boarded up and dusty. Still he'd gotten straight to tidying the Manor up, as if Dick was determined to do the work of both Alfred and Bruce while the usual inhabitants were gone. He'd even let Tim help, tossing him a broom, and then later teaching him how to fold sheets.

Tim is concentrating, trying to get the fitted sheet he's pulled out of their latest laundry load into some sort of shape that not just a wrinkly ball when Dick strikes.

Too fast for Tim to see, he steps close and hooks his foot around Tim's right ankle. As Tim falls back, he must duck down because instead of hitting the ground Tim finds himself hoisted across Dick's back in a hold that feels like something between a fireman's carry and a pro-wrestler's move. The whole maneuver is so fast and fluid it barely even jars Tim, like this was something they'd choreographed and practiced a million times instead of an impromptu grab.

"Time for a break." Dick sing-songs, walking towards the door. "To the kitchen we go." His mood improved once they actually started working and there's a smile in his voice now that wasn’t there this morning.

Tim wiggles in the hold. It's not painful, not even uncomfortable like some of the pins he'd been subject to training with Bruce. Honestly, the gentle but firm grip (an acrobat's grip, someone who knew how to catch their flier) was far more reminiscent of the warm, chalk-dust scented hug Dick had given him during their first meeting as children. Tim is acutely aware of the feeling of being held, every spot of gentle pressure, each of his own muscles that want to relax into it.

Tim tries kicking his feet and twisting to break away, "Let me down! I can walk, you know." Both his movement and his words are ineffective, and Dick barely seems to notice as he continues on to the kitchen.

"Mmm, don’t think so. Think of it as training, just like you busting into my apartment to check on the security. I'm letting you know you need more practice guarding against sneak attacks."

From where his head is, Tim can just make out the corner of Dick's smile, a small comfortable curl of his lips, neither showy nor sharp. He looks so much happier than the bitterness and worry of this morning, and Tim fills up with a rush of pride.

He attempts kicking out again, putting more force into it, but Dick just readjusts his hold, "Not letting you go, Tim."

"I'll get you next time." Comes out of Tim's mouth, without him really meaning to say it. The warmth in his chest given vocal form. He's sorta means trying playful sneak attack of his own, but also sorta means he's not letting go in the other way, either. Never has since he was three and never will in a million years.

They finally reach the kitchen, and Dick sets him down with that same grin, "Sure, sure. Catch me if you can, Timmy."

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Recording Ends

The following transcript is composed from the first audio file recovered from a personal device of Olivia K. Sutton, resident of Bennett City. As of the writing of this transcript, she is reported missing.

[ “New Recording” starts. ]

My name is Olivia K. Sutton. I am switching to audio recordings because writing this all out will take too long to document my search, and my camera stopped working after being exposed to water in the Longhorn Hills Memorial Cemetery. I need to know that I am leaving clues behind in case I disappear like the rest of them.

Ever since the entire school bus of children went missing in Longhorn Hills, I have been looking for my son, Nathan. I have yet to find any evidence that would… make any sense. At least any sense in the conventional understanding of sense.

It seems impossible that a bus could go missing in a place it could not very well drive into. A place it was never meant to be in the first place. Not that anybody would believe me without proof.

And I am feeling increasingly paranoid that this entire disaster is being covered up. The video I uploaded was taken down, and I can’t get any answer on why exactly that was.

I don’t know who to turn to or trust anymore.

All I know is that there is a strange history of people disappearing in Longhorn Hills. I learned of this in my visit to the Longhorn Hills Historical Society, and I am now fully convinced that the circumstances surrounding everything can only be described as…

Unnatural.

Following the last known location of the missing bus to the Longhorn Hills Memorial Cemetery, I encountered strange glowing writing that was only visible on video recordings, and I heard the singing of a children’s choir in the distance. This lured me to a mausoleum in the center of the cemetery, where I was visited by… ghouls, I guess. I do not know what else to call them, so I will be calling them ghouls from here on out.

They spoke to me, and I was too terrified to follow what must have been empty and false promises. They claimed that Nathan was with them, which I refuse to believe. I managed to escape the creatures by crossing water from the flooding, which the ghouls did or could not follow me across.

Ever since, I have been plagued by awful hallucinations. I know others in the region have been suffering the same. The authorities attribute it to a chemical leak from a local plant, but I am not convinced. Just like the haunted looks on the face of any police officers I’ve talked to in person, everything they say to placate us rings hollow.

I think it’s all part of a larger cover-up. Contrary to what you might be thinking now, I don’t hope to find proof of that. If there is a conspiracy covering up all these strange events, I don’t want anything to do with that. I don’t want to put myself or anybody else in danger.

I just want to find Nathan.

All I know for sure is that there must be a connection between the unnatural phenomena and the children’s disappearing. This is what guided me back into Longhorn Hills, and to the Historical Society, which is something like a combination between a museum and a library, a repository of all the local community’s collective art and history. Like a few other places in town, it had been spared from the flood because of its location on one of the wooded hills in the area.

The rain has finally stopped, and it has been days since the flood in Longhorn Hills. I was going a little bit stir crazy at home but also dreaded going out again. I was staying away from alcohol and any medication, hoping to keep my head clear. Wherever I looked, I expected to see those slimy, black figures with their white-glowing dots for eyes. Instead, I only saw empty spaces where my son should have been. His chair at the table, his room, his favorite spot on the carpet in front of the TV…

My hallucinations turned those shadows of him into those creatures, whispering to me from the dark, and only vanishing whenever I turned on the lights.

His dad has been calling me, but I have not been picking up. He probably still has no clue about the incident and was just going to beg for money, anyway. Even if he knew, what on Earth was I going to tell him, anyway?

The drive into Longhorn Hills was… eerie. Desolate. Debris littered all roads, and several homes and businesses looked abandoned, even after the flood had cleared. Watermarks staining all structures showed me just how high the flood had reached, and I now consider myself lucky in having gotten out of town that day when I did. There were no fatalities, but plenty of people had been trapped in the top levels of those buildings overnight.

If I had been isolated on some building in the middle of a flood, after the ghouls, and the leeches, I would have lost my mind.

It was like there… it was like there was something else, darker, in the flood’s muddy waters. The stains themselves were like afterimages, ghosts of something buried. I have had recurring nightmares of water since that day. Fleeting in the details, but I always remembered murky waters right after waking up. Not drowning in them—followed by them. Seeing the water stains dredged up the same uneasy feeling those nightmares had been leaving me with.

According to the news, the flood had flushed out and displaced some of the cemetery’s bodies, washing them into town. I have purposely avoided looking into this for now. I have given up on listening to any public statements anyway, for reasons I already mentioned.

The curator at the Historical Society, Mister Holt, is a kindly elderly man dressed in a brown tweed suit. Exactly what you would expect from such a place, in such a town. He was surprisingly spry and helpful, patiently answering all my questions and helping me conduct my research.

Though I didn’t reveal to him what I had been through all week, I could read the doubts on his face, and I knew that my trauma from encountering the unnatural events in the cemetery had taken a heavy toll on me. I suspect that he knew I was one of the mothers of the missing children. Maybe that’s why he was so nice.

That toll… whatever he saw… maybe it is PTSD, coupled with the hallucinations, that make my demeanor so haunted. I can see it in the mirror every morning. I look like I haven’t been sleeping, and I sure as hell feel that way. Looking for ways to quickly escape any place I visit, and feeling watched by shadows, always flitting out of sight whenever I turn. He must have seen it.

The Historical Society’s archives were far more extensive than I had expected, and my research began to paint an unsettling picture.

Longhorn Hills was built upon the riches of Alden Spice. I know, I know. Funny name. But the town’s history was anything but funny.

Spice was a prospector who first discovered gold in the local rivers. As with many gold rush boomtowns, an entire population cropped up out of nowhere as other prospectors flocked there on his heels. They named the place after the abundance of longhorns in the region.

Alden Spice got rich off the gold he found, but nobody else in Longhorn Hills would ever strike out as lucky as he had. Nobody ever discovered any concrete source. Likely, the gold came from elsewhere, washed downstream or something. There are only loose theories.

Spice helped fund many local businesses in the early days of the town, owing another part of his explosive growth in wealth to these investments. Longhorn Hills flourished in its early days, drawing droves of new prospectors and farmers and other folk whose hearts were filled with hope for the future.

All they found was misery instead. That explosive growth in Spice’s wealth continued unabated while the town’s growth floundered.

Beyond his investments in and around town, prospectors found something else instead of gold: they chanced upon coal. Spice, who then had already become the mayor of Longhorn Hills, got in early on coal mining while his rivals were all still burning through their funds to find gold. Spice would end up making a killing on the coal mining business, watching while all his rivals bankrupted themselves into oblivion.

Together with several cattle ranches, Mayor Spice was quickly found sitting on a sizable number of properties and an abundance of wealth. That earned him the nickname of “Lucky Spice”. Meanwhile, articles from the time suggest that the rest of Longhorn Hills was impoverished and miserable. Numerous people were working themselves to the bone in those coal mines and on those ranches, and the wealth pretty much only wound up in the mayor’s coffers and the manor of Lucky Spice.

Things changed after the arrival of Enoch Bell; a Baptist missionary whose fellowship grew as quickly in the squalor of Longhorn Hills as Spice’s riches had grown off the fat of the land. Neither Bell nor the other parishioners ever said it publicly, but I find it likely that some of them had been slandering Spice as a devil-worshiper, feeding into the fact that the magnate never attended church. Some accounts say that townsfolk of Longhorn Hills were arrested for libeling Spice as a witch or warlock, having traded his soul for wealth.

There’s even an unflattering painting in the Historical Society that someone made of Spice that suggests as much. In this rendition, he looks like evil incarnate. The brim of his pitch-black hat looks as sharp as a steel blade, the red on his shirt is drenched in blood dripping from the hat’s edges, and there is a sinister fire in his eyes, almost distracting from a small pentagram on the amulet around his neck.

While I was studying that painting, my hallucinations caught up to me again. Lights started flickering and inexplicably going out throughout the archives. A thin sheen of water covered the cement floors, and I was worried that the rains and flood had returned, when I saw Nathan, standing in the shadows. His eyes glowed bright white, like tiny dots, staring back at me.

He asked me why it was taking so long to come home after work. He said he was hungry and frightened because the power and lights had gone out. Every word came out as a whisper, though it also looked and sounded like hundreds of moths flapping their wings.

His presence felt… so real. I knew it couldn’t be, and fear held far greater sway over me than any motherly instincts. Still, I feel bad that I ran away from this… this thing, rather than towards it. Even if it wasn’t Nathan, shouldn’t I have been there for him?

I bumped into the curator in my panic. That broke the hallucinations somehow. He had brought me more material from other parts of the archives to help complete my picture of the town’s history.

The water, the ghost, none of it was really there. Just in my head.

Anyway, I digress. The history of Longhorn Hills.

One night in 1858, an angry mob of fanatics became responsible for the biggest crime in the town’s history. In the “Night of Fire”, as it was reported in Bennett City papers, these people lynched several dozen innocent souls, accusing them of consorting with Alden Spice and the Devil himself. Countless lives were ended by hanging, drowning, or being burnt alive. With the intent of inflicting upon Spice that same fate, the lynch mob marched upon his manor that night.

A riot of rumors say that they found him alone and dead in his home, bled out in his office after having slit his own throat with a knife. His desk and walls were supposedly all painted in occult symbols, using his own blood. The mob burnt down Spice’s entire estate that night, leaving no trace of the event, and erasing anything that might have backed up those rumors. It is also possible that they murdered him.

Many more innocent people died tragically in the spread of uncontrolled fires, burning down several buildings in town. Other lives and homes were spared by a sudden rainstorm, causing a flood in Longhorn Hills which also claimed more lives. A once-in-a-millennium kind of event, they had believed back then.

Though it would take considerable time to mitigate all damage from deaths, fire, and flood combined, the community of Longhorn Hills in the 1860s recovered, owed in part to the coal mine reopening mere days after the calamity.

Many people had disappeared from Longhorn Hills after that frightful night, either having moved away, or vanished inexplicably. Speculations point to several having evaded lawmen, dodging responsibility for the actions of the lynch mob. No records exist to name anybody responsible in the killings, nobody claimed to know the people responsible by name, nor was any justice ever meted for the incident.

To make penance for the horrors of that dark night, Enoch Bell washed his hands clean by claiming that the church had neither instigated nor condoned such actions. Under his leadership, the town instead established the Memorial Cemetery out in the woods, where the church spent weeks consecrating the grounds. Many graves set up there were empty, serving as reminders to the people lost in the Night of Fire.

In the center of the cemetery now stands the Longhorn Hills Baptists Mausoleum, in which Bell was eventually interred, alongside many other parishioners.

That had to be the same place. Where the ghouls had chased me from.

I do not know or understand how all these things are connected, but I know deep down that they are somehow. Everything—all the events—they feel like symbols, rhyming and repeating across time. Rain and floods, disappearances. Occult symbols, either painted in blood, or glowing in ways that human eyes cannot see.

Are these angry, hungry ghosts? Bound here by tragedy and inhuman crimes? I cannot say for sure. Why would they abduct an entire school bus of innocent children? It made so little sense, and yet… it felt like I had assembled the edges of a jigsaw puzzle. The picture in the center was still missing, but the rest fit together.

I had already started looking into more recent accounts, from the twentieth century, regarding any people going missing in Longhorn Hills, when my research was interrupted.

The sheen of water on the floors had returned, albeit deeper this time. Probably an inch of it at this point, as if it was gradually rising. I only noticed because of the freezing cold of my feet, tearing me out of my concentration, and how I felt how my socks and shoes were soaking wet.

The water was brackish in color and appearance. Brown and muddy, like the flood water I had crossed to escape the cemetery. In this water, too, worms were wriggling beneath the murky surface. And a choir of whispers sounded like children had invaded the library, punctuated by eerie giggles.

I expected to see the ghoulish apparition of Nathan somewhere, but instead stumbled into the curator.

But it wasn’t really the curator at all. It was… something that wore his tweed suit, only the suit was sagging, and littered with holes where the fabric was coming apart. And rather than skin, this thing masquerading as Holt was made of crumbling clay. A gaping black hole was all I could see in place of what should have been his face, with moths crawling out from its impossible depths, fluttering away, and crowding around the lights of the Historical Society.

I fled. I’m not proud of it, but I fled. I could not tell if the hallucinations were clashing with reality. I could not tell if I had hurt the kindly Mister Holt by pushing him in my escape. I pushed very hard to get past that figure.

(Olivia Sutton audibly sighs here.)

On the ride back to Bennett City, images flashed before my eyes, suggesting that I had seen blood. My gun, on the passenger seat, still contained all of its bullets. Had I hurt Mister Holt? I am too terrified to find out, and I will call the Historical Society right now to find out, and then the police if I get no answer.

I cannot keep doing this alone. I need help. I need someone who can help me tell reality and these hallucinations apart. I am not entirely convinced about them being hallucinations, or the result of some chemical leak. I feel like I know the truth is hiding in the shadows between reality and… this. All of this. This… other world.

But who can I turn to now?

[ “New Recording” ends. ]

[ltadoriyuujl]

read the cws on this one and immediately had to put it down and come back when i was in a better position to not explode on impact but im back and GOD was it worth it. let's get into it.

You wake first, tucked and folded into the space between your prince’s chest and the wall.

smth smth bkg would hollow out his chest if it meant we could sleep even a bit more soundly

“Selfish fucking–” “You're injured,” you try to dip closer in inspection but Bakugou riots. In the ballroom he clung to you, in the shadows he invited you close, in this hallway he is the sun of your orbit. He is fire. Your prince jerks a hand over your bandaged heart without much mind to your company and seethes, “You are reckless.” “I am exceptional,” you breathe without thinking. He is the brightest, angriest thing in the sky. He is arora and you’re a girl in golden fields, staring. His fingers warm your breast where dragontooth used to perch. Does he not get it? “I will die for you.”

this part made my head spin bakugo vs falling in love with ppl who can kick his ass and are not apologetic about it

“Pantry mission.” Kaminari shrugs to hoist his bread basket high enough for you to see, “Food and rest..” he grins Alderan. You finish, “build blood.”

it's kinda crazy the real allegiance i feel to this fake country. need a tshirt that says proud citizen of aldera

Soldier Sero instinctively drops his head to speak to you, “No sign of him since last night.”

this shouldnt have made me giggle like it did I LIKE WHEN MEN ARE SUBMISSIVE SUE ME

“Kill a mage, call for help, go the fuck home,” Mina grumbles with a moutful of bread.

she's so real love her

He glows in the remnants of his formalwear, stripped down to a bloody undershirt and charred white trousers.

i know he looks so good with his arms out GOD

“Me?” You almost snort. He tries not to let your amusement warm him, not an ember, not a spark. You begin fingering through your bandages again and he instinctively reaches to stop you. “You are not my queen to be doling out orders like that.”

i really do love how both bkg AND eyes grew over the course of the story. she never wouldve dreamed of this conversation back in featherbit

Bakugou is a cocky brawler on his first day of training with Jeanist and you are lugging weapons to the Keep. He is suffering through class and you are just outside the window, rushing to your lessons still trailing smoke and dragonfire. He is kneading dough before the holiday feast in roaring kitchens and you are armed, halberd and crossbow over your shoulder, collecting a plate the cooks put aside for you.You are supposed to be sleeping. He is supposed to be sleeping. You are both pretending to watch the stars and not each other in the library at midnight.

they're having a yearning off. a devotion competition if you will.

He stops you talking with a shake of his head and winces again when you rip another bandage free, “Will you stop it!”

