#dark shadows so brave what a good bird

[jackdaniel69nice]

Inktober 31/2023 “Fire”

Faced against the flames how will they escape

[barefoothighlander]

Hey hey heyy! First of all your writing is so good! Fr teach me.

Second of all I'd love some Graves smut, something to do with proper hate sex as in enemies to ??, maybe some violence with it. Other than that you can do what you want.

Ily<3

thank u babe, also super random but I just found out the actor for graves is also jeff in yellowjacket’s and now all I picture is graves sitting in his car jamming to papa roach

warnings: mdni (18+), smut, unprotected pinv, slight dub con, choking, fingering, orgasm denial, name calling, description of wounds, mention of blood, dom!graves, slight voyeurism, creampie, mention of alcohol, not proofread

Your skin is freezing, the rain soaking your clothes, mixing with the blood dripping from the wound on your arm as you struggle to stay up. Something about him was always off, it wasn’t often the 141 worked with outsiders but you needed to trust the Shadow company, you needed to trust Graves.

You followed his orders, seeking his protection when hostile got too close, he’d saved your life on more than one account during the mission but you always kept an eye on him.

Unfortunately your suspicions were right, he had betrayed the team on behalf of Shepard, and now you were lost in the streets of Mexico with too much blood lost.

You crept through alleys, calling through your comms to Soap and Ghost, trying to find a way out when the Shadows were lurking around every corner, gunshots ringing through your ears as you slam your body against a wall trying to stay out of sight.

The dark provided decent cover, allowing you to sneak through old shops and houses, trying to find materials to help you but the feeling of your body growing weaker did little to add to your success, having to brace yourself against tables and walls just to catch your breath.

Time was running out, you knew where Ghost was but you didn’t know how to get there, between the labyrinth of streets and the threat of the Shadows, they had you stuck with no where to go.

“You lost little bird?”

His cocky tone pierces your ears, you don’t have to turn around to know who the voice belongs to, your whole world crumbling in front of you as you look for an escape route.

“No where to run”

He moves closer towards you, caging your body between him and the wall as panic sets into your body. You turn your body and brave your arms, ready to fight but he grabs your wrists, pushing your body back against the wall and pinning you there, you wince at the action, the angle of your arm pinching your wound.

“Looks like somebody clipped your wings” He smirks, his tone is deep,

“Fuck off” You spit, writhing under his grip

“We could’ve been a team you know, there would’ve been a place for you in the company”

“And be forced to take orders from you? I’d rather die”

“Tsk, kinda seemed like you enjoyed taking orders from me”

You furrow your brows at his comment, one drunken mistake made weeks ago coming back to haunt you. You had gone out drinking with the team and he tagged along, a few too many shots and you wound up in his bed, panting under his touch.

“Get the fuck off me Graves”

“I love the way you say my name” His hands release yours, moving to your waist to turn your body, pinning your chest against the wall as you whimper in pain.

“Now I wanna hear you scream it” His voice is husky, laced with anger as his lips travel over your exposed skin, tracing your limbs. The warmth of him feels too good, your shivering body moulded against his chest as his fingers trace over the hem of your pants.

His hands snake under your shirt, kneading at your breasts as you let out a small sigh, the goosebumps on your skin depleting with every touch.

“Hate me all you want, I know what you need”

“Let me go”

“Ask nicely” He grins against your neck as his fingers pinch your nipples, a gasp escaping your lips.

“Fuck you”

He grinds his length against your backside, the firm press of him igniting your core as you curse yourself.

“If that’s what you want baby”

He moves a hand down your stomach, pushing back the hem of your pants to cup your sex, his fingers teasing over your panties as you squeeze your eyes shut.

“You’re soaked, knew you needed me, little slut”

His fingers pushed your panties to the side, teasing through your folds as he gathers your slick before pushing two digits inside you. Moaning from the contact he lets out a low chuckle, his warm breath ghosting over your ear as you bit your lip, trying to muffle your moans.

He pumps his fingers into you, his thumb settling on your clit to run circles over the bud, you struggle to brace your arms against the wall, your hips arching into him as you grind down onto his hand, chasing your high.

“That’s it, fuck yourself on my fingers”

Your teeth pierce your lip as you bite down, the taste of iron filling your mouth as the coil inside you burns, your mind a flurry of lust as your orgasm approaches.

He pumps his fingers harder, curving them to swipe across your sweet spot over and over, you throw you head back as the band inside you threatens to snap but as soon as you reach your peak he rips his hand from you. You’re breathless, panting as you stare back at him,

“Wha- no” You plead

“You wanna run? Go now” He steps back a few paces, giving you room to move, your skin is on fire, clenching around nothing as your high fades from your core, he wants you to beg. Your gaze shifts between the door and him, his dark eyes staring back at you, his hand glistening in the light, covered in your slick.

You don’t move, don’t say anything, your fingers toy with your belt buckle, undoing it and he smirks, closing the gap between you.

“Good choice”

His hand is firm on your back as he presses you against the wall again, his arm moving your grip around your waist, holding you up as your limbs become unsteady. He pulls your pants below your ass, giving him enough access to feel your weeping cunt, grinding his clothed length against it and feeling you shudder from the contact, the rough denim swiping against your core, sending shocks up your spine.