You are swelling with Alderan fire, a pot boiling over, a hound, a dragon, a phoenix itching to fight. When you smile for bloodlust it is even more beautiful. He doesn’t know he is holding you until you stop speaking.

they're so "missionary to continue our argument from before" coded

“..Katsuki,” you murmur, and he kisses you. You who are just like him.

pomme if you were listening closely you could actually hear me cheering and screaming from halfway across the world

“I’m sorry,” he gasps in correction. He holds your head in his hands like a gentle promise even as his bones break themselves to be closer.

he needs to be fused to her bonesss he needs to be in her skinnn REAL MEN ARE BACK

He is nervous, he is trembling, you are something else, something black and infinite.

scared and horny alternating like a feedback loop in his mind until they become the same emotion

Your prince takes your jaw back up between his fingers and molds his lips to yours like he might give his life to you.

im dizzy im dizzy ive waited 87 years for this day and it was worth every second

He catches your throat with his teeth in your surprise above him and lays as many kisses up your pulse as you will let him before cupping his stinging jaw back up where you want it.

feeding my "katsuki the hickey king" addiction THANK YOU POMME

The swell of your thighs is unbearable in his palms. Your tattered dress parts for him– your damp flesh vibrates with his magic and he wants to sink so deeply inside of you– it is the only thing can could heal this ache, the one thing to make it worse. He wants to hear just one noise. Who taught you not to make a sound? Why can’t he stay quiet?

it is too much the picture of you, laid out under him in half-torn clothes, overheating, breathless– inside, let me have you, hips grinding through this heat until–

need to be bouncing and gasping and moaning on it OMG WHO SAID THAT

“Please,” Hawks groans, suffocating, into the Alderan pillows propping him up on the bed, “don’t fuck in here.”

genuinely made me laugh

bkg and anika 🤝 bkg and eyes

"for the love of GOD get a room without an audience"

“She’s,” he grunts, thrashing against his restraints, “she’s escaped.”

SOUND THE ALARM WE GOT A RUNNERRRRRR

anyway this chapter cleared my skin watered my crops seasoned my food to perfection WE LOVE YOU POMMEEEEE

𝟏𝟗 | 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"He quiets you with the sound and your smile falls. You are captain of the guard all dressed in red, training squires on spring mornings. He is the king who rises at dawn to watch you."

cw suggestive, kissing among other things, tooth tongue saliva, fingers and lips, manhandling, grinding, disregarded injuries, an audience if you squint. a beleaguered team regroups in the castle underbelly and someone is a flight risk. yn is thrilled and itching to fight but her prince can't focus. he can't let her go 5.2k

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Autumn in Takoba is hell everywhere else and even with the first ticklings of sunrise, the cold is immeasurable. Like the queen made a deal with grief and now her country becomes her heart. You wake first, tucked and folded into the space between your prince’s chest and the wall.

Your comfort is found between groggy thoughts, in the rough blanket someone has wrapped you up with, and in Bakugou’s arm that falls over your waist to keep that warmth inside of it. He’s dreaming, muttering something into the back of your head. He smells like home. Even unconscious, his bicep strains through the effort of holding something gently.

The night returns to you in pieces under the pathetic white light of a candle sconce. Something nearby reeks of the sea. A single roll of your shoulder confirms the bandages there, crusted in stiff blood and still too sore to stifle a wince because you were something not quite war fodder. A golden hand flexes broad across your stomach when you fidget in the dark. You were a guest at the queen’s ball, you were target practice, you killed Takobans. You underestimated your bloodloss. You are falling through the air into Bakugou’s arms again, dancing, glowing, bleeding, clingy. The king embraces his undead son. The mage. You fly up to sitting so quickly the world cannot react to you.

Bakugou is curled around the space you left in the dark, bloody and spattered with ash. His own blanket is pulled up over his jaw to ward off the chill and behind him is Mina, cheek flush to his back. Blood crusts down her temple in a path from her hair.

Sweat has soaked into the two places the prince held you most closely and chills now in the free air, heat and damp from his breath at the nape of your neck and down the small of your back where his hips cradled yours all bundled in good-enough blankets. The sweat is welcomed, it is ammunition, it is warm, it’s proof of your still beating heart. Don’t need a fucking babysitter. Cover yourself. Quit starin’. Don’t call me that. Eyes! You are mine. His eyebrows flex and knit in the seconds before he wakes up, but he is safe and he is exhaustingly whole.

It stinks like ocean foam because this hallway where you shelter is in the bowels of the castle, deep in its belly, tucked under the kitchens where your prince hid from you for weeks. Damp stone, fire in the air, the memory of this hallway from over the prince’s shoulder. Of stepping through the only red door here and returning to Aldera.

“Y/n?” A voice floats in whispers through the dark and down the hallway from the dim light of another candle.

“Who's there?”

There’s no response, no time, before one golden hand is flat across your chest and your prince raises his other to the sound, bristling with sparks. Bakugou startles from sleep and pushes you behind him. Mina groans, rubbing the back of her head.

In the dark, damp, and cold, he is made of starlight. When your prince exhales, the frost from him is tinged with tiny sparks.

“Calm down, Sleeping Beauty.”

You realize as the prince does that the voice is Shinsou’s and in the momentary relief Bakugou swings on you. Even before the Takoban guard can emerge from the dark he turns, hands snapped around both your wrists, apprehending his criminal. Red eyes, breath of smoke and a growl, the boy who laughs when he dances is back at home and you are left with the prince who hates your company.

“You.”

A defiant breath falls from you but you don’t dare voice it. No longer hidden in sleep, his still-beautiful face is marred at the jaw, a red burn in the lopsided shape of a hand. You would take his cheeks up in your fingers if he weren’t holding you steadfast. You would take the head of the man who hurt him. Your prince tightens his grip. He is staring strong enough to brand his fury on the backs of your eyes and without his chest, without your blankets, the chill creeps in like a tide. 

“Selfish fucking–”

“You're injured,” you try to dip closer in inspection but Bakugou riots.

In the ballroom he clung to you, in the shadows he invited you close, in this hallway he is the sun of your orbit. He is fire. Your prince jerks a hand over your bandaged heart without much mind to your company and seethes, “You are reckless.”

“I am exceptional,” you breathe without thinking. He is the brightest, angriest thing in the sky. He is arora and you’re a girl in golden fields, staring. His fingers warm your breast where dragontooth used to perch. Does he not get it? “I will die for you.”

Too much and not enough, he is spiteful and aggressive and alive, and maybe now he hates you enough for Takoba to have been a dream.

“Where is our company?” You speak again, nerves itching.

“Think they’re lost without miss martyr?”

Mina swats at him but he doesn’t let you go. “What’s wrong with you?” He glows at the edges like you haven’t seen since the forest outside Takoba. Bakugou’s teeth are bared but his wrath is different than before. He’s not picking a fight, he’s not forcing himself free of you. Your prince holds you tight in front of him where you cannot hide. He stares.

“Highness, where are they?”

“In the castle,” Shinsou interjects. He points up with a finger when he approaches your little group and emerges from the shadows in odd pieces of armor– greaves, cuisses, and faulds but nothing other than light padding on his chest. He yawns and he is bloodspattered. He looks like Uraraka and your panic begins to rise.

“Highness?” You turn back to the scarred prince who will not release you. Kirishima is not nearby, Kaminari and Sero, Uraraka, Fuyumi– “There’s no time, we–”

“We? We don’t have to do anything,” he drops you gently even though he is angry and you shake out your shoulders on instinct. “You need to sit the fuck down for once in your life and trust someone without a stab wound to shovel this shit.”

The hallway is different than you remember, it is colder without your fever, it’s taller. Shinsou yawns again and behind him you can just make out mixed voices in the dark. Your prince is orange amber, molten honey, chip and shoulder. He does not rise but tosses blankets away towards you like he no longer needs comfort. Mina glares over his back.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“It’s almost dawn,” she replies, helpful, not so much like magma. “We escaped down here with a few others but–”

A sudden scraping door overhead forces your group to lurch towards the ground. Shinsou drops to a crouch, hand on sword, and creeps forwards into the dark. Bakugou isn’t far behind, a warning hand outstretched to try and keep you down. “Fear not soggy citizens,” a voice hisses from the source of the sound and Bakugou straightens immediately. “We’re back.”

“Took you long enough,” Shinsou is firm but fond and you and Mina creep behind your prince to peer deeper into the dark. The charred remains of her white gown are stiff with mixed blood. Who’s out there? A few shapes catch light from a sconce past Shinsou’s shoulder and you have never been so unarmed in your life. The prince refuses to let you in front of him.

The light ahead flickers when someone handles it. Prince Natsuo– dusty but alive, thank gods– is illuminated clearly for a moment as he takes a candle from its sconce and a pair of footsteps descend from the kitchen door above. Kaminari and Shinsou stride down the last stairs into their prince’s hidden hallway and beam over a bounty of bread baskets.

More candles are lit by the Takoban prince and the hallway is quickly not so dark and not so lonely. A handful of Takoban lords and ladies lay scattered at the edges of the hall, all deep in sleep. It’s difficult to navigate but you rush past a golden arm and towards the Alderan boys, rejoicefully free of blood, as quickly as you might without stepping on sleeping hands so that your relief doesn’t overflow in loud noises.

“Where were you?”

“Pantry mission.” Kaminari shrugs to hoist his bread basket high enough for you to see, “Food and rest..” he grins Alderan.

You finish, “build blood.”

Sero starts speaking over your shoulder and you turn to catch the briefing for your prince and the Takoban guard, “There were no combatants in the kitchens. A few shuffling feet from the dining hall when we checked under the doors, otherwise,” he hands his basket off to a bloody and impatient Mina, “otherwise, I think they must be patrolling the exits.”

Bakugou grunts and chews at his cheek. It’s not lost on you how pointedly everyone speaks over your head, like you would throw yourself onto the nearest broadsword if given the chance to fight. Though, if you could see the amount of blood in your bandages you might hesitate to speak to you too. The cloth is stiff with it even if you’re no longer bleeding, but the wound that pinned you to the floor, the poison that knocked you from consciousness, no longer grip you with their icy fingers and you thank Shuzenji. You’re sore not a war casualty. Your friends are being hunted upstairs. If it takes the general’s voice to be noticed, so be it.

“Where is the mage?”

Soldier Sero instinctively drops his head to speak to you, “No sign of him since last night.”

“No new fires,” adds Kaminari, “he could be anywhere.”

“Where is the doctor?” 

“You’re awake.” You turn to the new rasp from the floor. Screaming her son’s name once used up all her voice like a long night singing and Queen Rei is scorched at the edges, but alive, in a pile of rumpled skirts. She sits among her sleeping people as Natsuo lights a candle for her to hold, “The doctor is upstairs, I’m afraid.”

“Still with the princess?”

She stiffens but nods, “We can hope.”

If that’s the case, you can also hope that they’re being protected by the two champions you left them with. You speak as you turn, “How,” and Bakugou’s silent eyes are the first you catch, full of something, “are all these people still asleep?”

The group gestures to Shinsou in their own ways– Kaminari cocks his head, Sero points with a shoulder– “We couldn’t know who was friend or foe,” the apprentice clarifies of the civilians the group managed to collect on their way down to the safety of this underbelly. “We still don’t know. It’s not safe to keep them conscious with the queen, not while we have so many injured.”

“How do we proceed?”

The group hums for a moment before Sero clears his throat, “We can’t escape with a group this big,” he looks to the bodies littered and pushed to the sides of the hallway, “we could be caught and with so few fighters, with so many injuries…we’d have to send a scout ahead and Shinsou’s the only one here besides His Highness and Her Majesty who knows this castle well enough to outsmart turncoat guards.”

Your ears perk at the claim and your prince bristles. Takobans are not the only ones here who have memorized cold hallways.

Kaminari interjects, “But without Shinsou here to keep the civilians out cold, if a potential traitor wakes up–”

“Worse– if the scout is caught upstairs with no way to communicate– overwhelmed in numbers– gods forbid the mage– we don’t know what weapons they have up there but we have to assume that it’s, it’s everything.”

No help’s come yet,” Mina adds to Sero’s point and drops to a seat on the cold floor to eat.

“So assume none will,” you exhale and she shrugs in agreement. You nod a few times and review your company. They are battered, all of them, and your breath inflates frost in stubborn puffs. Assume every enemy is dressed in Takoba’s full armory, how many survived the night? How many know about this secret Alderan hallway?

If the royals stay hidden here, Shinsou must stay too. Two exits, one to the kitchens and the other straight out to the beach where any mage worth their magic would keep a close eye. Too open. The only way is up, and more accurately, through. “We just need contact with the outside. Reinforcements.”

“Blasty could get out no problem, but we have to assume guards stationed in the city are working for the mage too.”

“Can we get word to Aldera? Another kingdom nearby?” Kaminari speaks with his hands like he’s grasping at thoughts “Carrier pigeon?”

“Not how those work.” You massage your knuckles with your thumbs, “We need the doctor.”

Mina’s magic hasn’t returned, what about Aizawa? Is Hawks alive? This party isn’t enough without the doctor’s magic, You need Kirishima and Uraraka, and the youngest Todoroki prince and his champion if you could manage it. Where is the useless king?

“If there were no injuries what would the plan be?” You roll your sore shoulder back and then freeze. There’s a weight under your bandages.

“Kill a mage, call for help, go the fuck home,” Mina grumbles with a moutful of bread. She rifles through Sero’s basket to find the softest pieces. Rolls are tossed to conscious members of the party, fresh and sweet, and you catch Bakugou’s eyes once more. His clenched fists give off the faintest popping. The prince you know wouldn’t be so quiet, he wouldn’t let his friends– wouldn’t let anyone– venture into the dangers of the castle without him.

“Highness?” you attempt as Mina pelts him with a pandemain. “Are you injured?”

Mina raises her hand, “I’m injured.”

The question unbalances Bakugou who simmers behind you, but he redirects his anger quickly enough with a gnash of rations. His burn almost glows under his jaw. “Course not, you are.”

“It’s my job to be injured, sir. What are your orders?”

He snaps forward but you are already palming your bandages. It’s still there. He glows in the remnants of his formalwear, stripped down to a bloody undershirt and charred white trousers. He glows in anger, he glows with something you don’t recognize and the prince who hates your company thrills you once more. You will kill the mage and you will take him home. You press your fingers to the shape tucked between your bandages like holding a hand over your heart.

“Then, I request an audience with His Highness Bakugou Katsuki.”

Hell can’t deny you. Bakugou reluctantly marches you down the dark hall and curses Alderan pride. A prince would never refuse his general’s audience.

You’re walking well, your breathing is even. He clenches his jaw instead of picturing the last time you came to his room, half on his back, half in his arms, all saltwater and sweat heartbroken with fever. The braids you keep neat at home fray in Takoba. The remains of your red dress are eaten black with burns and you are more phoenix than dragon ahead of him in this hellish castle.

“In,” he grunts when the red door is finally in front of you, “quietly.”

You turn around to confirm, turn into his chest and look up at him with those horrible eyes he loves to see watching. He rolls his own and pushes you both inside.

The air is iron with blood. You startle the second you enter because Captain Hawks is sprawled sideways on the bed under furs, back exposed to the cold air without life in the fireplace. His wings, wings, are a collection of odd scorched feathers protruding from his spine like boney fingers and a few feathers litter the pillows keeping him turned on his side.

They did their best posting him up after carrying him from the party, but even Bakugou concedes the scene is grim.

Candles are lit at intervals around the room, a few on the mantle and a dozen around the floor on mismatched candlesticks. Furs and tapestries are nailed over windows so that the light can’t be seen from outside. Aldera is three days away, home is only three days away and he can’t even get his people outside of the city gates– outside of the castle.

You take a deep breath and face him, “What’s your–” But he can’t let you speak.

“You’re not fighting. No more, you are completely reckless.”

“Me?” You almost snort. He tries not to let your amusement warm him, not an ember, not a spark. You begin fingering through your bandages again and he instinctively reaches to stop you. “You are not my queen to be doling out orders like that.”

“Stay here.”

“You are my job,” your voice staggers a bit when his hands take up yours to keep them from pulling at your bandages but you stare through surprise with glinting, obsidian eyes, “my purpose.”

Will you stay when this is over?

Bakugou is a cocky brawler on his first day of training with Jeanist and you are lugging weapons to the Keep. He is suffering through class and you are just outside the window, rushing to your lessons still trailing smoke and dragonfire. He is kneading dough before the holiday feast in roaring kitchens and you are armed, halberd and crossbow over your shoulder, collecting a plate the cooks put aside for you.You are supposed to be sleeping. He is supposed to be sleeping. You are both pretending to watch the stars and not each other in the library at midnight.

You stare through him and Bakugou stares at you in the candlelit chill of this makeshift bedroom. “Who mended your cape, Highness?”

He furrows both brows and sighs. He won’t win, “A friend.”

You’re smiling now which he should hate and in one jerk of your arm you tear a strip of bandage free. Dust of blood and the crack of its cast make him wince, but under the red material, soaked pink from your wound, is a small stitched square, a repair date, and a family seal. Yaoyorozu. “The traveling merchants Yaoyorozu don’t only mend capes.”

“And?” Of course they don’t. They’re the richest family on the continent, engineers, the lot of them.

“This seal is on half the tonics in the potions closet and on half more in the pantry. Weapons, clothing, ammunition–”

He stops you talking with a shake of his head and winces again when you rip another bandage free, “Will you stop it!”

“Aldera couldn’t study dragons without the tools that family designed– Takoba would succumb to winter every year without their insulation, without one of their boats in port. They are ubiquitous.” You continue unwrapping yourself, bare skin becoming raw scar until a piece of glass glints under the last of the wrappings. You tug it free before the stiff bandages even fall, and press it into Bakugou’s chest.

The glass is warm with the heat of your heart and you beam so close to him. He studies you. His hand closes over yours.

“Highness, we can fight with this. We can fight the mage and what we have left we’ll bring home. The Yaoyorozus can engineer something to reverse the effects– we have allies– not just them, we aren’t– aren’t–” You are swelling with Alderan fire, a pot boiling over, a hound, a dragon, a phoenix itching to fight. When you smile for bloodlust it is even more beautiful. He doesn’t know he is holding you until you stop speaking.

Bakugou cups both of your cheeks as you offer up the mage’s stolen vial of poison. You are formidable. You are terrifying. He holds you like you might go out candlefast in a breeze.

“We can still–”

“Y/n,” he quiets you with the sound and your smile falls. You are captain of the guard all dressed in red, training squires on spring mornings. He is the king who rises at dawn to watch you. “Thank you.”

The corner of your bodice has been cut away to expose your wound for the doctor and it is raw at its edges so close to your heart. Your collarbone shines with the new and mended skin there. Another scar from a wound that might have killed you, another injury you took in his place. You are reckless but that’s not the problem. Maybe derealization will hit Aldera after you die. Did you outsmart the ghost even as you were being raised from the dead?

“Highness–”

“Don’t.” Bakugou traces the shape of your pulse with his thumbs, “Don’t call me that.”

He’s hardly thought about home since you laughed with him on the catwalks. Since he gave you his hands to do what you’d like with and you told him they make something beautiful. He always thought he might not be able to hold things gently. He knows it’s hard, he knows his hands are meant to break and burst and destroy, but you are a relief. Your hands can kill, they can catch, they fold laundry, they break joints, and they tremble when sparks run through them.

“I don’t–”

“Anything but that, anything. Asshole, coward–” he wants to be upset with you, it is easier when you hate him. It is easier to fight.

“Bakugou.”

Closer. He knows there’s no time but he wants to be closer. You clutch the vial tight in one hand and rest the other over his bloodstained heart. He can feel your heartbeat in the curve of your jaw with his clumsy, heavy fingers. He shakes his head.

“..Katsuki,” you murmur, and he kisses you. You who are just like him.

Your back finds a wall smoothly this time when he dips low to catch your lips with his. There is no desperate grabbing, no stumbling, tripping, every push of his tongue against yours is deep and slow and starving. Your hand cups his chest in both protest and invitation, somehow you are scalding, somehow you are hungrier.

There is a thank you that chases every parting of your lips for everything he owes you. He owes you two lifetimes and a spar. More than that. He presses deeper. Blood flakes from his blond hair when your fingers rake through it and you pull just enough to make him growl.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps in correction. He holds your head in his hands like a gentle promise even as his bones break themselves to be closer.

You manage, “wait,” through the pause and when he jerks back you are no longer the nervous soldier crying in cold hallways. He is nervous, he is trembling, you are something else, something black and infinite. You lower your hand to his cheek and stare almost too close to see him clearly. The hand that kills becomes soft fingers that drift over his temple and push his shaggy hair from his eyes. You watch every part of him. Your eyes and fingers make shapes of his face as he stands above you, as he submits to your touch happily.

What else can he kiss from you? What will you offer him? Breath and tears, he wants more. Memories, exhaustion, boredom, tell him more about yourself, favorites and enemies, show him more tragedy, selfishness, joy. Take him to study dragons, not your soldiers, not your queen.

Your knuckle ghosts his burn and catches the swell of his lip and the wet there. Time be damned, blue mages, civilians, home and hell wait for you. He rumbles somewhere deep in his chest when your thumb presses just slightly harder, your breath catching, at the soft pink flesh and the tongue that darts out to wet you. Bakugou kisses the tip of your finger, again, again, you swipe saliva under your thumb and he kisses you there, again until you can’t take it anymore and lean forward to taste him. He has no such patience. Your prince takes your jaw back up between his fingers and molds his lips to yours like he might give his life to you. You knock hard against the wall and push against him with just as much force so that he must knock you back again to keep you where he needs you.

More of this, more of your greed, more of your desperation stolen in gasps, more of your body fitting perfectly into his hands. You pull at the neck of his undershirt, nails catching flesh. He’ll praise you. He’ll watch you. He only wanted to kiss you. He doesn’t know what it is to want, to be close to someone he needs to keep.

He can’t push any closer– chest to yours, legs between– you inhale sharply when he rolls too deep and he wants to apologize again but you arch your hips higher on instinct. It almost tips his head back. He thinks he says your name. You press warm and shaky against the thigh that pins you to the door while your lips keep him close, bobbing between sloppy presses and a tongue kneading wet against his. The friction of your hips stutters the yawning starving kisses. Where does he hold you? Sweat collects between his knuckles, the excitement soaks through him, you’re alive you’re alive, he grasps you under your thighs and up into his arms.

The pressure is worse here, you are a fire against the rawest parts of him. He catches your throat with his teeth in your surprise above him and lays as many kisses up your pulse as you will let him before cupping his stinging jaw back up where you want it.

He wants to dance with you. You nip where he offers himself, tongue and lip and neck, because your thrill never left you. He wants to fight, he wants to blow out all the candles and make magic for you in the dark. Bare, his shoulders beg you to find hold there, to grasp and scratch, draw blood, breathe fire, don’t let go of him. The swell of your thighs is unbearable in his palms. Your tattered dress parts for him– your damp flesh vibrates with his magic and he wants to sink so deeply inside of you– it is the only thing can could heal this ache, the one thing to make it worse. He wants to hear just one noise. Who taught you not to make a sound? Why can’t he stay quiet?

“Highness,” you breathe. He will break you of that habit, “Highness, I–”

He grunts the low sound of a question and pulls wet away from your kiss in strings of desperation. He wasn’t– he isn’t thinking. Bakugou loses half his halfgone composure when you stare into him with huge, burning eyes and bring an embarrassed palm up to your lips. His ears catch fire. Immediately he knows both of his cheeks and half of his chest are lost to flush. A chill through the air makes you shiver in his arms, back to the door, and he shudders, his own eyes widening at the crease of your brows and the sound you bite back.

“Your shoulder.” He blinks a thousand more times than necessary, “you–you’re– injury.” He almost drops you, almost falls over. Bakugou lets you to your feet– your braids catch on the wooden door above your startled bonfire eyes and it is too much the picture of you, laid out under him in half-torn clothes, overheating, breathless– inside, let me have you, hips grinding through this heat until–

“Highness,” a different voice drawls from the dark. It kills the thought and the silence of the room so suddenly both of Bakugou’s palms ignite in plumes of violet on either side of you. “Please,” Hawks groans, suffocating, into the Alderan pillows propping him up on the bed, “don’t fuck in here.”

“You’re awake!” You gasp because there’s nothing else to say.

“Not on purpose.”

Your prince cannot form a thought. He’s never had– never wanted the things he wants from you. He’s never been distracted from a fight. You begin patting yourself down, searching for a place to tuck the vial, settling the layers of your dress, pushing your hair back where you like it to lay, clearing your throat, catching your breath.

“Did I hear right?” Hawks grumbles again and the prince prepares to escape the end of the sentence, but both captains continue, “you need a Takoban scout?”

“You’re hardly fit enough for that.” Your tone is all disbelief but excitement shows through your embarrassment and he hates how readily you offer up all those sanguinary thoughts. Bakugou shakes his hair down from where you pushed it. He wipes his face with the back of a fist and sucks his teeth.

You will dive into the castle, you will cut down soldiers and dancers, and you will be killed by the mage before he can get you home all because you made a promise to a queen who is not here. He dreaded this. He should have taken Sero as his second. Kaminari would have done, why didn’t he just leave you?

“Can you walk?”

“I sure can’t fly.”

Bakugou bursts, all blush and bitten lips, “Neither of you are fit for reconnaissance and both of you will heel. We don’t have time to limp through the castle.”

You snap around, bright eyes, teeth shining, possessive and kiss swollen and wild. You turn to fight and then there is a crash. You are between your prince and the thrown open door faster than that injury should have let you.

He has half a mind to toss you over his shoulder when a blast of air so frozen it takes form, shatters through both of you in the doorway. You’re quick to bear through it and without waiting to cover Hawks’s hiding place you’re both down the dark hallway, longing, starvation, wet and warmth left behind you. The damp of the hall freezes over completely underfoot.

“Enemy?” You bark, death to stealth.

“The queen!”

The dim light of your meeting place is more pathetic than before, now that candles are dashed and sconces are punctured in awkward icy stalagmites. Mina and Kaminari are picking themselves up off the floor as their captain and prince race forward. Sero has Natsuo under the arm, “Shinsou.”

He throws his gaze over your shoulder to the wall in horror and you turn to follow it, past shining cobblestones, over clouds of breath to the Takoban guard, pinned half up the wall in a crashing wave of ice. Most of both legs and half his hip are trapped in the tide, leaving enough of his torso free to breathe easy. “She’s,” he grunts, thrashing against his restraints, “she’s escaped.”

Bakugou should hate the look on your face but he knows he looks much the same. Thrill makes you glow like he hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

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[insurrection-if]

ooo you're developing a new IF, author?

Aha, not quite! (；´∀｀)

Hunters is a part of the interconnected Universe of fiction concepts I have, so its nothing new in the catalogue. Other ideas in that Universe—Bird Caught in Wires (cyberpunk), In Blind Reverence (crime thriller?), and Faith & Beauty (fantasy intrigue with romance focus)—are much more developed in characters, plot, and concepts while dating back to my high school years.

Though, fun fact, when I decided to try my hand at IF, Hunters was a main contender for adaptation alongside Faith & Beauty and Insurrection. Insurrection being the oldest and most developed with its characters, concept, and plot trajectory won out since I thought that would translate to less pre-development revising for interactive storytelling . . . Until the HAWKS replaced the CONDORS as the core protagonists, thus setting so much pre-development on fire until I had to rebuilt from the ashes, haha! （；^ω^）

All the ideas in this Universe, except for Insurrection, are no priority or actualized IF. They’re more so pallet cleansers to just change things up in my daydreams so it’s not Insurrection overload in my brain, and that leads to ideas I figure I might as well jot down.

Hunters rests more on the undeveloped side—set pieces / realms, concepts, cultures, etc.—as it is all more so vague on its elements. The first defined characters other than vague outlines or silhouettes in my head are the brainstormed RO cast— and that allows me to get the ball rolling on an extended cast and plot around them . . . though in a rather passive manner as Insurrection takes the lead.

Hunters is particularly fun for me since it's so freeform. Mm, on the scale from ordered to chaos, it would rest second-to-last on chaotic (since it's so freedom in its elements) while the absolute chaotic end of the scale is occupied by the entire appeal of This World Was Never Ours which (to me) is the pure mashup and lawlessness of the setting and characters. Different planets, deities, societies, species, customs, worship, so on . . . it's all quite entertaining to me as it allows for so much switch-up and exploration!

I'll indulge myself a bit and share the (half-)mortal RO concepts below the cut. Aside from them, the romanceable Divines I have in mind would be founded upon Desire, Death, Justice, and Creation. Again though, Insurrection is the sole active IF on my plate, haha! (ｏ'ｖ｀ｂ)ｂ

Creed / Verina

Deemed a Paragon, etched into eternal myth, the Knight exhibits pride and grace with the subtle elegance worthy of a natural-born Divine. Sired by the Abyss and a Star, the Knight has been condemned to an immortal existence— lonely eons given meaning through their service to Order in the face of Chaos. Severe in their presence, righteous in their actions, none would dare to defy their curt and cold command. Their initiation into the Hunters is near ancient, though not soon enough to stand as a core founder. Recent centuries have inspired their bitter distaste towards most others that bear the society's mark, yet still they remain faithful to the 'brotherhood' their fellow Hunters demand.

Their half-Celestial nature is unhidden to the eye. Broad and muscular, the nightly darkness of their surface entraps shifting hues of violet and blinking stars contained within their humanoid form. Their hair, composed of a brilliant white flame kept short and neat when in a male form or flowing to their mid-back in a female form, flickers with life in accordance to their movement and emotions - always seeming to retain a soft brush as though caught within an eternal breeze. The hollowed space where human eyes would rest instead contains miniature blue suns. Typically mouthless, their face may adapt to inhabit more humanoid features such as a nose or mouth to better convey their emotions. Most notable about their shape is it’s tendency to melt into the shadows, capable of consuming an audience or room in its darkness or extending into tendrils at will. Their form is ultimately a shell, malleable yet fixed.

Their presence remains limited to the Courts of Divines or the battlefield, a life reflected in their penchant for black and blue-tinted ceremonial armor and attachment to their blade gifted by Justice.

Doran / Iris

Raised in the Court of Love, and former military in the realm of Curiosity, Doran / Iris is easily mistakable for yet another member of lowly humankind. Cunning and sly, playful with danger and desire, they are driven by their sense of curiosity and generous self-interest. They are a closet academic (an expert in histories, divinities, and customs) and bear a neutral stance on the killing of gods (caring more so for the reward that follows the deed). Flirtatious with rare intent to follow through, their true love seems to be the thought of adventure knocking at their door. Truly, their rank as a Hunter originated more from a desire to uncover the mysteries surrounding the exclusive and secretive organization from within than anything else. If anything, they might have been more suited to the life of a rogue or thief, yet the notoriety prestige of a Hunter keeps their lifestyle entertaining enough to not complain. Perhaps the most closely guarded secret about their person is their nature as a shapeshifter . . . a trait that proves to be most useful when unknown to others.

Their default human-esque appearance is fitted with pale skin, choppy golden hair, upturned green eyes, and a beauty mark rested upon their upper right cheek. Their lithe frame is fitted with black dress pants. pristine leather shoes, leather gloves, a half-open bell sleeved (corset) top, and half-cloak - though their attire is quite adaptable based on their immediate environment.

They are often found in forbidden vaults, courts, sanctuaries, palaces, or wherever else trouble and excitement can be stolen (or simply found).

Oliver / Olive

Partnered with the MC upon their initiation, Olive(r) seems to be a far cry from the iconic battle-hardened image of a Hunter. Born in the realm of Tranquility, their calm and amiable nature has made them quite the mediator in foreign lands. Impossibly tall with lean musculature, their demure stance greatly veils the true danger they possess as an elite archer trained in the Border Guard. Their home clan, abundant and lively, stirs homesickness through the decades spent apart, yet the former hunter and guard is loyal to the duty they've sworn. Olive(r) seeks out corrupt and cruel deities to deliver a swift and justified end, though they greatly fear the fate of the worshippers left behind.

Adorned in tight and sparse embroidered leather - rarely agreeing to more than low-waisted leather bottoms, boots, belt, and half-jacket (+ bra if female) - Olive(r) is more used to the free-spirited standard of appearance that is not always acceptable abroad. Their straight and silky dark turquoise locks, loose if male and braided if female, extends to their waist while bearing the occasional flower (or crown of them if possible). Their complexion ranges across their entire frame from teal to a forest green, sporadic and vague spots or gradients altering based on emotion, yet their entire body becomes luminescent in darkness as their colors shift from a royal purple to lavender shades. Their ears are elongated and sharp, commonly jutting out horizontally with considerable rotation and motor control. Their teeth are blunt, their pupils are rectangular, and (if male) white horns of a stag protrude from his forehead or (if female) an amethyst gem rests in the center of her forehead. And what cannot be overlooked is the flexible tail that grazes along the floor as a commonly inconvenient feature in certain realms.

Always close to the MC’s side, they often prefer to wander among the locals and immerse themselves in the common lives of the people to better assess the injustices or graces of the ruling Divine in that domain.

Itzal / Ihintza

Vindictive and harsh, the child to Grief has drowned themself in an endless pool of blood and vendettas. Their tongue is sharp fittingly sharp for their biting words. There is a fire in their eyes, a relentless passion in the methodical hunt they lead. They tend to become possessive over those under their protection, and bear a general melancholic air beneath the aggressive nature they try to exude. A wanderer by heart, they demonstrate few moral boundaries when it comes to their sense of justice and survival. They bear little to no reservations on which Divines to slaughter, making them a favored companion / courtier to the otherwise soft-spoken Death. Actions often precede words in their company, and bloodthirst tends to arise when their self-discipline slips from their grasp. A loner and outcast, they long to possess some sense of salvation or hope in their dreaded immortal existence.

Black paint smears itself across the upper portion of their face. Crimson outlines their eyes before trailing down their cheeks in fading lines. Ashen skin, blackened up to the elbows with jagged ends to the ichor shade, has become horribly scarred through the onslaught of pain and punishment received over a lifetime. Their sharp eyes, partially obscured by their (if male) short and curly or (if female) hip-length and curly dark hair, contain nothing but a vibrant red that glows in darkness. Long black claws extend from their rough hands, curved black horns protrude from their head, leathery wings extend from their back, and elven ears mark their mortal parentage. Dual fangs along their upper and bottom row of teeth further heighten their threatening appearance, though their mouth is often veiled behind a thick black scarf paired with a dark hood. Light armor outlines their (if male) husky or (if female) curvaceous figure and pairs with high boots and heavy jewelry along their ears. Painted markings in crimson or black across their physique often tell the tale of their most recent kills, washed through magical ritual only when room is needed for a tale more glorious or meaningful.

Their presence roams across broken lands left in ruin, near inaccessible to the common mortal. If not lurking near their next mark, they keep to the fringes of life.

Shahbaz/ Kamaria

More akin to an assassin than Hunter, they toe the line of disgrace as they have turned their sights more to mortal corruption while seemingly blind to the whims of the Divine. Quiet and reserved, their presence often remains undetected as death follows in their wake. Born in godless lands, their survival to this point has been hard-earned and riddled with poisonous guilt. Humble and cautious, they tend to observe from the shadows and work independently from those that may turn their blades upon them in the blink of an eye. They are diligent, dependable, but somewhat dreamy as they become absorbed in their ponderous musings that bring much needed ease and reflection to their soul. As a Hunter, they are notoriously brutal and selective, feared by mortals as much as they are feared by Divines despite never once causing an ounce of harm to the (undeserving) former. Truly, in their heart of hearts, there is a kind mercy for the helpless and downtrodden beneath the terrifying visage their reputation has branded upon them.

For such a subdued personality, their athletic presence provides a sharp contrast with its striking harshness and allure. Their hardened skin is composed of volcanic rock, magma encased with an eternal burning flow beneath their rough surface. Its glow emits from their opened mouth (even slightly through pressed lips), their empty gaze, and the unhealed cracks when broken by assailants. Enchantment allows their skin to soften into a more fleshy substance, still heated beneath one’s touch and radiant with a orangish-red tint, though the activation of this magic is signified by azure markings that hum with a dim light across the entirety of their flesh. The outer layers of their hair are a deep red, brightened by the orange lumination in the under layers. Shahbaz tries to style the thick waves back from his face whereas Kamaria lets her locks bounce at a chin-length. Their ears are small and pointed, and their tongue is elongated in a snake-like fashion. They often dress in heavy red traveling robes with golden accents, but generally adopt local attire that offers the most masking to their visage. They bear a fondness for jewelry, yet forgo the acquirement of it due to fears of marking themself as a target for thieves and criminals. Instead, their twin blades must suffice.

Their time is spent in quiet sanctuaries in the heart of busy abundance, seeking out isolation while keeping the assurance of life close by.

[dracaryse]

─── THE SPACE BETWEEN THE CAVE ENTRANCE and the platform gradually closed with each pace that Caraxes advanced, the boisterous echo of hulking footsteps flooding the hollow chamber with a reoccurring influx of tremors. In much the same way that a serpent might slither, the great beast would coil his way through the room on the pattern of a twisting current, his markedly-long neck guiding the rest of his equally-slender body until he had crested the top of the dragon mount to tower above the Targaryen.