“Better stay quiet, unless you want the entire company to take turns”

His threats are empty but they still make your blood run cold, the noise of his own belt clattering as he presses his chest against you, running his tip through your folds. He smears your slick around your cunt, quiet sighs falling from your mouth as you feel how hard he is.

He leans back from you, lining himself up as his free hand finds purchase on the side of your face, pushing it against the cold wall, keeping you pinned. He bottoms out in a single thrust, forcing the air from your lungs as you gasp as the stretch, the arm on your waist moving so he can rest his fingers against your clit, keeping them still against the bud to tease you.

He pounds into you, forcing every inch of himself inside with every thrust as you moan, your mind a blur, the idea of anyone hearing long gone as his tip drags against your walls.

“That’s it, take it, take it all you fucking slut”

He grunts behind you, his balls slapping against your skin with every thrust, the sound of the rain outside the only thing keeping prying ears from knowing what was happening as you unravel under his touch.

The hand on your head moves to snake around your neck, the inside of his elbow settling under your chin as he pulls you against him, your back arching as he presses your spine to his chest. His cock hits deeper from this angle, your body exposed to him as his grunts fill your ears.

You reach for him but he grabs your wrist, a low growl leaving his chest when his thumb presses into the bullet wound in your arm, forcing a cry from you as you clench down on him.

“See what you made me do, didn’t have to run from me” He presses harder into the wound, droplets of blood cascading down your skin, smearing onto him as you sob around his cock.

“Fuck. You” You manage through gritted teeth, your hand finding it’s way to his head, tugging on his hair as he lets out a grunt, thrusting harder into you.

“You bite back, always liked that about you”

You open your mouth to speak but words escape you as he grips your wrist, pulling it towards your sex and forcing your fingers to toy with your clit.

“Show me how much you need to cum, how good my cock feels inside your little pussy”

You trace circles with your weak fingers, quiet whimpers from your lips boost his ego as the feeling of your fingers is nothing compared to his.

“Poor slut, you need me to do it?”

You give a tug to his hair, silent begs as your fingers continue to work lazy circles over the bud.

“Beg for it, beg me to make you cum”

“Eat shit”

“I guess only one of us gets to finish then”

He sobbed your body forward, your hands slow to catch you against the wall, his grips your waist with bruising fingers, digging into the flesh as he thrusts into you. Your knees are weak, your arms heavy against the wall as you struggle to stay up, you need more, more of him.

“Beg for it”

His thirsts push you further into the wall, your aching fingers scraping against the stone,

“Please” You whisper

“What’s that? Didn’t hear you”

Your body admits defeat before your mind does, pushing back against him so his tip prods at your cervix, forcing him deeper into you,

“Please”

“Please what? Use your words”

“Please, let me cum!” Tears prick your eyes, your orgasm building inside of you at an agonizing pace.

“Then soak my cock you fucking slut”

His fingers make contact with your clit, rubbing harsh circles over the bud as you cry out, your hips working in tandem with his thrusts to chase your high.

He leans over your frame, his lips pressed to the shell of your ear as his hand grips around your throat, his fingers squeezing against your pulse point.

“Cum for me, show me how much you need my cock” He whispers in your ears, the words shooting straight to your core, the fire inside your searing your skin as you cum with a sob, clenching down on him as he fucks you, keeping his harsh pace. His fingers stay on your clit, not letting you come down, he forces you to ride out your orgasm at his brutal pace, his skin smacking against yours as his cock stuffs you.

Your vision blurs, a mixture of blood loss and the overstimulation of him has you seeing stars, every sound drowned out except for his moans behind you.

“M’gonna fill this fucking pussy, send you back with a reminder of who you belong to”

Your tears stain your cheeks, your throat dry and unable to respond as his thrusts become sloppy, chasing his own high.

“You want that? Wanna walk around with my cum stuffed inside you, you fucking traitor bitch” He spits, his words ringing in your ears as he bottoms out, pressing his cock deep inside your walls as his spend floods them, filling you with the warm liquid.

Your body goes limp against the wall, his arms the only thing holding you up as he milks himself in your pussy, thrusting his softening cock to make sure it stays deep before pulling out.

He tucks himself back into his pants, his grip on your waist keeping you balanced as he helps you to lean on a table, kneeling to pull your own pants back up.

He scans the room, moving to grab a small cloth before tearing it, wrapping it around your wound to help stop the bleeding. You stare at him with hooded eyes, the toll on your body evident in the way you hunch over, arms braced to keep yourself steady.

“I meant it, there would’ve been a spot for you” His tone is sincere as you gaze at him, his hair sticking to his forehead in a mix of sweat and rain drops, he reaches around his vest, pulling out a small canteen of water and handing it to you, you take it, chugging its contents before gasping for a breath.

“I’d never betray my team”

“You already did”

His words shoot through your heart, it was true in a sense, even if he wasn’t the enemy the first time, it didn’t take away from the fact that you had just fucked him in a dirty old house while he was hunting you and your team.

“Go”

You furrow your brows at him, “What?”

“Leave before I change my mind, if I catch you again it won’t end as well”

You take a moment to scan his face, he’s being sincere, you stand quickly, trying to catch your balance before sparing him a final glance and rushing through the door back into the rain, glancing down streets to try and find a way out.

“Deadeye do you copy” Ghosts voice echoes through your comms, pulling you back to reality.

“I copy”

“Jesus Christ, where are you?” His voice is laced in panic

“Coming LT” The lights of the Church stare back at you through the heavy down pour, lighting your path as you make your way to your team.

[frozrowan]

I had this dream of The Collector💚 I wanted to write story of it

Asa Emory x reader

"Welcome home, my dragonfly."

Sunlight shone from behind the curtains creating a soft yellow glow on the corrido's wall. The rays made shadow boxed incest to shine on their true colors. Most of them were beetles, but here and there where butterflies with most vibrant colors you haven't ever seen. You recognize couple of them, but rest was unknown. Still all of them were admirable.

You did woke up inside the red box, it wasn't locked so you let yourself out of there. He may have done that on purpose. The box was placed in the middle of the living room so you could take a good look of Asa's home. Everything was so organize, tidy. He had lot of green plant and seemingly loved vintage. The house was homely and comforting, better than the cold abandoned hotel. You felt bad for those other who have to be there, alone in dark. You thought you would have been one of them, but you weren't. When thinking all of it the collector, (before you learned his real name) he didn't never really hurt you. He only kept you inside that box, checked you now and then, brining you food and clothes. Now that feels like eternity. Asa let you out of the box in two weeks and toke you to the hotel's library, showing all the books you could read and where to spend your time, of course under his watchful eye. Some reason you are special to him.

The headache you had at the beginning was starting to get you dizzy and your vision blurry. Any memories of leaving the hotel wasn't on your mind, but one faint memory of the needle touching on your necks skin, before you blacked out . You reached your left hand on the wall next to you, taking support on it. You closed your eyes to ground yourself. Feeling of your own heart bounding calmly inside of your rib-cage soothed you. Warmth in your hands made them to tingle. Everything was quiet and still, song of the bird outside made your eyes to open. Then you felt the floor shift under you of someone else weight than your. Large hands creeped around of your neck behind you. They gave your neck a light squeeze not meaning to hurt, but more to show possessive over you, he loved to do that.

"Little cricket let themselves out of the box, without the permission..."

His hot breath hits your neck making chills run down on you spine. Asa knows that made you shiver and melt in his arms. Teasing was his way to show affection and he loved the reactions he could get out of you. His thumb draws a circle on you neck and he could feel how you began to lean on his chest. But before you could say anything he pushes you against on the wall. Making gasp escape of your mouth. Asa's hands moved to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. Hot wave rises to you face, burning like pins and needles were under your skin.

Avoiding his intense gaze was challenging to maintain, twain of black shining orbs looking right at you, seeing you. It was unnerving, but the same time you loved it. How the simplest things Asa did, made a butterflies fly in your stomach. The grip he hold your face, forcing the eye contact, not letting you get away on this time. Asa knows you look at him secretly, when you think he won't noticed, he do. Admiring him whatever his working on at the time, how his unique eyes shine when the light reflect on them.

Corners of his lips rises to a grin, and that made you realize you have had look at his lips for too long. "Do a bug want something?" Asa lean closer to you, watching closely the tiniest reactions and expressions what appeared on your face.

"I...I want you to...." the rest of the words get stuck in your dry throat, becoming a inaudible mumble. Asa's humorous laugh embarrassed you, but it faded away quickly when his lips pressed of your forehead, giving it a soft kiss. When his gaze returned to you, the courage grew in you to press your own lips against his. That took him by surprise, he would never think you would be brave enough to kiss him, but regardless that was enjoyable, it was challenge.

Asa steadied his hand behind you neck, one supporting your lower back. He had a control. Yours kiss was sweet, but he's was full of possessiveness. Asa was going to take everything of this moment. His grip around you got tighter, while his kiss deepened. A moan left your mouth, you hand clenched on his black shirt like you life depend on it. If you were honest, you have dreamt of this for so long. Times you could have been like this with Asa, was only when he wasn't busy. When you rested you head on his lap while he stroked your head or when he give you a soft kiss on forehead before he leaves.

The broke of the kiss left you breathless, lack of the oxygen almost made you to faint, Asa other hand seems unbothered lack of it. His hand stroked your cheek, eyes gazing you dearly. He wasn't sure if you could noticed it, but at the fist time he hasn't any walls around you, he was completely relaxed. No dangers, no traps that could hurt you, or his victims who would use you as escape plan. No one could ever take his precious thing away.

"Do I have to go to hotel again?" Worry in your voice waked Asa back to reality. "If you absolutely miss that place, we can go back" He was tried to sound serious, but you can tell tone of his voice he was joking "No. I want to stay here with you."

Asa smiled at your response "Welcome home, my dragonfly."

[moodymelanist]

Like A Bird

happy day 1 of @nessianweek everyone!! I'm so excited to be doing this for the THIRD YEAR in a row and I can't wait to see what everyone creates ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

Summary: Nesta and Cassian oversee their daughter’s flying lessons.

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: None

Read on AO3 here!