          MUCH TIME HAD PASSED SINCE THE Blood Wyrm had found himself summoned to the mouth of the pit like this; not since the passing of his late rider, the prince Aemon. The keepers had made an attempt to remove his saddle shortly after he’d met his demise, but two had perished in dragonfire as payment for their efforts and the lucky ones had made it out with singed robes and scars that would serve as a reminder of the beast’s ferocity for years to come. At some point, Caraxes had rid himself of the leather burden by his own doing, and the keepers had yet to determine how exactly the crafty beast had done it, nor where its remnants had disappeared to.

          CURIOUSLY, THE CRIMSON CREATURE WOULD study the young man before him, the bold stance in which he had taken and the unphased gallantry in the tenor of his voice causing the dragon to pause in amused reflection. The strangled pitch of a raspy whine would grate through the still air like the notes of an eerie chime, punctuated soon after by the characteristic choppy clicking of a deviated septum. His neck would slink slowly through the open space above the human until his monstrous head would lower to meet lilac eyes, his scaley snout hovering just mere inches before the hand that had been outstretched to him. Through flared nostrils, the beast took in his scent, each exhaled breath like a gust of hot wind upon the pale flesh of his contender. The lips that covered his jaws quivered all the while, offering small glimpses of the rows of menacing teeth that hid just behind them.

          THE WORDS THAT THE BOY SPOKE were not lost upon Caraxes, for he’d heard them before and knew them well. Whether he’d choose to obey them or not remained in question, however. The nictitating membrane of the dragon’s eyes rolled back and forth, sheathing the bright yellow color in quick flashes of milky white as he calculated the situation, a slow withdraw of his head following.

          ANOTHER ROLL OF HIGH-PITCHED whistles and a sparse roar swelled on a long chain of echoes until the sound encompassed the entire room, jaws parting to sweep away the surrounding shadows with the brilliant glow of bright red flames. The beast’s head waved, spewing pluming jets of fire skyward in the direction of the seemingly-endless space above until the ceiling was just barely kissed by its radiance. Never once did he take aim at the Targaryen below, however, only the dying embers of stray sparks ever coming close to him. The shouted commands of the keepers in the background did naught to deter the beast, their voices paling and fading into white noise as the boy in the forefront was pulled into sole focus. The fiery breath that blasted out from his open maw soon ceased and he lowered his great head once more to meet him. This time, he would allow him to touch him, should he so wish.

THE YOUNG PRINCE had been issued several warnings in regards to THE BLOOD WYRM ──── the mount of his late uncle ; a near FERAL beast , the dragonkeepers had stated , FEROCIOUS and FORMIDABLE in battle. it was unknown if the dragon would take another rider after the fall of prince aemon , and though the risk of losing prince daemon to the blood wyrm's whims was great , he had been intent on claiming caraxes as his own. not only did the blood wyrm's ferocity mirror his own , but his cousin , princess rhaenys , had claimed his mother's dragon for her own , DENYING the prince his opportunity to claim THE RED QUEEN. oh , how daemon had RAGED , prince baelon's and prince viserys' attempts at calming him falling flat.

BUT IT MATTERED LITTLE as daemon entered the pit. the rogue prince , as they had dubbed him , let the heat of the dragon’s fire wash over him. his heart raced as the flame lit the darkness of the pit ──── fear , however , had not grasped the prince ; instead , THRILL and EXCITEMENT festered in his soul. the dragonkeepers , though brave souls in their own right , had taken tentative steps backward as the beast rose. his steps shook the earth , reverberating within the prince’s very bones , and a WILD grin spread across his face as the blood wyrm emerged. a curious creature , unlike any of the dragons in possession of house targaryen , yet daemon felt as if he understood the beast. two beings so different from their kin . . . yes , they would get along fine.

THE DRAGONKEEPERS GAPE AT the prince as he strides forward , not an ounce of fear in his eyes , upon his face. their urgent whispers do not reach him as he faces caraxes , the roaring in his ears far too great. he is vaguely aware of someone grasping for the sleeve of his leathers , a lousy attempt at reigning him in as though he were some wild creature in need of taming. daemon jerks his arm away and continues forward , eyes of lilac locking with the dark eyes of the blood wyrm.

DAEMON’S VOICE BELOWS through the pit, “ dohaerās , caraxes ! ” the prince reaches out a hand , an invitation for the beast to scent him , to judge him as he would. “ rȳbās naejot nyke , caraxes , se dohaerās ! ” [ listen to me , caraxes , and serve ! ]

[seijorhi]

nostos.

well it’s not exactly monster fucking but um... here there be monsters.

Kuroo Tetsurou x female reader

TW implied non-con, nsfw-ish, blood, gore, minor character death, animal death, um somebody gets munched... 

Every good writer needs peace and quiet. Fresh air and a change of scenery.

You’re not running away, it’s more of a… tactical retreat. Two weeks disconnected from well meaning friends, pushy family members and your eternally irritating editor, with nothing but the beautiful, sprawling forests to keep you company.

The mountains are familiar, if isolating, you think, leaning against the porch railing with a warm mug in hand as the breeze picks up and the tall maple and birch trees rustle in response. The leaves are turning vibrant reds and gold with the falling temperatures and even in the eerie quiet of the cold morning, you can’t deny that it’s breathtaking. 

It reminds you of your childhood, the countless vacations you’d spent here with your family, always in autumn, always in time to watch the leaves change before the first snows of winter set in. Fond memories of running through the trees chasing after cute little bunnies, giggling even when you tripped up and scraped your knees. There was something mystical about the forest back then, something special. But it’s been years since you’ve been here last, and the first time you’ve ever come alone.

And yet it feels different somehow, colder despite the nostalgia. You’re no longer a child, looking at the world through innocent, wondrous eyes. The forest is just a forest. 

Of course, you weren’t an idiot; disappearing off the grid was one thing. Disappearing off the grid without anybody knowing where you were going was another entirely. They’d been surprisingly supportive of the plan – until you told them where it was you were planning on running off to.

‘Why go back to the mountain, honey?’ your mother had asked, her smile wavering and an odd tightness in her eyes. ‘Why not go to the coast instead? Or spend some time in the city?’

But this isn’t a fun little vacation. You don’t want to be distracted by beaches and crowds, you need space to finish your book and time to work through your mess of an emotional state without any interruptions. You want to be untraceable, at least for a week or two.

God knows the last thing you need right now is your ex tracking you down to try and apologise again.

Part of you had thought – somewhat naively, perhaps – that by coming back you’d spark… something. Your memories of the mountains are full of warmth and happiness, but as you stare out into the wilderness, all you feel is a cool chill that runs down your spine and the goosebumps that prickle at your skin. 

Setting your now empty mug down, you pull tighter at the thick knit cardigan draped over your shoulders. Enough reminiscing, your manuscript awaits.

—

The mountain’s too quiet. You don’t notice it so much during the day, the sound of music softly pouring from your laptop and the gentle clacking of keys as you type enough to distract you  from the eerie stillness outside the cabin. Even at night, you’re preoccupied with dinner, and then curled up on the couch with a warm throw rug watching reruns of your favourite shows on Netflix.

It’s only when you lie down, burrowed into the blankets to try and sleep that you notice just how silent the forest at your doorstep truly is. At first you think it’s simply being away from the hustle and bustle of home. There’s no cars driving past, or the sound of neighbours floating through your open windows, there’s not even the distant hooting of owls or dogs barking.

But it’s more than just quiet. There’s nothing. Even the trees seem to still once the sun falls beneath the horizon. And it shouldn't bother you, shouldn’t unsettle you, and yet…

The first few nights, you don’t sleep well. Tossing and turning in bed. When you do sleep, your dreams are plagued with unpleasant things. Not nightmares as such, but an uneasiness that bleeds into otherwise pleasant thoughts. On the fourth night you wake, gasping for air. Whatever dream you’d been in the grips of fades like smoke, and as you draw in another shuddering breath your throat itches and burns.

Water. You need water. 

You don’t switch on the lights as you fumble your way down to the kitchen, trying to preserve what little remnants of sleep are still in your system. Even with the moon almost full and the night sky clear, the canopy shrouds it. 

And it’s in that darkness, as your eyes flicker up from the faucet, that you see it for the first time.

A shape, huge and looming, silk shadow against black. 

For a moment, as your heart hammers against your ribs, a chill creeping down your spine, you don’t dare trust your eyes. Maybe you’re asleep still, dreaming, or your mind’s playing tricks on you, because there’s nothing that should be lurking in the woods outside of your window that size.

Two golden, cat-like eyes peer back at you.

They’re still there when you race to flick on the lights, unblinking, curious as you skitter backwards, hand over your racing heart.

You’re tired, emotionally drained and this–

This is nothing more than a figment of an overactive imagination, a child creating monsters from the shadows in their bedroom. Yet even as you run back to the safety of the bedroom, yank the curtains shut and huddle under the meagre warmth your blankets afford you, squeezing your eyes shut, you feel it out there still, watching.

And in the stillness of the mountains outside, you swear you hear footsteps.

—

You wake to fresh snow, too early in the year, even at these altitudes. It dusts the ground, covering the mossy paths in glittering white, clings to the branches of the trees – the red leaves looking like droplets of blood scattered across a grey sky. The snow will undoubtedly melt as the sun rises, turn to slush and mix with the dirt, but for now it’s a thing of beauty.

For a moment, you allow yourself to forget how tired you are, how unsettled, venturing out from the cabin with wide, excitable eyes. It never used to snow when you were here as a kid, and while you get the occasional snowfall back home, it’s nothing like–

You stop dead in your tracks. 

There’s two human footprints imprinted on the snow – only two – right outside your bedroom window, crisp and clean, as if they’d been left just moments before.

—

Your mother sounds worried when you call her. Of course, you don’t tell her about the lone footprints at your window, or the creepy pair of eyes you’d seen through the dark, you know how that sounds. You’re not crazy, and even if some part of you truly believed what you’d seen, your mom is the last person you’d admit it to.

Once upon a time, when you were little, she’d indulged in stories of fairies and spirits, but that was a long time ago. Now she turns up her nose and sneers at the myths and legends that your grandma still spouts, dismissing them with a scoff.

It’s not the kind of thing well-adjusted adults talk about in polite conversation.

She’s a good woman, but you can’t tell her this. 

And you’re not even sure you’re entirely sold on it either. The eyes could have been from a wild animal – big cats might be rare in Japan, but they do exist here. You were half asleep (half terrified) when you had seen them, you don’t want to make a fuss over nothing. The footprints are less easy to explain away. If there’d been tracks leading away, you could convince yourself that it was a lost hiker and nothing more.

But there weren’t any tracks leading away; just the two footprints. And what kind of hiker doesn’t wear shoes in weather like this? It’s possible that this is some kind of prank, a mean spirited trick designed to unsettle you – a job well done, by the way – but you can’t quite bring yourself to believe that either. 

In any case, you’re hardly going to admit over the phone that you’re freaking out over some footprints in the snow. God knows she’s already worried enough about your mental state, has been ever since the breakup, and you’re not going to give her any more ammunition. 

But perhaps there is something to that maternal instinct, because despite your best efforts to reassure her that you’re doing just fine, that your novel’s going great and you’re so glad you came out here, she still sounds entirely unconvinced.

“Honey, you know you can tell me if something’s wrong,” she tells you, her voice strangely hesitant. “You don’t sound yourself, are you sure everything’s okay?”

You don’t know why you called her at all. You always have been a shitty liar, and she’s always been able to see right through you. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Honestly the fresh air’s doing me good,” you tell her. “It’s weirdly quiet here though, I’m not used to it,” you laugh, and even to your ears it sounds hollow and fake.

There’s a heavy pause on the other end of the line, and if you close your eyes you can almost picture it, your mom leaning against the kitchen counter, teeth worrying into her bottom lip–

“I just don’t like you out there all by yourself.”

Relax, what’s the worst that could happen?

The words almost, almost slip out, an instinctive reaction to a mother’s well meaning but overbearing concern. But it feels like tempting fate, and whether or not you’re fully convinced that there is something strange happening, you’re not that bold. Instead you begin to tell her (again) that everything’s fine when she suddenly speaks again.

“Bad things happen in those mountains. Just… just promise me you’ll be safe.”

Abruptly, the line goes dead. 

Pulling the phone from your ear, you glance down at the illuminated screen, only to frown when you see the little ‘SOS Only’ flashing in the top corner. Huh, you’d had a few bars when you’d started the call, but… 

The weather’s gotta be messing with your signal. Stranger things have happened, right?

Shaking your head you resolve to give her a call tomorrow. And yet, even as you try to put her parting words from your mind and throw yourself back into your writing, you can’t help but feel that familiar sense of cloying unease seeping through your skin once more. 

What the hell had she meant, ‘bad things happen in those mountains’?

—

A good night’s sleep can do you wonders. 

Well, theoretically speaking. You can’t remember the last actual decent sleep you’d had, but regardless, the point stands. All you need is an uninterrupted eight or nine hours, and this… paranoia will go away. Things’ll be clearer in the morning, so long as you sleep.

The mantra doesn’t help you any, of course. 

You don’t need to peer through the window to feel those watchful eyes staring. And maybe it would be easier to ignore the prickling sensation at the nape of your neck if it weren’t for the noises.

Music isn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the mournful wails, like a wounded animal crying out in pain. It’s incessant, inescapable, reverberating inside of your eardrums until it’s all you can focus on.

It’s instinctual, you think, the urge to creep from your bed and try to find the creature making that sound and help it. But even as your feet touch the cool floorboards, your gut clenches, hackles rising. Something deep inside of you warns you from leaving the safety of the cabin.

Whatever creature is making those noises, it’s not calling for help.

You don’t feel like you’ve slept at all, but you must have because at a certain point in the morning you blink your eyes awake, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

And this time it’s not snow that greets you, but the mangled remains of a doe ripped apart on your porch. Deep, jagged gouge marks run along its flank, organs spilling from the cuts and there’s little left of its neck, the whole thing torn out with teeth. Yet for the gruesome injuries, the only blood you find is congealed, pooled beneath the poor creature.

Whatever happened to it, it didn’t happen here. The knowledge doesn’t soothe you like it should – the park ranger you spoke to on the phone mentioned that while it’s rare, sometimes bears venture a little too close to buildings, though he sounds doubtful even as he says it.

He sounds even less interested when you tell him this doesn’t look like a bear attack, but promises they’ll send someone down in the next few days to check everything out. In the meantime, he suggests, it’s best to stay indoors. 

Yeah, not gonna be an issue.

And so with no feasible way of moving it, you’re left with the butchered corpse of a doe just outside your front door. And the thing that bothers you isn’t so much the body, though you still can’t look at it without wanting to throw up, but the fact that it was just… left there.

Not eaten. No, aside from the missing throat, the deer’s all there. Ripped apart with its guts spilling out, but otherwise untouched. Growing up you had a cat, the sweetest little thing, but every once in a while she would get out of a night, find some poor little creature to torment and without fail, she’d bring it back home, leaving it half dead on the doorstep like a gift.

‘See what a good hunter I am?’ she seemed to say, smugly sauntering back inside. 

It wasn’t about food. It wasn’t hunger that drove her, but instinct. As you stare out the window at the doe, at the milky white emptiness of dead eyes, you wonder whether that’s the same here. There’s no tracks in the dirt, no blood smeared across the ground – it wasn’t dragged here. No animal could’ve done this. 

A gift? 

Or perhaps something less benevolent. A threat. You’ve crossed into territory you don’t belong and the deer, cruelly ripped apart and left to bleed out on your doorstep is a line in the sand.

Either way, as tears fill your eyes, a sob tugging free from your chest, you realise that it was a mistake to come here. You don’t know whether you trust your eyes and your ears anymore, but there is something deep inside of you that tolls like a warning bell and as much as you’d like to bury your head in the sand and pretend there’s nothing wrong here, you can’t.

Bad things happen in those mountains.

You need to leave.

The next ferry to the mainland doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning, but it’ll have to do. Once you stop shaking and calm down enough to carry a conversation, you call the local cab company to arrange a pick-up first thing.

You can survive one more night, you just need to throw yourself back into your writing… if you can only just ignore that sense of foreboding prickling at the back of your neck.

—

There’s a boy running through the trees, giggling as he glances back at you. His hand’s outstretched, wrapped ‘round yours tugging you along as he laughs at you to hurry up.

It’s late, the sun dipping below the horizon, but you don’t wanna go back just yet.

You’re having fun, playing in the forest. And the light is golden, filtering in through the pretty red leaves, your sides burn a little from all the chasing and laughter but it’s a good kind of ache. You don’t want today to end.

His name is Kohsuke, you remember, and he lives down in the village by the valley. He’s only one year older than you, and you’d follow him anywhere. 

You think you might be a little in love with him.

‘C’mon, hurry up! It’s only a little further!’ he calls, and you nod, scrambling over the fallen trunk of an oak tree. There’s old spirits who live in this forest, he’d told you, and today you’re finally gonna see one.

It’s dark now. Cold too. You’re tired and hungry and you kinda want to go home, but Kohsuke won’t let you. ‘Just a little longer! Don’t you wanna see them?’

You do. Of course you do. It’s just that you’re starting to get a funny feeling in your stomach… Can he hear the footsteps too? Is somebody following you?

There’s a voice in your ear, a soft, silky purr that makes a shiver roll down your spine, but you can’t make sense of the words, they’re not in any language you understand. You don’t tell Kohsuke – he can’t hear it, otherwise he would have said something. You just clutch his hand tighter, skipping closer.

‘W-we should go back, Koh,’ you murmur, wincing when it comes out in a childish whine. ‘We’re gonna get in trouble.’

You aren’t supposed to stay out playing after dark, he knows it as well as you do. ‘You trust me, don’t you? Stop being such a chicken!’ he snickers as your cheeks heat.

The voice at your ear growls, low and threatening. You need to go back, now.

You blink, and the scene changes.

You’re curled up on the forest floor, hands covering your eyes. Somebody’s screaming – Kohsuke – crying out your name through ragged sobs, pleading–

There’s a crunch, a ripping sound, a wetness sprayed across your cheek. 

Kohsuke’s not screaming anymore.

Something warm and heavy touches your head, drags through the locks of your hair and you just huddle tighter, eyes squeezed shut, shaking like a leaf as more tears spill. You don’t wanna die here. 

The crunching sounds continue, and you keep your eyes tightly shut. It can’t hurt you if you don’t look. 

It can’t hurt you if you don’t look. 

It can’t hurt you if you don’t look. 

It can’t–

A loud knocking jerks you back to consciousness, your body jolting upright, almost swiping your laptop off the table as you try and gather your bearings. Right, you’d been working on your novel, sitting up at the kitchen table, you must have dozed off… A quick glance out the window tells you that you must have been out of it for a while – the late afternoon shadows are starting to creep in, the sky a golden orange. 

What the hell was that dream?!

“Hello? Uh, anybody home?” a masculine voice calls, another loud knock sounding. “We got a call about a wild animal attacking deer…”

Oh, you think, trying to shake yourself out of your stupor, the wildlife people, yeah. You feel a little nauseous, feverish and trembling, though maybe that’s just the result of your erratic heartbeat. 

Swallowing down the bile in your throat, you turn your attention to the door. Truly you hadn’t actually expected that they’d send anybody out to investigate, much less that they’d arrive before you left, but you can hardly turn him away now.

Especially not when there’s a freshly butchered deer corpse lying only a few feet away from your front door. Quickly, you run a hand over your hair, taking a moment to try and collect yourself before you answer.

It doesn’t work – there’s a knot in your throat and for every step you take towards the door it feels like your legs are gonna give out from under you. You move in a daze to unlock the door, only just remembering to school your features into an expression slightly less alarming as it swings open. 

A ranger, tall with a shock of black, messy hair that reminds you oddly of a rooster greets you with an easy grin. “Oh good, I was starting to think nobody was home. You the one that called?”

Distantly, you nod, fingers clutching at the edge of the doorframe. The ranger glances over at the remains of the deer, still lying in a pool of half dried blood, studying it for a moment, hazel eyes sweeping over the deep gashes in its side. You can’t bear to follow his gaze, you’re not sure you can look at that thing again without throwing up. 

He whistles lowly, shaking his head, “Well you don’t see that every day,” he laughs.

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly. It’s not his fault, you know that, but you can’t help the flicker of irritation that sparks at the cavalier attitude. This is just his job, you get it, but you don’t exactly feel like laughing right now. 

“You still think a bear did this?” you retort, the words coming out a little sharper than intended. 

But the ranger takes it in stride, shrugging as his smirk widens. “A bear, huh?” Amusement glitters in his eyes, sharp and mocking. “Why don’t I come inside and you can tell me all about it?” he offers, stepping closer towards you. 

And there’s no reason for your heart to skitter, your blood running cold as he looms over you in the doorway, still wearing that stupid, irritating smirk. There’s no reason for your insides to clench either, or for the tiny, jerky step backwards you take, your body moving of its own accord.

The ranger pauses, head tilting to the side as he stares at you.

Really stares, like he’s waiting for something. And as discomfited as you are (and as much of an asshole as this guy is), a weary apology is halfway to your tongue when he shifts slightly, propping an arm up against the door – the last, dying rays of light catching his face. 

It’s just for a second.

A heartbeat.

But long enough for you to watch those hazel eyes shift to gold, pupils elongating into slits. 

You stumble backwards, breath coming in a short, ragged gasp as your eyes widen into saucers. “What are you?”

The ranger before you chuckles and you catch a glimpse of his teeth; pearly white and glinting, sharper than they had been only moments ago. “Why don’t you let me in and find out for yourself, kitten?”

You shake your head, retreating further into the cabin, heart pounding. 

“No? You don’t like this body, is that it?” he asks, a cruel edge to his smirk as he takes a half step backwards and slowly spreads his arms. “Something more familiar, then.”

And you don’t think there’s any room left in your heart for more fear, your stomach already twisting in sickening knots, but you blink and standing right there in front of you is Kohsuke.

It’s a punch in the guts, a knife slipped between your ribs, yanked ruthlessly through your still beating heart. He’s beaming up at you, those same adorable dimples, the same ridiculous bowl cut, bleeding youthful innocence. “How about now?” he asks, holding out his hand and wriggling his fingers like he expects you to take it. “You’ll let me inside now, right?”

A strangled noise escapes you as you fall to your knees. Tears fill your eyes, blurring your vision – you blink them away but more take their place. 

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asks, and you wail in response.

It’s too much. You shake your head, hugging yourself tightly, as if your arms are the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely. 

He calls your name – not in Kohsuke’s childish lilt, but that deep, ancient purr that makes the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. “Let me in.”

“Go away,” you gasp through tears. “Please– please go away.”

The creature shifts again, the dark haired ranger back in Kohsuke’s place. He eyes you, those unnatural gold irises watching with utter enthralment as you sob pathetically on the floor, still pleading – though you know it’ll do you no good – for him to leave. 

“Last chance, kitten. Let me in, or I’ll make you come out.”

He – it – doesn’t sound nearly as put out by the prospect as it should be. 

And you don’t know why giving permission matters, all you know, all you care about, is that it’s keeping that thing at bay for now. It can’t come inside and so long as you don’t leave the safety of the cabin, it can’t hurt you. The words are nothing but an empty threat.

Right?

You shake your head, defiant even as your voice hitches and trembles, “No.”

“Stubborn little thing,” the creature croons, the smirk on its face widening until the visage no longer resembles anything human – mouth splitting its face in two, rows of long, sharp teeth revealed. “So be it.”

A low growl resonates in its chest, and you can only watch, petrified, as thin, vein-like black marks begin to appear over pale skin, growing thicker, cracking as shadow curls from underneath. The creature itself starts to grow too, limbs elongating as muscles ripple and swell, claws bursting forth in place of fingernails, shoulders broadening – until it’s towering over you, wreathed in thick shadow, grinning with that terrifying mouth. 

This is the thing you’d glimpsed that first night. A creature ripped from nightmares and primal fears, strong enough to tear you apart with a single hand. That’s what it’d done to Kohsuke, to the doe, what it’d do to you if you gave it half a chance.

“You wanna play, kitten?” it asks, head tilting to the side. 

Slowly, it backs away from the door, keeping its gaze fixed firmly on you. For a moment, you think that it’s going to disappear back into the forest, or plant itself by your window to watch for another night, waiting you out till dawn, but instead it stops by the old oak that overhangs the porch and stills entirely, simply… waiting.

“Let’s play.”

Abruptly, the oak beside it bursts into flames. It takes only a heartbeat for the entire thing to be engulfed, red and orange flames licking along the trunk, the gnarled, spindly branches, even the leaves are alight, burning away into ash and floating off in the breeze. The heat from one tree alone is searing, the crackle of burning wood and your own horrified, shuddering breath the only sounds in the night.

It snowed only a few nights before, but the fire spreads with unnatural ease, flames racing across the canopy, embers lighting up the undergrowth, and in the space of a few seconds there’s an inferno raging through the forest before you. And through the smoke and the red, burning haze, the creature watches, smirking.

The heat from the wildfire sears painfully at your skin, the air around you suddenly thick with smoke, stinging your eyes, choking your lungs, and yet you can’t seem to tear yourself away. It’s like a dream, a nightmare, some kind of… hellscape.

And for a moment you forget that there was a purpose to this, too lost staring in mute horror as the forest you’d played in as a child burns–

At least until a single leaf from the oak tree, edges curling as it’s consumed by flames, falls, carried by the breeze and lands on the wooden railing of the porch. With a soft whoosh, the old wooden beam catches fire, and with your chest heaving, panicked breaths falling from parted lips, you rise to your feet as flames spread, the fire eating everything in its path until the entire porch is alight, burning.

Run. 

You don’t know if the voice in your head is yours or not, you don’t have time to care. You scramble for the back door, throwing it open, and you run.

Run until your lungs burn, til’ your bare feet are scratched and bleeding, run, pushed forward by the sweltering heat at your back, the chilling crackle of laughter that follows. You run through tears, through pain and air so thick with smoke that it hurts to breathe.

And you know the creature’s giving chase, you know that you won’t – can’t – outrun it, nor the inferno that blazes around you. You know that it’s futile, that you’re probably running to your death, but that’s human, isn’t it?

To run when you’re scared?

The sky’s awash with a hazy red glow when it catches you, throwing you to the ground, and still you try to crawl. Desperate, choking on broken pleas and sobs, nails raking through the dirt as you try to pull yourself forward. 

And when your pants are ripped from your legs, a puff of warm air ghosting over the nape of your neck as you’re shoved back down, those long, black arms settling either side of you, caging you in – you know that you’ve lost.

“Mine,” the creature growls, and you barely have time to scream before its cock shoves into you with one brutal, merciless thrust. “Mine.”

[horseprophecy]

as promised, here is the full list of alters, plus a rough map of the headspace! apologies for any mistakes with the written characters. the inclusion of elemental affiliations here is more of a guiding template for me, and each of them embody a different aspect of their respective elements. not every alter is currently very fleshed out, but i’m sure details like that will come to me in the future.

to summarize, we have:

vesper, the rat. affiliated with the imaginary element of “hollow,” since his abilities involve moving through void space. he emerged from the labyrinth, usually home to non-sentient shadow creatures created from the system’s subconscious, and eventually developed into a full alter. dramatic, lighthearted, and a bit mysterious.

shòuqiáo, the ox. affiliated with earth in the aspect of solidity and inflexibility, like boulders and mountains. he’s somewhat ogre-like in appearance with a temper to match, but he’s very quiet and prefers not to take out his anger on people. he’s taken up gardening as a meditative outlet.

báihǔ, the tiger, sometimes going by jiàn bīng as a more human name. affiliated with metal in the aspect of a defensive, protective force, like shields and walls. the white tiger of the west has an association with military might and strategy that carries through in the piece of himself he’s left in the care of the system. wise, patient, and very stubborn.

yíngchūn, the rabbit. affiliated with water in the aspect of cool detachment and obfuscation of frightening things, like clouds, fog, and the deep sea. a ghostlike alter who floats along the eerie outer edges of the headspace, and disposes of anything hostile that forms in the forest. anything that wants to enter from the outside must pass her first, including potential new alters, although vesper was an exception. she’s quiet and elegantly softspoken, often keeping a neutral expression, but she does not mince words or spare feelings, and also has a habit of staring through people.

míngzhū, the dragon. an average one who can of course be linked to every element in some way, however their main affiliation is to metal in the aspect of a conduit for harnessing energy. their magecraft attacks most intuitively express like electricity, but as they develop their skills with it, they become able to change its properties. every alter is a separate existence, but on some level they are all part of the same whole, with míngzhū bearing the biggest “piece” of that whole, so to speak.

sanjeeva, the serpent. affiliated with earth in the aspect of the beautiful, dangerous things that are hidden below it, like crystals precious metals, and the stories of hidden worlds. he’s a naga, and the keeper of the labyrinth, as his subterranean habits and clairvoyance give him an advantage when it comes to navigating its ever-changing corridors and strange illusions. he’s rarely seen aboveground, generally preferring to keep to himself, and usually busy making sure nothing dangerous has appeared in the labyrinth. well, nothing aside from the baby eater, anyway.

aethon, the horse. affiliated with fire in the aspect of raw energy that powers things, like fuel for engines. demonic in nature, but not malicious that anyone can tell, although he isn’t exactly forthright about… really anything about himself, despite his friendly, laidback attitude. he has been known to get up to some mischief every now and then.

yúnrú, the goat/sheep. affiliated with wood in the aspect of living things in nature, like plants and animals. he’s extremely shy and timid, and rarely ever seen inside. he prefers to be out tending the garden with shòuqiáo - the idea to introduce shòuqiáo to gardening was his. while he’s kind and gentle once you get to know him, he’s also very observant and calculating, and is surprisingly decisive when it comes to difficult choices that others might balk at.

língsǔn, the monkey. affiliated with wood in the aspect of creativity and ingenuity, and the drive to continue living. an alter who bears resemblance to míngzhū themself, albeit when they were much younger. although for all intents and purposes, he’s a child, he has existed in the system for a very long time, both as the embodiment of traits míngzhū was told they “shouldn’t” have, and thus tried to excise from themself, and as the ideal of someone they jealously wished they could be, on a subconscious level. while that combination of shame and jealousy never affected língsǔn’s manifestation, there’s a chance it may have ended up elsewhere. bright, fun-loving, and very silly.

xiǎowén, the rooster. affiliated with fire in the aspect of destructive force that spirals out of control from an accident or misunderstanding, like a wildfire. he’s blunt, bad-tempered, and often rude to other alters, but this is born out of paranoia - he’s here to keep the system safe by any means necessary, not to make friends, and in fact, he’s of the opinion that friendships within the system might cloud his ability to make hard choices in the interest of keeping them all alive. he’s extremely observant and very quick to process information, but it means he tends to jump to conclusions based on his cynical worldview, and gets defensive when others try to challenge his judgment. having said all of that though, with time and therapy, he’s begun to address his trust issues.

yǎoyuè, the dog. affiliated with water in the aspect of something that is nourishing and cleansing, but can exert great force that may cause destruction, like fast-flowing rivers and heavy snowfall. he’s protective, loving, and loyal to everyone in the system, but it takes some time for outsiders to gain his trust, and if he feels that the fronter is being made uncomfortable, he’s quick to try to remove them from the situation. although their goals of protecting the system often align, he’s usually at odds with xiǎowén, as he feels his attitude does more harm than good. once someone has gained his trust though, it’s ride or die.

nobutaka, the boar. affiliated with metal in the aspect of tools created to solve problems. he specifically handles anything that happens in kitchens, or anything involving knives. he’s a much more recently formed alter, coming into existence as the system began making food for themselves more consistently. he’s a bit rough around the edges, but not mean. he prefers not to have anyone else in the kitchen with him if he’s making something, but if he trusts the person, he’ll allow it.

(click for better quality!)

last but not least, we have one míngzhū shimizu… plus the eleven other people they share their headspace with! @hasarjunadoneanythingwrong i remember that you seemed interested in this character when i submitted the comic featuring them to your blog, so if you’re curious about them, here they are :3

other facts include:

míngzhū is a genetic chimera, which causes parts of a person’s body to have completely separate sets of dna - in míngzhū’s case, this is because they absorbed their fraternal twin in utero. one of these sets of dna has albinism, which is why roughly half of their hair and patches of their skin are much lighter than the rest.

as alluded to by the bio and my own comments, míngzhū has dissociative identity disorder and is the host of the astrolabe system, which, aside from themself, contains eleven major alters. to clarify, they are not a spellcaster because they have did, nor do they have did because they happen to also have multiple sets of dna. the chimerism does sort of have to do with how it developed, but only in the regard that their bio-parents would assert that they actually were two people, and that any thoughts, opinions, and interests they had that didn’t line up with what was expected of them were actually not their own. this in turn has come to affect their magecraft.

míngzhū’s magecraft is based mostly around the ability to manipulate energy with the twelve gemlike orbs they conjure. for example, they’re able to shoot energy blasts from the white orbs, or use the black orbs to create barriers which can negate the kinetic energy of incoming objects. as an average one specializing in the eastern elements or “five phases” as they’re more aptly called, there’s a lot of potential to apply these effects with flexibility and creativity, but they lack the proper training to utilize their abilities to the fullest extent. in addition, finding a way to achieve a cohesive understanding of their very variable magecraft, all while navigating a condition that partitions off parts of the mind to defend itself against trauma, may be difficult.

each alter has an associated element/phase, unique abilities, and a connection with an animal in the eastern zodiac. any of them can transform into any of those twelve animals using the corresponding gem orb, but they’re most attuned to the one they match with. i may add a full list of them in a reblog, as they do all have names, but for now, the ones usually near the front are yǎoyuè (water, dog), xiǎowén (fire, rooster), língsǔn (wood, monkey), míngzhū themself (metal, dragon), and báihǔ (metal, tiger), the god of the western sky, who befriended míngzhū when they were very young, and gave a piece of himself to combine with the first alter that split from míngzhū, so that he could always protect them. ordinarily something like this would result in the god taking the human as their vessel and combining seamlessly with them (see ishtar, quetzalcoatl, parvati, etc.), but due to the nature of did, báihǔ remains entirely separate from the alters he didn’t fuse with.

after míngzhū arrived in japan and was taken in by the shimizu doctors around age 14, they began attending high school, and interestingly, found themself in the close company of the class “delinquents,” who welcomed them with open arms and much love in their hearts. and taught them how to ride a motorcycle.

they’re withdrawn around new people, especially when speaking english, but interestingly, they tend to use a casual, even somewhat slangy manner of speaking that they picked up from their friends in high school - think like mandricardo. truly it’s a mark that they’ve gained some confidence, but they still have a ways to go before they feel fully comfortable in their own skin.

the story of “the prince of lanling enters battle,” a song and dance that was lost to its home country, but flourished in another, and then was eventually able to return home struck them deeply, even more so when they got to see a performance of it in person during a ceremony. they even went as the prince of lanling for halloween once, and they still have the mask they made of papier-mâché. they actually brought it to chaldea with them, as a source of comfort :) (and if the man himself ever finds out, míngzhū will simply go supernova out of embarrassment)

“ah, ‘scuse me, sorry, i was lost in thought. you’re okay? good, good. uh, name is míngzhū, good to meet you.”

[watercolorfreckles]

The Villain and His Therapist - Pt 3

Part 1, Part 2

TW: PTSD episode

Juliet jerked awake, bolting upright in bed. Her breathing came in shallow gasps as she strained to catch her breath. Unease crawled under her skin like spiders and it made her hands shake.

She closed her eyes, working to quell the roar of her thoughts.

It was just a dream. Nightmares are a perfectly normal trauma response. Your body is just telling you what you need to heal from and releasing the effects of that trauma in the way it best knows how. Just a bad dream. Nightmares have no bearing on reality.

Only, it wasn't just a dream.

Her stomach twisted, plunging cold as she remembered the weight of Supervillain's scrutiny, the molten burning of his voice. Any time she stood still, any time she closed her eyes, she was back there again, tied to that chair...

The nightmares still danced behind her closed eyelids. She opened them again, rubbing her face.

When Villain stabbed Supervillain, it didn't sever anything vital. He lived. He was taken to the hospital...where he then escaped as soon as his condition stabilized.