✵✵✵✵✵✵ Cassian

When his daughter first came to Cassian practically begging him to teach her how to fly properly, he had been so excited that this day had finally come. The moment he’d realized Nesta was pregnant, Cassian had started dreaming of sharing important milestones with their children like this. He’d thought about how much kinder and more patient he’d be with Seraphina than his teachers had been with him, how wonderful it would be to share his love of the skies with his daughter the way he wished he could’ve with his mother.

But that was before reality entered the picture. 

Cassian had tried to teach Sera for all of a quarter of an hour before he realized he wasn’t cut out for it, because the first time she fell out of the air his heart had fallen with her. He’d moved faster than he’d thought possible to stop her from hitting the ground, and Nesta had teased him for days about how dramatically he’d reacted. 

Thankfully, Azriel had been more than willing to step in. He’d taught both Feyre and Nyx how to fly, so he was the natural choice to help Sera when Cassian couldn’t. Sera had been so excited to spend time with Azriel that she’d hardly been able to sleep the night before, and although Cassian was put out that he wouldn’t be the one to give Sera her first flying lessons, he knew there would be plenty of other ways to share his love of the skies with her. 

“It’s okay, Papa,” Sera told him with all the understanding a child could muster up. They were waiting for Azriel to arrive at their home in Illyria, and she looked absolutely adorable with her hair braided out of her face. “Don’t be scared.”

“Papa will be just fine,” Nesta replied, shooting Cassian a look that clearly said don’t you dare ruin this for her. “Right, Papa?”

“Right,” Cassian responded immediately. He bent down so he could press a kiss to Sera’s dark hair, smoothing down some of the frizz that had formed when she’d yanked on her clothes. “I’ll be brave for you, zogu.”

Their conversation was effectively ended by Azriel stepping out of the shadows and into their backyard. The early spring air was still cool enough to immediately turn his cheeks a little pink, but they were all long used to the mountain air in their family. 

“Good morning,” Azriel said after the last of his shadows had dissipated. He was dressed in dark leathers as usual, though his smile was bright as he turned it on Sera. “Ready to learn, Sera?”

“Yes!” Sera said back, practically bouncing on her feet now that Azriel was here. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

“Alright, alright,” Azriel replied with a little chuckle. He held out his arms and Nesta, Cassian, and Sera all latched onto whatever part of him they could reach. “We’re going.”

The familiar feeling of Azriel’s shadows enveloped them all as they traveled to a nearby clearing perfect for teaching little Illyrians how to use their wings properly. Cassian and Nesta watched as Azriel and Sera walked to the top of the gently sloped hill, just high enough for Sera to get a running start and take off without hurting herself if she fell, and settled in to keep an eye on their daughter.

“She’s growing up so fast,” Nesta said with a little sigh. She threaded her arm through Cassian’s and leaned into his side, contentment thrumming through their bond as his wing automatically moved to block her from the cold breeze. “I can’t believe she’s already learning to fly.”

“I feel like I blinked and she wasn’t a babe,” Cassian said back, turning to press a kiss to his mate’s temple. “You sure you can’t stop time anymore?”

“Very sure,” she replied dryly. It had been decades since she’d saved Feyre and Nyx’s lives, so the subject wasn’t nearly as sore as it had been all those years ago. “You don’t think I would’ve done it already if I still could?”

“Just testing you, sweetheart,” he responded, turning to her to drop a wink. When he turned back to watch Azriel and Sera again, he realized Azriel had finished giving her some pointers and was stepping back so she could try for herself. “Looks like they’re starting.”

Cassian watched with bated breath as Sera attempted her first flight of the day, her little wings flapping out and keeping her steady for a few glorious seconds before she overbalanced and dropped like a stone. He couldn’t keep a little noise from escaping as Sera ran out of time to course-correct and crashed to the ground, but he pushed down every instinct telling him to go and comfort his daughter. 

It helped to have Nesta’s fingers suddenly digging into his arm through several layers of fleece. He knew that it was part of the process, but they both knew how much he hated watching Sera get hurt. Still, just because he had to let her go through this didn’t mean he couldn’t at least verbally confirm she wasn’t too badly hurt. “You alright, Sera?”

“Yes, Papa!” Sera called out, bouncing up from the ground like nothing had happened. She turned and gave everyone a delighted grin, like losing her balance mid-air was the best thing to ever happen to her. “Promise!”

“You’re doing wonderfully, Sera,” Nesta called back with a little wave before turning to Cassian with a slightly exasperated expression on her face. While they waited for her to trudge back up the hill so she could try again, she said, “Cassian. Are you sure you want to be here?”

“Of course I want to be here,” Cassian immediately replied. No matter how anxious he was watching his daughter learn to fly, he knew how important it was for him to be here. “I just— I know how many things can go wrong, sweetheart.”

“She’s six,” she responded with a roll of her eyes. “She can’t even go that far before she gets tired, my love.”

“That won’t stop her from flying into a tree,” he muttered. “Or going too high. Or going too low. Or—”

“Or you can stop being such a mother hen,” she gently interrupted him before he could go on for too much longer. “You know none of us would let her get seriously injured.”

“I know,” he grumbled. He knew very well that between Azriel’s shadows, Nesta’s silver flames, and his own siphons, Sera would be more than safe. “I just can’t help but worry.”

“I know,” she repeated. She reached up and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, her eyes soft as she looked at him. “But we can’t protect her from everything.”

“Won’t stop me from trying,” he replied. 

She just smiled. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

By the time Sera had finished talking to Azriel about what she’d done wrong and how to fix it for next time, Cassian had mostly managed to pull himself together enough to watch her try again. She soared through the air for a few seconds longer this time before she fell, and although the nerves were still there, pride was slowly but surely starting to take its place. 

“Did you see that?” Sera asked excitedly, pushing herself up from the ground with another huge grin. She’d gotten far enough that Nesta and Cassian were but a few feet from her, and she quickly closed the remaining distance to continue talking. “I got so far!”

“You’re living up to your name, zogu,” Cassian replied. He couldn’t help but smile back at Sera in the face of her obvious joy at learning to do this. “We’ll be able to go flying together before you know it.”

Sera’s hazel eyes grew wide. “Really, Papa?”

“Really,” Cassian confirmed. He loved the idea of being able to share the skies with his daughter, and he couldn’t wait to show her even more of his favorite things about Illyria. Granted, it would be at least several years before she had enough stamina for longer flights, but he was still more than looking forward to it.

“Maybe I’ll be able to read in peace for once,” Nesta joked, reaching out to brush some grass off of Sera’s coat. “No interruptions.”

“But Mama, I thought you liked it when Papa interrupted you,” Sera responded with confusion. “Isn’t that why you show him all your love books?”

“Don’t keep your uncle waiting,” Cassian told Sera immediately, not needing to look at Nesta to know how pink she was. “Less talking, more flying!”

At the reminder that she was in the middle of a flying lesson, Sera didn’t waste any time in turning and running her way back up the hill. “Sorry, Uncle Azriel!” 

“Mother save me,” Nesta muttered once Sera was far away enough. 

“Mother save us both,” Cassian amended, turning to smile at his wife’s still-pink cheeks. “I hope our other children won’t be so observant.”

As expected, Nesta just rolled her eyes and turned back to watch Sera continue the lesson. They both knew it could take years to have another, but that was alright. 

Cassian had waited his whole life for Nesta, and another few decades for Sera. He didn’t mind waiting more if it meant spending days like this, surrounded by the people he loved with everything in him.  

tag list: @perseusannabeth | @bookstantrash | @charming-butt-insane | @oversizedbats | @melphss | @sv0430 | @podemechamardek | @autumnbabylon | @live-the-fangirl-life | @julemmaes | @that-little-red-head | @jmoonjones | @sayosdreams | @thewayshedreamed | @hiimheresworld | @brieq | @pearlfortears | @swankii-art-teacher | @nerdperson524 | @snickerdoodlechittybangbang | @imsointobooks | @nesquik-arccheron | @sweet-pea1 | @champanheandluxxury | @dustjacketmusings | @mrs-shadowsinger04 | @unlikelypersonalknight1 | @goddess-aelin | @arinbelle | @talkfantasytome | @simpingfornestaarcheron | @duskandstarlight | @letstakethedawn | @vidalinav | @c-e-d-dreamer | @dealfea | @katekatpattywack | @burningsnowleopard

[ghostgirl666artist]

I bring you a fanfic from an alternate universe of Dead Boy Detectives, which you can find on Ao3 under my username Vale_mlcek.

The creature that protected Charles Rowland.

Notes ;

This story is an alternate universe. It takes place before the events of the series, when Edwin and Charles were in London."

Summary

When Charles is about to be attacked by a ghost they were supposed to help, a strange creature comes to his rescue. Or Charles discovers a dark secret about Edwin.

Chaper 1

Charles rarely got scared. He was supposed to be the brave one on the team; he was the strength, after all. He was supposed to be the tough guy, right? But now, when a ghost they were supposed to help was about to deliver a final blow, Charles was scared.

He was already injured; the fight with that spirit had been tough, and he had to protect Edwin while he tried to find a spell to calm the ghost. However, it had taken too long. Charles finally accepted that he couldn't run away; his leg was "broken," and he was very hurt.

This was going to be painful, but at least Edwin was safe, far enough from the battlefield. Charles closed his eyes, waiting for the ghost's final blow. But... it never came.

When Charles opened his eyes, he saw a dark creature. It was like a shadow in the shape of an owl, a huge and terrifying owl with four intense red eyes. The new creature had shredded the ghost as if it were nothing, devouring its soul like it was candy. Charles didn't know there were creatures that devoured ghosts. He looked around for Edwin and got scared when he didn't see him anywhere, fearing the creature in front of him had done something to him.

He tried to stand up to defend himself. The dark owl turned to look at him, and for Charles, it was strange because he felt something very familiar in the beast's gaze. The owl approached him. He didn't know if the giant animal would harm him, but it didn't seem like it. Charles then remembered that five minutes ago, the owl had saved him; even so, he couldn't let his guard down.

The owl pointed with its head at Charles's injured leg, giving him a strange look of concern. Charles got nervous, not understanding the beast's sudden empathy. This was all too surreal, and he still couldn't see Edwin anywhere. He didn't have time to heal his wound or anything.