Juliet was promptly thrown into Witness Protection, carted off to stay in a white-picketed house in a very normal, middle-class suburb far from home. She was given a new name for the time being: Jessica Stewart. It hardly held the same fairytale charm as Juliet Meadows, and she found herself missing the way it sounded on Villain's smirking lips.

She blinked as the thought registered, catching her off guard.

To her, the safe house felt empty and cold. While her home was filled with colorful trinkets and art on every wall, this one was bland and sterile in comparison. Clean white walls, wood furnishings. The lack of decor made it feel hollow. In the night, it felt as lonely and unnerving as a graveyard. The walls were thick with shadows. The darkness seemed to swallow her whole.

With a shaky breath, Juliet flicked the light on. A gentle glow washed over the walls, illuminating the space. Panic still clawed at her, so she looked around, dissecting every corner for anything that may be amiss.

She froze as she heard a light plink against the window. She stared at the glass, heart jumping into her throat.

Plink, plink.

Forcing her limbs to cooperate, she slid off of the bed to her feet. She padded across the space with tentative steps until she could peek out the window.

Her blood ran cold as her gaze fixed on a figure standing below. What if it was Supervillain- What if he'd found her and he-

Wait...

That wasn't Supervillain.

Opening her window, Juliet peered down at Villain. Moonlight pooled around him, highlighting his face enough for her to be sure it was him. She released a shuddering breath.

"Villain. How did you find me? What are you doing?" She blinked. "Are you...did you just throw rocks at my window?"

His smile caught the silver light as he tossed what looked like a pebble up into the air, then caught it again without looking. "It seemed fitting. You are Juliet, aren't you? I saw your light turn on, figured you could use checking in on."

She smiled slightly. "No one's supposed to know where I am. How did you find me?"

Villain took his hands out of his pockets to spread his arms wide. When he spoke, his breath clouded in the crisp air. "Doctor Meadows, I'm offended you have to ask that. I have my ways."

"You shouldn't be here."

He flashed a grin. "I do a lot of things I shouldn't."

She studied Villain, who looked up expectantly at her. With a sigh, she conceded. "Come around to the door."

Juliet shut the window and walked to the front of the house, opening the door. Villain stepped inside, his jacket slick with moisture, his hair damp and tousled by drizzle and fog.

He seemed to fill the space, making the room look smaller. In the dark entryway, he resembled his brother to an unnerving degree. The way the shadows caught the hollows of his cheeks and silhouetted the angle of his jaw.

She abruptly stepped back from him and turned the light on, chasing the shadows away. Swallowing, she looked at him again.

Villain's head was tilted slightly, observing her. As always, his defined attention prickled her senses.

She pictured the last time she'd seen him. His brother's blood spattered against his collar--blood he'd spilled for her--after Supervillain had suggested he loved her.

Juliet's vision swam and the world swayed fuzzy.

Warm hands caught her waist, steadying her. "Juliet?"

Villain's voice was uncharacteristically soft, sending butterflies swooping in her stomach.

"I..."

She sucked in a shaky breath, waiting for the world to narrow into focus again; into something solid and real and safe like it should be. It didn't. Her hands trembled.

"I...I can't breathe."

Juliet was distantly aware of Villain scooping her into his arms and carrying her to the couch, setting her down with care. He knelt in front of her. Her ears rang.

She heard the villain's voice as if from underwater.

"It's okay, you're alright. I'm here. Hey. Juliet."

The haze cleared a little and her eyes shot to him at the mention of her name. Villain brushed her hair back, his touch the only thing keeping her rooted in reality.

"You're okay," he repeated softly once he had her attention. He held her gaze. "Breathe in and out with me. Like this." He exaggerated slow breaths.

She mimicked him, keeping her eyes trained on him, zeroing in on the touch of his skin against her temple. She felt untethered, like she could watch herself float away.

"Okay, let's...let's try a grounding exercise," he said as if reading her mind. "Can you squeeze my hand?" He held his palm out to her.

Juliet took hold of it, giving it a squeeze. Her grip was weak and quivering. Villain ran his free hand up and down her arm to keep her present.

"Squeeze it harder. Twice more."

She obeyed, her grasp more firm this time.

"Good," Villain praised, his voice a velvet purr. A shiver trickled down her spine.

He led her through a few more grounding techniques until she was calmer. The last one, she'd taught to him herself mere weeks ago.

Juliet smiled slightly, still feeling a bit numb around the edges, but much more like herself. More human.

"Who's supposed to be whose therapist here?"

Villain offered a gentle smile and it flooded her veins with warmth.

"You were kidnapped, Doctor Meadows. I don't think being a therapist makes you immune to trauma."

She looked at him as he tracked her with attentive concern. Villain frowned and reached out, gently tracing his thumb over the healing slash that marred her cheek. His thumb dipped down to brush her bottom lip.

Juliet's cheeks burned. "Villain."

"Juliet," he countered, his typical cocky playfulness dimmed to a murmur.

His hand lingered on her cheek. Their gazes interlocked.

"Stay," she whispered.

Villain's smile made her dizzy all over again. "Always."

Part 4

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This took me so long to finish, I've been working on it a few lines at a time for like 5 days. At first, it just wasn't coming easily to me and I was getting frustrated, but I think it came together well enough to post! Hope you enjoy. Thanks for your support, lovelies.

((Also do you like my new profile pic? this is my fave pic crew I've made of myself lol its cute))

[itsallyscorner]

Play Me A Song

Paring: Tom Holland x fem!reader

Summary: This is based off the video of Tom playing guitar that he posted on Instagram:) Tom facetimes you to help brighten up your day.

Warnings: none

A/n: Not me using fan fiction as a coping mechanism for my stress, yet ONCE AGAIN.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

✧───── ･ ｡ﾟ★: *. ☽.* :★. ─────✧

“Hellooo, gorgeous girl!” Tom cooed as his face popped up onto your phone screen.

You let out a nasally giggle, the side of your face snuggling deeper into the pillow Tom would use when he was over at your house.

Tom tilts his head at the phone, a hint of a smile on his blush colored lips. The action caused his mop of chocolate brown curls to slightly bounce, catching your attention. You longed for the feeling of running your hands through his soft hair. You missed the way it felt between your fingers and how it would make Tom nuzzle closer to you.

“How was your day? You sounded a bit upset on the phone.” He checked in, voice soft and sweet, yet full of concern. His brows furrowed, causing a wrinkle to form between his brows.

You breath in, smelling the hints of him on your pillow. He was miles away, FaceTime allowed you to see and talk to him, though it wasn’t the same as him being beside you. If you were together right now, he would probably envelop you with his protective arms, pull you into his warm chest, and press kisses all over any bit of your exposed skin. His curls would tickle against your neck while he buried his head into the small space between your neck and shoulders—though you wouldn’t mind the tickle because it would remind you that he was there with you.

You sighed, “Today was a rough day. My professors have been piling work on us and I got called into work on my day off. I haven’t even gotten to start that research paper for class—I’m just so burnt out. I’m tired of trying, Tommy.”

Tom pouted, bringing the camera near his face to feel closer to you. He only felt the heat of his phone screen against his face, but he could still feel the light vibrations of your voice through the phone’s speakers. He placed the speaker of his phone slightly atop his chest, so he could feel the rhythm of your words against him. It reminded him of the days you two would cuddle after the both of you had long days at work. You would tell each other about your days and bask in the feeling of being in each other’s arms. He missed the feeling of being close to you.

“I know you have a lot of work to do, but you need to give yourself breaks, darling. And don’t tell me that you don’t need a break, you’re human (y/n), there’s only so much you can do in a day.” He began. Tom knew how you could get when college got overwhelming. Sometimes there were weeks where you would throw yourself into work, with no sleep, minimal food, and too many cups of coffee. He adored the diligence you had for your education, he wished he could’ve had that when he was still in school, but he wanted to make sure that you were taking care of yourself.

“Listen, you got this, I know you do. You’re the most intelligent and hard working woman I have ever met in my life. There’s nothing you can’t do, because I know, one way or another, you’re gonna find a way to do it. You always do. I just don’t want you to forget to take care of yourself. I know your education is important, but so are you.” He finished, a small smile forming on his lips. You hum in response, “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of myself Tommy.”

What you say seems to reassure him, his shoulders visibly loosened up and the smile on his face grows a bit wider. Your own lips turn up on their own, reciprocating his smile.

“How about you, how was your day?” You ask him. Tom sits up and leans against his headboard.

“Well they’re still renovating the house, so Harry and I decided to rent out a place not too far from mum and dad’s. We actually had lunch with them, I got to see Tessa—gosh, I wish you were here right now. Tess was bouncing all over the place and giving everyone kisses, you would’ve loved it. And Paddy! He’s gotten so much taller since I’ve last seen him, and his voice keeps getting deeper, it’s actually embarrassing for me to be beside him because I’m older and I sound like I’m the one going through puberty.” He rambled, one of his hands making gestures and his face making expressions as he spoke. You loved the way he could just go on about a certain topic, especially when it came to his family. As sad as it was to see him leave for the UK, you were also happy because you knew he’d get to see his family.

He continued to talk about his day until his leg bumped into something, causing a hollow thump to emit from the object.

“What was that?” He leaned forward, the sound of his sheets rustling as he moved to grab the object filling your speakers.

“My guitar.” He grunted, holding the instrument up. “Remember, you got this for me for my birthday!” He proudly reminded you. You had gotten him the Ed Sheeran edition Martin Guitar after he had been going on and on about wanting to learn how to properly play the instrument. At the same time, he had a little obsession with Ed Sheeran and his music, so when you saw the guitar in the shop, you thought why not? You knew he would love it.

You fondly chuckled at him, “Yeah I do! You even promised to write me a song one day after you opened it.”

The last part of your sentence caught his attention, “I will write you a song one day, I’m very serious about that promise, love.” He pointed at you.

“Oh, are you?” You tease him.

“Yes, I am. In fact, ever since I’ve gotten back home, I’ve been practicing again and I’m doing much better.” He confidently told you.

“Can you play me a song?” You softly ask him.

“I can play you ‘Grow as we Go’ by Ben Platt. It’s the song I’ve been practicing.” He placed his phone against a pillow, using it as a stand. He placed the guitar in his lap, positioning his fingers on the frets and strings of the guitar.

“Yeah, play anything. I just wanna hear you play.” You mumble, your voice coming out in a muffle against Tom’s pillow.

“Just a warning, it’s probably not that good.” He mentions, shooting you a playful look.

“I don’t care.” You smile. He starts to softly strum the opening of the Ben Platt song and you couldn’t help but smile. He looked away from the camera, trying to focus on the notes and giving you a good look at the side of his face. The light shines part of his face, leaving the features you can see dark in the shadow, though it didn’t stop you from making out his gorgeous brown eyes. His long fingers move fluidly along the strings, creating a sweet melody on the guitar.

He stumbles a bit, making him whisper “Bollocks.” The little hiccup didn’t stop him from playing and so he continued to strum the guitar. You decided to stay quiet, letting him be in the zone. He messes up again, this time saying “bollocks” louder than the first time. You see him slightly shake his head as he regains his focus and places his fingers on the proper strings again.

You fondly watch him as he play, admiring the man you call your boyfriend. His fingers twitch on the string causing him to pause. He sucks his teeth, a bit of a frustrated grin on his face.

“Mmm.” He looks at you before turning away, “Okay.” He plays again, brows furrowed together in concentration as he tries to play the part of the song his keeps messing up on. You couldn’t contain the giggle that came out of you when he cringed at the sound the guitar made when he tried to play past the note. He pauses looking at the ceiling and tries to figure out the next notes.

“Alright, last time.”

“You’ve got it.” You encourage him. Your words give him some confidence and he shoots you a sweet smile. He readjusts the guitar in his lap, this time keeping his eyes on the strings as he plays. He strums the song again, starting off slow then slowly getting faster. Though his pacing was off by a bit, the song still sounded great nonetheless. You were thoroughly impressed.

He stops playing sitting back against the headboard, “I don’t know why I speed up though. I don’t know why I decide to do it so quickly.” He says into the camera.

You laugh, “It still sounds great though, I really enjoyed it.”

Tom tilts his head at you, teasingly squinting at the camera, “Even with the amount of times I kept stopping?”

“Yes, even with the amount of times you kept stopping.” You laugh, adjusting your phone. Tom puts the guitar aside and grabs his phone. He lays back on his bed, his head resting on his pillow and his curls sprawling out on the cushiony white surface. One of his hands rest behind his head as he stares at you.

“I’m gonna keep practicing. So the next time I see your beautiful face I can serenade you with a song and my guitar.” He muses, a lazy grin on his features.

“That sounds like something out of a chick flick.” You snort. He shoots you a playful glare, “Shut up, you love it.”

Tom knew you were a sucker for chick flick gestures. Kissing in the rain, watching the sunset, you name it.

You sigh, scrunching up your nose, “Yeah, I do.”

“But only from you.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

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[calpops]

masquerade | m.c.

A masquerade ball offers Michael one last night to be with the person he loves.

1.2k words

my masterlist | feedback and reblogs mean the world

Copyright © 2021 calpops. All rights reserved. This original work is not allowed to be reposted on any platform in any format (translations included).

♔ ♔ ♔

The ballroom was aglow. Chandeliers hung from high vaulted ceilings, flames blazed above and left a lurid haze of warmth in their wake. Michael swept into the room as a crashing crescendo hit its queue. The music was loud, overwhelming when mixed with the crowd of strangers. He knew no one, if not for the masks on their faces, then for the fact his home was filled with dignitaries and lords and ladies of lands he had never been to. His eyes scanned the room, from the glistening display of ice sculptures to the exuberant amount of food lining tables against the walls.

None of it mattered. All Michael wanted to see was shy smiles and fidgeting hands. He scoped out the room once more, falling into disappointment when he couldn’t find her. But a gentle tap on his shoulder had him turning on his heel, letting out a breath of awe and taking her in. Instead of uniform—a gray dress and apron—light blue lace and pearls donned her body. Her hair was done up and a mask made to match her dress hid her face. But she was unmistakable to Michael. He’d know her anywhere.

“Care to dance?” Michael asked and extended his hand to her in offering.

She nodded and behind the mask that claimed her face Michael knew her cheeks were warming.

“As if I could refuse a prince,” she whispered airily as they drifted to the middle of the dance floor.

For the first time since Michael met her there was no fear that lingered between them. Secrets danced in the open. The prince took a beautiful lady to the middle of the ballroom and no one spared them a glance except in awe. Whispers would not carry words of disapproval, sneers would not meet their gazes. Michael felt like he was on the clouds as they twirled around, his hands lightly on her waist. He was trained in dance but she knew no steps other than to sway rhythmically to the music.

“Can you believe a kitchen maid is at a royal ball?” she asked in another whisper, the question so timid and filled with such disbelief it nearly broke Michael’s heart.

If he had it his way he would escort her to every event the castle threw. She would be awe inspiring in silks and jewels. She would be his princess and arranged marriages would cease to exist.

Instead of voicing all of those thoughts and wants he simply sighed with content. “You’re stunning.”

Her touch glided from his shoulders, up his neck and to his face where she gently lifted his white mask. She smiled shyly as she took him in before placing it back down. “As are you, my prince,” she responded and twirled with the music. Her dress sashayed in a grand sweep and she giggled. “I’ve never worn a dress so fine. You’ll have to thank her for me.”

Michael went rigid, the mere mention of his betrothed enough to make him falter. He wanted to despise her, he certainly hated their situation and the fact he could not marry the one he loved. But he couldn’t find resentment for her in him. Not when she was kind enough to grant his lady a night made from her dreams and dress made of lace and pearls.

“I will,” he promised. The ballroom was beautiful, her dress and mask were intricate and complimented her in a wondrous way, but Michael was still missing something. “Come out to the balcony with me?” he asked, knowing the shadows of the night would give them privacy.

She nodded as he took her hand and led the way out the doors to the desolate space. The moon was out, full and glowing just like her smile. Stars dotted the sky in tales of heroes and tragedies. Michael found her gaze, innocent and sweet. He acted on impulse once he was sure they were completely alone.

Just as she had, with gentle fingers and a loving touch, he lifted the lace mask from her face, finding much more beauty beneath the material. She smiled again, not as shy as before. When they were alone, she wasn’t afraid to be intimate, to show sides of herself the rest of the kingdom would never know. She beamed under the moon and looked up at the sky.

“It’s a beautiful night,” she said and turned to reach a hand out to the balcony railing, gripping it softly with a gloved hand. “It’s too bad it will be over so soon.”

Michael breathed out, breath colliding with the chilled air in a sorrowful plume. The party would die down in only a couple of short hours. Her dress would be replaced with the uniform Michael was prone to seeing her in though her glamor and beauty would not disappear. The castle would go back to being dark and feeling hollow. The morning would come and his wedding day would approach, no matter how much he willed it not to. His one true love would not be the one to walk down the aisle to him, no matter how much he wished for it.

“We could slip away,” Michael suggested and while she was used to the phrase--slipping away from the kitchens or royal responsibilities and finding alone time in the dark of Michael’s chambers--this time she sighed and shook her head slowly.

“We can’t do that anymore,” she said softly but the words were enough to pierce against Michael’s heart. “This is our last night. You’re meant to be wed in a fortnight,” she continued and turned back to him, reaching out for his hands and giving them a gentle squeeze. “She’s a good woman. And you’ll be a good husband.”

“We could run away,” Michael then suggested even though he knew it was farfetched, he could never run from the crown he was born to wear, he could never escape the fate that followed him.

She laughed but it was not filled with joy as it usually was. “I couldn’t rob a king of his crown.”

“I’m not king yet,” he mumbled.

“No, but you’ll be the best one this kingdom has ever seen. If you let yourself be,” she encouraged and closed the small distance between them, her lips brushing his softly. “I love you too much to let you run away from everything you’ve ever wanted.”

“You’re everything I want,” Michael spoke the truth but he knew it wasn’t enough. He knew the night was their last. “Stay with me tonight?” and in the morning they would go back to being a prince and a kitchen maid. Only crossing paths when the castle halls brought them together. Only exchanging familiar glances and pretending their hearts weren’t breaking with each day.

“One last night,” she agreed and slipped her mask back on, all of their games and disguises coming back to life as they left the party.