However, the dark bird got closer to the wound. The owl rested its head on the injured spot, and then dark shadowy tendrils covered Charles's leg. He felt a slight tickle, but in a few minutes, the leg was as good as new. Charles looked at the owl in amazement; maybe he could trust it.

Charles could now stand up. He wanted to approach the owl, but it backed away and began to... transform? The owl began to shrink until it ended up as a humanoid shadow. That shadow solidified, only to take on the appearance of Edwin.

Charles was stunned, not knowing if this was Edwin or not. Maybe it was all a trap; he didn't know, as Edwin's eyes settled on him, but they were an intense red, different from his best friend's brown eyes, more like the owl's eyes.

"Ed-Edwin?" he asked uncertainly. As soon as he spoke, Edwin's eyes returned to normal. His best friend coughed a little and looked at him again.

"Sorry you had to see that, but I had to do something, or you would have been seriously hurt," Charles then realized that the owl had indeed been Edwin. This was disorienting, to say the least. Then his companion started walking quickly as if fleeing from him, but Charles immediately followed. This wouldn't be left unresolved.

"Wait, I don't understand. What was all that? Was it a new magic trick?" he sounded a bit angry, but he was more confused than upset, wanting to understand everything that had just happened a few minutes ago.

"No, it was me. It's a secret ability I gained in hell. I don't have control over it; it only comes out when it senses danger," Edwin explained, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Even so, Edwin looked a little tense.

"But we've been in danger many times before, and you never... I don't know... you never transformed into a giant owl," Edwin sighed and abruptly stopped walking. He clenched his fists tightly. Charles knew he was quite nervous and, if his eyes weren't deceiving him, he could see some dark feathers clinging to his friend's hands, confirming that everything that happened was real.

"I controlled it, that's why. I kept it at bay..." Charles watched as the feathers fell from Edwin's hands. His best friend nervously wiped his hands. "...because when I'm in that form, I'm capable of devouring souls, and that's, to say the least, unprofessional and dangerous for everyone. I'm a monster in that form, and what happened today shouldn't happen again." Charles somewhat agreed that it was dangerous, but he wouldn't call Edwin a monster, as he didn't miss the fact that the owl had healed his wound and didn't try anything against him. So, deep down, he was still Edwin.

"But you didn't attack me; you did devour the ghost that wanted to attack me... So I understand that some things got out of your control. I know you wouldn't do that. What I don't understand is that... you weren't in danger... I had put you in a safe place and-"

"But you were," Edwin interrupted. "And when the ghost was about to hurt you, I couldn't control it anymore. She wanted to protect you, and to be completely honest, so did I." Charles felt his cheeks flush a bit; he had never seen this protective side of Edwin, and he didn't dislike it at all.

"I guess she liked me then," Charles laughed. Edwin rolled his eyes.

"I suppose she did." Charles sighed and gently took Edwin's hands.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" It was Edwin's turn to sigh heavily; the nervousness seemed to return to him suddenly.

"I already told you, I'm a monster in that form, and... a very terrifying one. You don't know everything I had to do to get out of hell, everything she did... I feared that you..." Edwin began to tremble; Charles took his hands more firmly.

"You feared I would see you as a monster?" Edwin looked away. Charles looked at his companion as if he were the most beautiful thing in the world. He took Edwin's face and made him look at him again. "Listen to me, Edwin Payne, there's nothing in this world that would make me see you as a monster. You are one of the kindest people I have ever known. I gave up the afterlife to stay with you. There will be nothing, and I repeat, nothing that will make me leave your side, not even the fact that you can transform into a soul-devouring owl." Edwin's eyes were already filled with tears, and Charles couldn't help but hug him.

"Thank you," Edwin stammered. Charles simply stayed there, hugging him, making small circles on Edwin's back to calm him down, which worked. They stayed like that for several minutes until they were ready to go home.

_____________

"This is Edwin's owl form interacting with the rest of the characters."

[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 26

The dog came back and Downstar once again bravely fought it off, breaking her back leg.

[Image ID: Downstar faces a large red dog. Under Downstar, it reads + CONDITION: BROKEN LEG.]

Fennelspot saw it in a dream, apparently; a massive dog with pointed ears and cat blood on its fangs, racing between the shadows, searching for prey. There were two clear facts in his mind; the beast was a darkhound, and it was the same one that attacked Downstar just two moons prior. Fennelspot must have taught Oilstripe about the Spirits of Shadow, as she launched into a speech on their weaknesses as soon as Downstar made the announcement at the Clan meeting. Downstar bit her tongue and let her speak. The Clan needed to know, so she could handle listening to Oilstripe’s strange knowledge for a while.

Downstar had a plan as soon as Oilstripe finished speaking. There was no killing this hunter of the Dark Forest, but it could be chased away with a few brave souls at Downstar’s side. Burdockcreek, Rustshade, and Scrubmask each rose to the challenge. Oilstripe claimed the spirits of the Dark Forest, those who spent their haunted afterlives in whatever sense of peace they could find, would lead darkhounds to churning, powerful rivers so they would be swept away. It was as good a plan as any. 