Their guards only came down when they were tucked safely away from everyone else. One last night filled with bliss and promises they knew they could not keep. The moon faded away and with the sunrise came an empty side of the bed and a lace dress left behind on the floor. Michael’s heart in pieces.

***

Part 2??

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[heliads]

Radio Silence Chapter Four: I Verify

Poe Dameron has been assigned to work as an intel receiver to Acer, a Resistance recon agent. They’ve only ever talked through the comms, so when she’s captured by First Order troops he assumes she’s lost forever. When Poe accidentally rescues the absolutely infuriating Resistance spy Y/N L/N from a First Order Star Destroyer, he knows she’s got nothing do with with Acer. Right?

previous / series masterlist / next

Poe waits. Y/N does not show up. To be honest, he’s not sure why he cares. He’s only met her a few hours ago, and they’ve been clashing ever since. Yet there was still something strange about seeing that brief flash of unease in her eyes, the waver in her voice when she was questioning Leia. Stormtroopers and the threat of torture back in her First Order cell were never enough to shake her, yet something at the base had washed all of that away. Isn’t that something to be concerned about?

Poe watches the corridors, the rooms, the training centers, but Y/N is conspicuously absent from all of them. It’s not like he’s actively trying to search her out, he just keeps noticing that she isn’t there. If he went to all of the trouble of breaking her out of a First Order Star Destroyer, he should at least know that she’s alright, right? He sounds like a lunatic.

After a couple of days, Poe finally sees her. She’s walking purposefully through the corridors of the base, listening to some coworker yammer on next to her. When Y/N’s eyes catch on him, she seems to hesitate for a second, then she raises a hand in greeting. Poe smiles in return, and just like that, the moment is over. Poe isn’t sure what he was expecting- he and Y/N had been fighting almost all of the time they spent on the Needle. So what if they had been civil on the base- did he really expect that they would trade insults in front of Leia? Nothing’s changed except the location, and Poe shouldn’t find himself disappointed that it hasn’t.

Life on the base goes on as normal. Poe sees rebels sent out on missions, they return with more scars and tales of high-stakes chases through the stars. Eventually, Poe gets tired of sitting around and politicking with Leia’s advisors, so he puts in a request for an off-base mission. He doesn’t know how long he’ll have to wait, but at least the prospect of leaving this system is somewhere in reach. 

The mission ends up coming around sooner than he’d expected- barely a week goes by before Poe finds himself packing for another expedition. He’ll be taking his trusty X-Wing this time, no more sublight cruises or Mandalorian Needles. To be honest, Poe is okay with this- if there’s only room for him, there’s no chance that he’s bringing back snarky mechanic spy officers who can rival his knowledge of ship parts or be able to bother him with a single smirk and step.

As Poe is tossing his gear into his X-Wing, he notices someone walking up behind him. He turns to see Y/N, arms swinging casually at her sides as she takes in the ship. “Have you been downgraded from the Needle?” She asks, grinning. Poe ignores the sarcastic grin. “The Needle was temporary, the X-Wing is my favorite. If you say anything bad about her I’ll kick your ass myself.” Y/N raises her eyebrows. “Defensive, I see. Does that mean a lot of people have said bad things about your X-Wing or are you just very prepared?”

Poe turns to look at her, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you always this exasperating or is it just for me?” Y/N grins like a lynx. “What, are you asking if you’re special to me? Not a chance. I just wanted to see if Finn was going with you or not.” Poe leans up against the metal fuselage of his ship. “That’s a good excuse, but I’m pretty sure that you came all the way out to the hanger just to see me off.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “I was so excited to see you leave that I couldn’t help myself. Don’t take it too seriously.” Poe flashes her a grin. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I know you’ll miss me.” With that, he jumps up into the X-Wing, holding back a laugh at the sound of Y/N’s outraged retorts. Yet when he checks one last time over his shoulder as he flies out of the hanger, he notices that Y/N is still watching him go, a soft smile on her lips. Maybe she wasn’t so unfeeling after all.

The mission itself is nothing major. He’s not going into the Kinoss system or anywhere near Starkiller Base, just treading lightly on the outskirts of the Unknown Regions. There’s a backup copy of Resistance data files that needs to be collected and brought back to base. It contains lists of recon officers and spies, their assigned locations, and everything they’ve been able to find out over the last month. To put it simply, it is imperative that Poe finds this data file and brings it back before the First Order catches wind of its presence.

BB-8 whistles at him from over his shoulder, and Poe grins. “No, I’m not worried. This isn’t like Kinoss, we shouldn’t have to get anywhere near a Star Destroyer. Nothing’s going to happen.” There’s a whirring and clicking, and Poe shoots the droid a look over his shoulder. “Will you stop talking about her? She was just there to get in one final jibe in case I died, and I’m not going to die, so it’s no big deal.” He pauses for a second, listening to the series of beeps, then speaks again. “If you don’t drop this I’m going to send you over to Finn and get a new droid that doesn’t bother me all the time. Yes, I’m joking, stop your chatter.”

Poe touches down just outside of some backwater town. It’s not so different from the planet D’Qar, where the Resistance base is currently hidden, or even Yavin 4. Manageable gravity, only one sun, except there are significantly fewer forests and more of these massive stone outcroppings that block off the sun to create areas of shadow on the ground that are miles long. Farms have to be built on moving bases so that they can constantly stay in the sun as the sun passes overhead, forever shifting back and forth to avoid the shade of the stone cliffs.

Poe received intel that the data files were stored in a cave on the northeastern part of the planet, in a hollow in a rock face. He’s been sent the exact coordinates, and he makes his way deliberately along the surface of the planet, dodging behind large crags of rock whenever stormtroopers or civilians pass his way. He doesn’t want to be spotted, because he won’t be able to talk his way out of this one. A Resistance officer getting caught on a city planet is understandable, but here? He would obviously be hiding something.

After about half a standard hour of walking, Poe finds the cave entrance. He flicks on a lightstick from his multitool, shining it around. His eyes quickly catch on a plasteel crate tucked away under a rock ledge, and he hurries over to it, picking it up and carrying it out of the cave. Once he gets out into the light once more, Poe can recognize the faded Resistance insignia, and he knows he has the right box. Just to be careful, though, he opens up the box once he’s back inside his X-Wing, telling BB-8 to pilot him back so that Poe can direct his full attention to the crate.

The box is empty except for one datapad. Curious, Poe lifts it from the box, flicking it on and allowing a wash of bluish white light to cascade over his face in the dark of space. BB-8 whistles something from behind him, and Poe waves a hand dismissively at the small droid. “I’m sure it’s fine that I look at this. I have to make sure it isn’t a First Order decoy, right?” Besides, Poe makes knowing things a habit in the Resistance, and he’d like to make sure he stays on top of things. Even without his pride, however, there’s still a fairly good reason to check the files: they might contain something on Acer.

This is wrong, yes. He shouldn’t be checking it, shouldn’t know anything about her at all. But he isn't interested in finding out the name, only the status. If she’s dead or still considered missing, the file will state it. After a few minutes of paging through the data sets, Poe finds the entry he’s looking for: Sender code name: Acer. Receiver code name: Bravo. This is her. At first, Poe’s eyes flick over to the status bar, and he feels his chest fill with silent, overwhelming gratitude when he reads the few words labeled there: Alive. Returned to base. But then he keeps reading, and Poe feels a sudden piercing shock drive through him like a vibroblade.

His real name is there as the receiver: Poe Dameron. Next to that, though, is her name. Acer’s real name. Sender: Y/N L/N. Poe leans his head back, letting it thunk against the seat. For a second, he can’t think about anything at all. His eyes watch as the stars flick past behind him, but he isn’t taking in a thing. Then all of the emotions hit him at once. Acer is Y/N. Y/N is Acer. This must be what she was talking about that day, wasn’t it? Poe had told her that he was Bravo, that he was Acer’s receiver. Of course she had seemed stunned, she was going through the same revelation that Poe is undertaking right now.

But it’s different for Poe. Y/N had only had to realize that the man in front of her was Bravo, and she had chosen to not say anything. She had kept it entirely to herself, except for a frenzy of questions delivered to Leia. Why hadn’t she said anything? Yes, they’d been arguing for a while back on the Needle, but that wasn’t enough for her to damn him to never knowing if she was dead or alive. Why would she have lied to him?

By the time Poe is docking at the Resistance hanger once more, his anger and betrayal have faded into an overwhelming numbness. He walks over to Leia at the command center, handing her the box with the data files still securely inside. He doesn’t say anything more than he has to, and then he leaves the room once more. Poe has scarcely gone ten paces from the room when Y/N rounds the corner, and a cocky smile lights up her face at the sight of him. Poe can’t bring himself to return it, even when she hurries over to him.

“Look who it is, the returning hero! I thought I’d have a little longer until you came back. I think I might be disappointed.” On any other day, Poe would have scoffed, and said something about how every minute in that ship away from her was a blessing, but he stays silent today. Instead, he looks over at her, starting to veer away from the hallway and towards a door leading to an empty room. “I need to talk to you.” Y/N’s grin falters at the look on his face, at the stiffness of his words.

“Sure, Dameron. I’m a little worried now.” She follows him into the room and Poe closes the door behind him once he makes sure that they’re alone. When he turns back from the door, Y/N is facing him, the soft light of the room hanging over her eyes in a gentle wash of brightness. “What’s wrong?” She asks. Poe just looks at her coolly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He doesn’t have to say anything more- Y/N knows what he’s talking about. Her gaze falls away, and when she speaks again, her voice is quiet. “You know.”

Poe feels a surge of anger starting to twist up in him once more. “Of course I know. How long were you planning on keeping this from me? A month, a year? What, you thought you could never tell me and it would be okay? I would have spent the rest of my life thinking that my Acer, my best friend, was dead or tortured, and you were fine with that.” He breaks off, shaking his head. “I would never have done that to you.”

Guilt is spun around Y/N’s every feature, but it hurts too much to look at her. “I wanted to tell you, but I know you wouldn’t want to hear it. Not from me.” She laughs, the sound twisted and broken in the quiet room. “You would never have wanted to find out like that. What, that ‘your Acer’ was the girl you’d spent the last few hours hating and arguing with on that ship? If I had told you, you would have wished I kept it to myself. When you told me you were Bravo I realized that Leia had never told you, and I figured it would be best if I went along with it. You would never have wanted it to be me, not in a million years.”

Poe just stares at her. “What, you thought that this was you doing the right thing? Maybe I would have been surprised, but you don’t get to decide how I would have felt. You don’t know what I would have said, so you made the choice for me.” Poe rakes a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Stars, I don’t know anything about you.” Y/N’s gaze turns cold. “No, you really don’t.” With that, she turns and walks from the room. Were it not for the hunch in her shoulders, Poe would have thought she was fine. Yet he can still see it in her stance, in the rhythm of her steps as she walks away. He’s really done it now.

Poe waits until he can no more, slipping away from his quarters to go find Y/N. He’s not sure what he would say to her- apologize? Promise he’s not going to leave? But it doesn’t look like he’ll get the chance- no matter where he goes, Poe cannot find her. Eventually, some comms officer notices him walking back and forth down the halls and offers to help him out. When Poe explains that he’s looking for Y/N, the officer visibly winces.

“I’m sorry, Dameron, but Recon Agent L/N left on a mission two standard hours ago. It was really hush-hush, almost nobody knew except Leia and a few others. All I can tell you is that she was in a team with two other soldiers, and they were going somewhere in the Core Worlds.” Poe starts. “But that’s in the middle of First Order territory. That’s practically suicide.” The officer nods sympathetically. “It’s dangerous, that’s for sure. It’s a shame you didn’t get to see her off, I thought I saw her looking for you. Well, keep your hopes up. I’m sure she’ll be back here before we know it.”

The officer continues on down the corridor, leaving Poe reeling in his head. That was why Y/N wanted to see him- to tell him about the mission. And how had he left her, minutes before she left on what would probably be the most dangerous mission of her life? With angry words and accusations of betrayal. He wishes he could take it back, redo that moment. Even his anger from before seems dull and pale now. 

What if Poe never sees her again? What if that was his last moment with Y/N, with Acer, and he just left a broken memory with the most important girl in his life?

radio silence tag list: @kesskirata​, @ubri812​, @itsnottilly​, @20th-centu-fairy-girl​, @imabeautifulbutterfly​, @cp11​, @chocolitelady​

[bluebellwriting]

Love Me Tender Part 5

Walking down the street is harder without your own personal Radio Demon parting the crowd for you, but you make do as you near your sister’s boutique. At first you wanted to be alone, but that’s kind of hard in the most crowded place in the universe, and as you continued on your mindless walk through the Pentagram you realized that being alone might not be the best thing. What you needed right now was a hug and someone to tell you that you deserved far more than whatever Alastor could give you. You couldn’t be alone with your thoughts right now.

The neon from Molly’s sign hurts your eyes from a block away, and like moths to a flame shoppers flock towards the pink light. Molly’s Miracles is the place for those in Hell with an eclectic style and a preference for the sexy. It’s very rare that you find yourself actually stopping by for a reason other than checking in on your sister, but that excuse will have to do for now.

Just like the sign, the amount of glossy white furniture and sequined clothing forces you to blink and adjust your eyes. There aren’t too many people inside, thankfully, just a moth demon posing for her friend in a red dress with the deepest v you’ve ever seen. Not your thing, but the friends cheer and squeal at the sight of it, so Molly must know her clientele quite well. 

“(Y/N)?” Molly emerges from the back, her arms full of some green, glittery fabric. She all but drops them on the checkout counter so that she can properly engulf you in a hug. It’s scary how fast she can traverse a room with all those legs, but your desperation for a proper hug is too great to be startled right now. 

“I didn’t know you were coming by today!”

“I just,” you sniff, “wanted to check up on my baby sister.”

“Aww that’s so sweet!” She squeals. “But I thought you were out with a certain you-know-who? Is he here?”

You shuffle out of her arms and embrace yourself with your own.

“Who told you that?”

“Angie did. Text me this morning that you too had a little date,” she coos.

Of course Angel would find a way to blindly inform your sister about your love life. Except that it wasn’t your love life. Just life. Normal, regular, loveless life. 

“He just happened to have some business to attend to at Rosie’s at the same time as me.”

“But he walked you there.” 

“Molly--”

“And he didn’t have to! But he did! That is so cute!”

“It’s really not, Molly,” you grumble and move deeper into the store. You trail your fingers through the silks and tulle, pretending to be interested in something from the wracks when you and Molly know there’s only ever one article in the store at a time that you would actually wear.

“You okay, hun?” She trails you through the store.

“I’m fine, Mol. Just fine. I made a great deal today, dad will be really happy. Things are going well at the hotel.” You turn to her with a sigh, hoping with expulsion of breath you will also rid you of the sobs bubbling up in your throat.

It works for a minute.

“I’m fine. I’m doing fine.” Your voice cracks at the end and Molly rushes you again, except this time you’re also being surrounded by the moth demon and her friends who apparently can’t mind their own business.

“Oh sweetie, did he hurt you?” The moth asks.

“Men are fucking pigs!” One of her friends -- a wolf -- cries.

As these complete strangers surround you with man-hating indignation, Molly rubs your back and strokes your hair.

“I-It’s okay. It’s just a guy,” you gasp.

“That’s right, it is just a guy. You don’t need him and his nasty ass.” Another friend -- a blowfish -- says as the rest of the friends and your sister release you from their grasp but remain in a circle around you like some Sisterhood Against the Radio Demon.

Oh, if only they knew that was the man they were bad mouthing right now. Actually, you kind of wish Alastor was here right now. You’d pay money to see his reaction to the Sisterhood calling his ass “nasty.” Probably confusion, mostly.

"You know what you need,” Molly chimes in. “A new outfit!”

The friends cheer and you really wish you could just melt into the clothing racks. They’re all sweet, impossibly so, for helping out a complete stranger just because of the universal experience known as “guy problems.” But the last thing you want is to be surrounded by eyes scrutinizing your body in new clothing. Your heart feels like it’s about to implode in on itself and if one person says anything about your love handles or your back fat you are definitely going to ignite this entire city block on fire.

“Molly, that really isn’t necessary--”

“I know the perfect thing! You just head back into the changing room,” she says, making her way to a shelf of silk blouses. Your eyes dart to the door, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Molly.

“Don’t. You Dare.” Her eyes flash a brief red, so you shuffle over to the changing rooms.

---

Alastor sits in Rosie’s office, well, it’s more like he’s lying down on her chez, moaning towards the ceiling, and clutching his gift to you tightly as if it were the last piece of you he had left.

Rosie watches him from her desk, looking wholy unimpressed by this display from the all-powerful Radio Demon.

“Why did I even--”

“I don’t know, Alastor.”

“I never should have--”

“No, you shouldn’t have. As intelligent as you are, dear Alastor, you can be exceptionally dumb.”

Letting out another long whine, he grips the gift box harder and rolls over onto his side. He’s an Overlord. He should not be debasing himself like this in polite company. Or anyone’s company for that matter. But this is Rosie, who was for so long the only person in the history of human existence who he could trust with his truest emotions. But even this exhibitionary indulgence is a new milestone in their relationship, one he wasn’t even ready to take right now. He can’t help it though. Not when his heart feels like it’s being gripped and twisted between two fists. Not when his stomach has taken on this horrible, aching feeling, as if he’s being repeatedly kicked there. 

The worst part is the empty feeling that has been growing deeper and wider since you left him at Rosie’s. For so long now it’s been just this nagging little spot that formed when you first met, situated in the center of his chest, reminding him that he no longer owns the piece of himself that once filled it. You do. And as long as you were with him, close to him, that hole stayed the same, was comforted by its close proximity to its missing piece. But now you were gone, and the hole has become so gaping and so hollow without you, with the thought of truly losing you forever.

“You could always go find her,” Rosie implores, shoving away the paperwork she’s fruitlessly been trying to complete.

“She said she wanted to be alone,” he moans. 

“And since when were you one to respect others’ personal space?” She doesn’t get a response. He just rubs his face deeper into her chez, ruining the fabric with his blubbering. Part of her wants to relish the sight of her egotistical, maniacal, normally heartless friend reduced to a weepling in front of her. But the bigger part of her just really wants to get back to her work and Alastor’s need for validation is in direct conflict of that. 