Fennelspot invoked two spirits of StarClan to protect the patrol. First, he called for Ternpath, Celestial of Dogs and Hounds, to shield the group from the darkhound’s fangs. Then he asked Beaversneeze, the unfortunate Celestial of the Great Northern River, to take the darkhound far away and leave the Clan cats where they are. As he recited his prayers, he kept glancing at Oilstripe like she could help him. Downstar tried to block the ginger molly from her mind and focus entirely on the task ahead.

Rustshade’s job was to find the darkhound. A few patrols had scented the beast in the north, not too far from where it attacked Downstar during the anniversary celebration. As a codekeeper, Rustshade knew how to track something down. Downstar trusted. Once Rustshade found the darkhound, the other three cats would spread out, heading toward the thickest waters of the Great Northern River. 

Downstar would be the one to make sure the river took the beast. She had the lives to spend, after all. She waited in the spray of the cool river under the glare of the hot midday sun. Her tail caught on the water’s edge and drifted toward the ocean. Oddly enough, she thought of little as she waited. The world simply existed around her. Her mind mixed with the churning of the water. If the darkhound took her life again, so be it. That was her duty. It was hard to feel scared when she knew what death felt like.

She heard the darkhound before she saw it. Its vicious bark spooked birds from the trees. Downstar tensed and stood, water dripping off her tail. The smell hit her just as Scrubmask burst through the trees. The pale warrior scrambled up a thick sugar maple and crouched in the leaves, just as planned. A moment later, the darkhound sprinted into the sunlight. 

It looked exactly as Downstar remembered from the sporadic flashes of her second death. It looked more like a wolf than a dog. Its stocky frame could crush Downstar underfoot. Its wild brown eyes bounced about, searching for its missing prey. Its heavy black fur was only broken by sporadic gray markings like light trying to break through thick shadow. The darkhound ran toward the sugar maple and jumped on the trunk. It barked and howled at Scrubmask, scratching up the bark.

“Over here!” Downstar yowled. The darkhound’s head snapped toward her. Its piercing bark stung Downstar’s ears. The darkhound jumped off the trunk and sprinted at Downstar like a bat through the sky. Downstar turned and jumped onto a half-submerged rock in the river. Water flowed over her paws and tried to drag her under. Deep water stretched out before her. Downstar breathed deep and dove into the deadliest portion of the Great Northern River.

Her ears hummed along to the heavy flow of the water. Her fur reached eastward with the flow of the river. Downstar’s legs burned as she swam hard and deep. Her paws touched the smooth mud and stones of the river’s bottom. She could barely see through the stinging water. The dog splashed into the river, its bark drowned by the sudden rush of water. The impact shoved Downstar aside and sent her spinning. Wild paws paddled toward her. Her chest tightened as she frantically tried to right herself.

Long fangs dug into Downstar’s back leg. She yowled, water bubbling around her muzzle as blood stained the river. But this was the darkhound’s mistake. If it wanted to hold onto her so badly, it could join her in a frantic rush to the ocean, far away from the Clan she worked so hard to build. 

The pair spun through the darkening water. Downstar wasn’t sure which way was up. Her leg and the darkhound’s muzzle smashed into a large stone that jutted from the bottom of the deep river and peeked out over the surface. The darkhound let go and tumbled further toward the ocean. Downstar’s vision blurred. She needed air. But where should she go to get it? She tried to swim, but she couldn’t move her limbs. She was so heavy…

Something grabbed Downstar’s scruff. Splashes of brown and white dragged her toward a distant light. Her senses burned as her head breached the water. She choked on the air, water rushing out of her lungs. What was happening? Had she reemerged in StarClan’s ocean? No, she wouldn’t feel so miserable if she had died. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t hear, it was all she could do to force air down her water-logged throat.

The first thing Downstar heard when her ears cleared was “I’ve got you, Downstar. I’ve got you.” The brown and white blobs began to take shape. Carnationspeckle stood at Downstar’s side, soaked and panting.

“Where did you come from?” Scrubmask hopped out of the sugar maple and ran toward Carnationspeckle and Downstar.

“I couldn’t let you drown yourselves,” Carnationspeckle huffed. “I followed the darkhound’s scent.”

“It could have killed you,” Scrubmask growled. “You’re nowhere near fast enough to outrun a beast like that.”

“Yes, but I can outswim anyone in this Clan,” Carnationspeckle said, wrapping her tail around Downstar. “I couldn’t let her drown.” Rustshade and Burdockcreek appeared, following the long-gone beast’s scent. 

“Scrubmask, hurry back to camp and fetch Fennelspot,” Rustshade barked, slipping beside Downstar. “Her leg is severely mangled.” Scrubmask was gone before Rustshade finished speaking, following the river toward the ocean and the shipwreck. Rustshade sighed, shaking his head, and continued studying Downstar’s leg. It was hard for the tortoiseshell leader to process everything around her, as her Clanmates were still blurry and her ears were still clogged. But she could think, and her thoughts were not pleasant.

“Carnation,” Downstar coughed, watery eyes glaring at the young caretaker, “I have nine lives. You have one. You should have let me drown.”

“Having nine lives doesn’t mean we should waste them if you don’t need to,” Carnationspeckle sighed. She licked the water dripping into Downstar’s eyes, but Downstar batted her away.

“I don’t need you to risk your life for me,” Downstar growled. Carnationspeckle stepped back, nodding softly as her ears fell back. Downstar coughed up more water as the pain of her bitten leg swam through her muscles.