“Alastor,” she sighs, “I know she wanted to be alone, but honestly, this might be an appropriate time for you to tell her how you feel. Or at least to try and remedy the situation a tad.”

Alastor sits up, shoulders hunched.

“Really?”

“Yes, you emotionally obtuse oaf. Go! Be romantic! Be spontaneous!” Get the Hell out of my office, she wants to add. 

Rosie goes over to him and all but yanks him off the chez. She places a jovial arm around his shoulders but is shoving him quickly through her store, past her girls, and outside.

“Good luck, darling!” She calls as she pushes him onto the street. He whips around, eyes briefly flashing her his radio dials but her motherly wave quickly reminds him of the task at hand. 

The dials disappear but he shoots her an uncharacteristic glare before he puts on his smile. He summons a shadow to traverse the Pentagram in search of you. As his shadow wiggles off, he begins his stroll through the streets roughly in the direction you were heading.

---

Molly brings you a red silk blouse and a red and black plaid pencil skirt. They seem modest enough but you dread the way the skirt will make your curves look, the lumps and thickness it will accentuate. The blouse is nice though, if not a bit tight around the stomach, but it makes your chest look amazing. You try looking for the flared skirt you came in with, but not so mysteriously, your clothes seem to be missing. Thanks, Molly. 

You have two options now. Go out into the store in front of strangers and in front of the giant windows Molly has in the front, or squeeze into the skirt, suffer through it for five minutes, and then demand your clothes back.

Once you actually have the skirt on it’s not... that bad. It digs into your waist just a tad, making your back straighten to make breathing easier. The fabric is thick, wool-like, but soft to the touch. It comes to your knees, probably the only skirt in the store that does so, and much to your surprise, it smooths out every piece of pudge even without tights. You look at yourself in the mirror and you look... lovely. Elegant, with a hint of sexy that looks good on you for once. 

Peaking your head out of the room, you see Molly and the group of friends -- Ramona, Hugh, Paul, and Chandler, you’ve since learned -- eagerly eyeing the dressing rooms. They’re all sitting on the pink, crushed velvet couch Molly has set up for shoppers, their knees bouncing with anticipation. 

You move your body out inch by inch, as if to step out of the room too quickly would cause your body to burst into flames. The closer you get to the main room, the hotter your body burns with embarrassment, the harsher the feeling of invisible eyes feel on you. You know that Molly won’t tease you, that she is a constant purveyor of how naturally gorgeous you are. But somewhere in the back of your head, the harsh words of your mother hammer away. You can just imagine that Ramona and Hugh and Paul and Chandler and whoever peaks through Molly’s windows will have some awful things to say. It wouldn’t be anything new, you’ve heard it all. Doesn’t mean you want to keep hearing it.

Molly spots your hair poking out of the doorway and squeals. Your “new friends” squeal in response and then it’s just a chain reaction of everyone squealing and cheering at you. You creep further into the room and Molly pushes you the rest of the way onto the fitting pedestal. 

“Do a twirl!” Molly yells and the rest of them start chanting until you do, in fact, twirl on the pedestal. More squealing. Their joy and support become infectious, and slowly you pull your arms away from their place shielding your stomach. 

You look head on at the three full length mirrors set up opposite the couch, you don’t shy away. You’re loving how you look in this moment, you find it impossible to fixate on the lumps and bumps anymore. It feels as though you made to look like this, still so completely you and yet as beautiful as you always wished you felt. It’s perfect now.

“Go off, girl!” Chandler yells.

“Your man is going to wish he had you back,” Hugh cheers.

“If he bothers you again you call us and we’ll all beat his ass,” Ramona says and her friends whoop in agreement.

Behind you, you can hear the jingle of the bell hanging from the door. Raising your head to stare at the door through the mirror, (e/c) eyes meet glowing red ones, wide with shock. He has a sheepish smile, not all teeth like his “going out” smile, but just as wide. He has that damn box in his hands, his claws tapping the sides. 

Everything goes quiet and you might as well have been the only two people in the room. Molly ushers Ramona and her friends into the back room before the terror can fully set in and you’re grateful. You don’t really want anyone nearby for whatever is about to happen. 

Once everyone is out of the line of fire, you sigh and turn to face him, willing the confidence from your little fashion show to sustain you for just a little longer. 

“Alastor.”

He doesn’t say anything back, eyes still trained on you, because what is he supposed to say? ‘I’m sorry for taking you to a cesspool of women thirsting after me?’ ‘I’m sorry I’m such a tainted, wretched soul who is so undeserving of you?’ ‘I’m sorry I’m too much of a coward to tell you I love you?’ He pulls the box closer to his chest. 

“You look stunning,” is all he can muster. Not horrible, probably not the best thing either, though.

“I know,” you say back, keeping your face stern.

His smile grows wider but remains sheepish, maybe even bashful, which is impossible because when has Alastor ever been bashful? 

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmurs.

“I’m really fine, Alastor,” you lie. “You don’t have as much of an effect on people as you think.” Another lie.

“There are millions of dead souls who would beg to differ but--”

You send him the most seething glare you can muster and he pulls back. He looks back down to the gift, eyeing it as if it has all the answers, the map to getting back what’s been lost between you.

“I apologize if you were uncomfortable. That was not my intention.” 

“I wasn’t uncomfortable,” you seethe. “I wasn’t anything except tired and overcome with a desire to see my sister.”

“You’re a horrible liar,” he says as he starts to roam around the store while remaining a safe distance from you. In the mirror, you catch the red glint in your eyes and blink to force it away.

Words start to pour from your mouth, recklessly and unhinged, “And you don’t owe me anything. I don’t need you following me around town after I explicitly told you not to follow me. I don’t need you to “escort” me to meetings just so you can see your girl toys. I’m not an excuse, I’m not a guise. I can take care of myself, lord knows I’ve done so for decades without you.”

“I know.” You were expecting the room to burst into flames and for the sound of radio static to overwhelm you, not for him to remain smiling down at the floor, albeit with a hint of melancholy.

“You know?”

“I know.” He starts to take small steps towards you. “I know you don’t need me, you proved that today. You are more than brilliant and poised and powerful in your own right. I know that. But I’m afraid that what has happened is rather the opposite.”

He makes it to the pedestal and even with the extra inches you are barely as tall as him. But he has never seemed so small to you in this moment.

He is not a man who cowers, he does not beg, that shows weakness and he learned from a young age that you cannot afford weakness. Don’t show your neck, don’t bow your head, stand as tall as you can and bare your teeth. He can’t do that, though, not with you. What you need is openness and vulnerability from him, signs that you bring out something that no one else can.

“My dear, you do not need me,” he whispers and holds out the box to you. Somehow you tear your eyes away to focus on unraveling the bow and peel back the packing paper. There, glittering on a small slice of foam, are two necklaces: one a heart with a keyhole cut out, the other, the matching key.

Alastor dips two claws into the package and takes with him the heart-shaped lock, and to your surprise, he clasps it to his own neck.

“But I, dearly and desperately, need you.” He plucks the key from the box and holds it out to you in the palm of his hand. 

“Alastor...”

“You can say no. You can throw this in my face and I won’t stop you,” he smiles sadly. “But you will always, in a way, have it. You will always have me.”

You’re not an impulsive person, not really, and not compared to your siblings and friends. Now that you think about it, you’ve never actually had an urge like that. Until now. Until the feeling of something glowing and bright moving up from the pit of your stomach, through your throat and your vessels until they reached your chest.

You surge forward, pull him down by his lapels, and kiss him. He tenses initially, and you hear the familiar pop of a radio cutting in and out, before he melts against you. One arm encircles your waist and the other goes into your hair, keeping you securely against him. The kiss itself is a little sloppy on his part, inexperienced and cautious, which makes sense considering his aversion to intimate activities. But there’s a relief in the inexperience, in knowing that you’re one of, if not the, first one to do this with him. It doesn’t go any further than passionate lip-locking, but the way he clings to you and you to him, like two cogs sliding together, is more than enough for you both. 

When you pull away he chases after you and his arms tighten. He’s not quite ready for you to be any less than a few centimeters from him. You release a giddy giggle and lean your forehead against his own, noses nuzzling, heartbeats sharing. You feel cool metal against your neck and look down, spotting your half of the necklace resting against your chest.

“We should go,” you whisper.

“Mm, go where?” He asks as he begins to sway your entangled bodies back and forth.

“Somewhere far away from the eager ears of my sister.”

Alastor’s ears perk up and his eyes dart to the back room, where he can just catch a retreating shadow, presumably belonging to Molly.

“You might be right about that, dearest.”

[loosesodamarble]

A Dynamic Duo

Summary: Having tracked down one of the hiding placed for the Eye of the Midnight Sun, Morgen goes to investigate and in hopes of challenging the leader.

Genre: general

Content warnings: canon typical violence

Word count: ~1900

..........

There was the hollow echo of footsteps on stone. The air was musty within the depths of an underground cavern. Illuminating the path was a sphere of concentrated Light Magic. Faint streams of moisture on the walls reflected the light as it moved along.

Morgen Faust walked alone. He was guided through the branchings and windings of the cave by a trace of powerful mana. It was easy to pick up on since it came from the same attribute as his.

The Eye of the Midnight Sun. A group of people who have attacked Clover Kingdom, Morgen mused as he traversed. The leader, a Light Mage like myself, is the one who attacked Fuegoleon.

Morgen’s fingers curled around the sphere in his palm, breaking the light on the walls with gaps of shadows. It was appropriate, given the turmoil in his heart. Even if he and Fuegoleon weren't as close as they were, Morgen had a fondness for all his fellow captains. But since it was Fuegoleon, Morgen's dear friend Fuegoleon. To find out that the kind and diligent Fuegoleon had been targeted and—in Morgen’s mind there was no other word for it than—mutilated, made Morgen’s blood boil. A rare and raw feeling for him.

“Keep calm, Morgen. Your mind needs to be clear. Let your emotions get to you and the enemy will have an opening, stupid. Just keep in mind that Fuegoleon is still alive and he will wake up. For the time being, focus on bringing justice to the perpetrator.”

Morgen paused in his stride and nodded his head. He needed to keep all that in mind when facing the enemy.

And so he went deeper into the cave. Soon, he came upon a large cavern where deposits of luminescent crystals filled the space with a faint blue glow. Dark areas at other parts of the cavern indicated to Morgen that there were more tunnels connected to the room. At the room’s center stood one figure, a person with pure white hair in a pale robe with red and gold detailing.

“I’ve been expecting you, Captain of the Aqua Deer,” the person greeted. Though he spoke politely, there was a sour tone to his words.

“I assume you’re the leader of the Eye of the Midnight Sun,” Morgen replied, his voice coldly echoing in the cavern. “The one known as Licht.”

“That would be me. Here for revenge for your ally, the captain of the Crimson Lion Kings?”

“I’m here to bring you to justice,” corrected Morgen.

A dark chuckle passed Licht’s lips. “Impossible, for the real sinners are the humans. Your kind are the ones who need to face judgement and justice.”

“You…” Morgen grit his teeth together and took a deep breath. “It is true that humans do terrible things. To one another and others. But for the evil that is done, there is an equal amount of good. I wish to see that helpful deeds outnumber those that are harmful.”

“Then you can start by letting me defeat you.”

“I cannot do that.”

“Well you’ll face defeat regardless.”

Mana swelled around the two men. One with hair darker than the night but a heart as bright as day. The other with hair like the sun’s rays but a heart tainted with dark desire. They were the same but different.

“Light Magic: Lightspeed Blades!”

“Light Magic: Light Swords of Conviction!”

Crescent blades of silver light formed in front of Morgen before they flew towards Licht. Golden light gathered into blades with four extensions on either side before being launched in Morgen’s direction. The spells clashed halfway, perfectly matched in speed.

“Light Whip of Judgement!”

“Dancing Lightstream!”

Licht’s grimoire flipped pages and seconds later, Licht held a writhing whip of light in each hand. Morgen fired swirling beams of light that raced through the air and clashed with Licht’s spell. Around them, the crystals reflected the radiance given off by their magic.

Even with the distance between them, Morgen made out the burning glare Licht directed at him. It was as though his eyes were aglow with anger.

“Time to close the distance.”

“Light Creation Magic: Wings of the Heaven-Bound Dove.”

A pair of shining wings formed on Morgen’s back. With a single flap of them, Morgen shot across the room towards Licht. Seeing what Morgen had done, Licht enveloped himself in light and jumped forward for a melee clash.

“Lightspeed Blades: Mounted Form!”

The crescent silver lights Morgen used before formed at his wrists. Morgen closed in on Licht. Just as Morgen was about to land a hit with his spell, Licht conjured a more normal-looking sword in his hand and thrust it forward. Morgen twisted out of the way in time to not get skewered but he still got a cut along his left side. At the same time, his own attack was thrown off and Licht received a cut along his right arm.

“I heard that the captain of the Aqua Deer specialized in healing spells,” Licht remarked while landing on the cave floor. “But it seems like you’re the same as other humans, freely spilling the blood of whoever you dislike.” He touched his wound. “Healing Light Particles.”

Morgen reached for his gash and pressed his hand down, causing the red stain on his clothes to grow. Normally, he too would heal himself. This time, however, he felt that he’d wait for an opening as the enemy split his mana between attack and recovery. For the time being, he would keep to a straightforward assault.

“That’s more Yami’s style but you can pull it off too.”

Morgen kicked off the ground and prepared to strike again with his light blades. As he drew closer, Licht used a new spell.

“Now that you’ve landed a hit, I think I’ll get serious. Sky-Rending Flash!”

Several orbs appeared above Morgen before releasing narrow beams of light. There were dozens of them firing from all directions. Even if Morgen moved at top speed, he couldn’t dodge all of the attacks due to the number of them. The beams of light struck Morgen all over. For sure, he’d have bruises for days even with the assistance of healing magic.

Between dodging Licht’s onslaught, Morgen dispelled his light blades and cast Dancing Lightstream instead. Beams of light shot out from Morgen’s palm and into the cave walls, sending chunks of stone flying. The destruction was enough to disrupt Licht’s concentration. The beams and the orbs they originated from faded. Morgen used the opportunity to rush Licht with reformed Lightspeed Blades. He managed to graze Licht’s cheek and land a hit on his torso right before Licht sped away. The light-haired man sent out a wave of the pronged light swords. Undeterred, Morgen flew straight towards the barrage, deflecting the magic blades with his own as he advanced closer to Licht again.

His opponent was trying to turn the fight into a game of cat and mouse it seemed.

Once Morgen broke through the volley, he found Licht smirking and with his wounds already closed.

“Come on! Who does this guy think he is?!”

Licht unleashed a light whip. Morgen intercepted the strike with the light blades on his arms only to be flung back by a second whip. The slam to his chest knocked the air from his lungs. His mind could only focus on the pain he felt and his spells faded from the lack of concentration.

“Arrows of Judgement!”

At Licht’s shout, a group of light swords, much like the one he had summoned to hand earlier, formed. They caught Morgen by his clothes and dragged him back until he got slammed into the cavern wall.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? The way his rage is fueling his attacks to be stronger. You shouldn’t do this alone after all.”

Then why don’t you jump in already, brother?

“You really thought you could handle me on your own, didn’t you? What a terrible miscalculation, Aqua Deer captain,” Licht remarked while floating closer. Morgen couldn’t quite make it out due to still recovering from the hit to his front and back, but he could imagine the smirk on Licht’s face. “But I shall take advantage of your folly and finish you off. … Ray of Divine Punishment.”

An overwhelming aura of light started to gather around Licht. Morgen wondered if he would go blind from it. The shadows formed by the debris scattered throughout the room became darker as the light grew stronger.

“Any last words?”

Morgen sighed. “Truth is, I didn’t think I could take you on alone. That’s why I brought someone with me.”

“Oh? And where exactly have they been?”

“We share an affinity and yet you seem to have forgotten. Where there is light—”

From the blackest shadow of a nearby boulder, Nacht leapt out, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“—There’s shadows too! Shadow Creation Magic: Ghastly Shadow Grasp!”

Tendril-like arms reached for Licht through the bright aura of his spell. Panic must’ve overtaken him as his magic dispelled, dimming the room in seconds and freeing Morgen.

After that, the fight descended into chaos. Fitting for Nacht.

Licht attempted to make a run for it, dodging Nacht’s initial attempt to pin him down. Morgen fired Dancing Lightstream at several tunnel entrances which cut off his exits. Nacht donned his Felis mode and jumped through the shadows to catch up to Licht. When Licht lashed out with his light whips, Equus mode blocked his attempt. Despite doing no damage, Licht still forced Nacht backwards.

The twins prepared their next attack. Lightspeed Blade projectiles from Morgen. A pack of shadow replicas from Nacht and Gimodelo. They threw what they had at Licht. The tables had turned around completely. Now Licht was the one struggling to avoid the barrage thrown at him, weaving around light and shadow, trying to deflect some with a light blade of his own. With the target distracted, Morgen snuck up from behind and brushed his hand along Licht’s shoulder. That was enough.

“Light Magic: Guiding Light!”

A glow surrounded Licht’s body. He turned to Morgen with a burning glare.

“What did you—?!”

“Mana Zone: Dark Prison Hunting Ground!”

Suddenly, the light of the luminescent crystals was snuffed out. But the light around Licht shined brighter than ever, a beacon.

“Union Magic: Intertwined Dance of Shadow and Light!”

The shadows surrounding everyone twisted. Thin streams of light pierced the darkness. The two elements wove together into several ribbons that started to zero in on Licht. In response, he flew through the void of shadows, looking for one of the still open tunnels and running from the attack at the same time. The twins’ spell trailed behind him though. No matter which direction he went, the united light and shadows followed and inches closer. It didn’t take long for Licht to be driven into a corner and finally get struck by the union magic spell.

“GYAAAAAAAH!”

The shadows shrank away. The sight left in front of Morgen and Nacht was that of Licht, flat on the ground and just conscious. The men nodded to one another before approaching the enemy.

“You ought to heal yourself a bit, you look ready to fall over.”

“I’ll be fine, Nacht. We’ve got to take Licht in quickly.”

“At least stop the bleeding. Red is not your color.”

“That’s how you show concern?”

While they didn’t always see eye to eye and they could push each other’s buttons for eternity, Morgen and Nacht were still brothers. Complementary light and shadows. A dynamic duo that could face any challenge together.