If the darkhound was going to kill anyone, if anything would get one of her Clanmates killed, Downstar would be the one to die.

(Fennelspot: 83, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Oilstripe: 30, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Downstar: 85, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Burdockcreek: 20, male, historian, competitive, lore keeper)

(Rustshade: 70, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Scrubmask: 43, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Carnationspeckle: 28, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)

James and Weedfoot go hunting together.

[Image ID: James and Weedfoot follow a rabbit.]

---

James was shockingly quick for a large (and Weedfoot had to be honest, lazy) former kittypet. He chased after a brown speckled rabbit, matching its pace leap for leap. There were a lot of places the rabbit could escape to in RippleClan’s more open southern territory, but James looped back and forth, scaring the rabbit away from any escape routes. In a few moments, the rabbit dangled from James’ jaws.

“Wonderful!” Weedfoot chirped, jogging down a steep slope to join her hunting partner. “I really thought it was gone when the wind shifted.”

“My humans used to hunt rabbits,” James said, resting the rabbit at his paws and licking his lips. “I am well acquainted with the need for speed when stealth fails in a rabbit hunt.”

“Once we cook this, this rabbit should feed most of the Clan,” Weedfoot purred. She glanced at the darkening sky and added, “A meal for tomorrow, however. Let’s return to camp.”

“Finally,” James purred, stretching his back. “I can sleep.”

“You’re in camp all day,” Weedfoot chuckled with a twitch of her whiskers. “I would be begging to leave camp if I were you, but you’re always itching to get back.”

“Because I like staying in camp,” James groaned. “If I could spend all my time in camp and never leave, I would be content.”

“You have to be one of the laziest cats I have ever met,” Weedfoot laughed. 

“Not lazy,” James purred, adjusting his tattered black ribbon. “I am simply not a fan of moving.” 

“Not moving sounds like a dream at the moment,” Weedfoot admitted, sheepishly ducking her head. “With Downstar resting in the medicine den, I’ve been doing both her job and mine. All I can think about is when to send out the next patrol and what we’ve already done for the day.”

“You’ve been a radiant deputy,” James said softly. He patted her on the back with his long, soft tail. “Just as I have been a wonderful caretaker since I found your humble Clan.” James puffed out his fluffy chest.

“Let’s go home before you start taking yourself seriously,” Weedfoot chuckled, headbutting James’ shoulder. The former kittypet picked up his rabbit and followed Weedfoot back to camp.

When the pair returned, RippleClan was winding down for the night. Clammask stomped out the remnants of a smoker while Oilstripe groomed herself. James rubbed against Weedfoot as he made his way to the fresh-kill pile. Oilstripe stopped grooming and trotted up to Weedfoot.

“Yum, rabbit,” Oilstripe cooed. “That will taste amazing tomorrow.”

“James is quite the hunter,” Weedfoot sighed. She watched James as he said goodnight to Scrubmask with a gentle purr and a shake of his pelt. When Weedfoot looked back at Oilstripe, however, her former apprentice had a curiously mischievous look on her face. “What are you thinking, Oilstripe?”

“You like James, don’t you,” Oilstripe said, flicking her tail at the pale ginger tom.

“He’s stepped up when he’s been needed,” Weedfoot said as her stomach suddenly tightened.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Oilstripe purred. She sat next to Weedfoot and said, “You’re in love.” 

Oh StarClan. Oilstripe was right. She did like James. She didn’t have time to pursue a mate! She had to step up for Downstar while she recovered. She was the deputy. She couldn’t be distracted! No, no, that wasn’t the worst of it. Weedfoot already had a mate. Paleshade had been the greatest companion she could have asked for. They were together every step of the way. How could she enter StarClan one day and face Paleshade if she fell in love with someone else?

“She wants you to be happy,” Oilstripe said quietly, dragging Weedfoot out of her thoughts. Oilstripe had a hazy, unnerving look in her eyes and kept glancing away from Weedfoot. What was she even looking at? A fearful itch climbed up Weedfoot’s spine.

“How did you know what I was thinking?” Weedfoot gulped.

“Uh,” Oilstripe gulped, staring at the ground, “I just know you well, is all. And I’ve heard so much about Paleshade, I feel like I know her too. And from what you’ve told me, I think she would want you to find someone who makes you happy in RippleClan.”

“Maybe,” Weedfoot muttered. An odd warmth filled her chest. “Maybe.”

(James: 102, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Weedfoot: 75, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Oilstripe: 30, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

[slocumjoe]

what do the companions dream about? good dreams vs nightmares

oh boy.

Part 1 because this took SO LONG.

Goes from Cait to Hancock.

Cait

Good

Colors are richer in tone than they should be. Boston, dipped in rust and grime and sun-bleached plastic, is a rainbow mesa of life. There's never a moment of dullness. The colors never dim, not for rain nor night. If you stop to breath in, the world smells of rain and soil, the musk of old metal and sting of ozone and burn of gunsmoke. The smell sticks to her nose, fresh and bright, and unlike anything she smelled before. It's cold and hot, it's gentle and bold. She walks the streets and hears birds above the warzone. She looks up and sees clouds above even them, pink and swift on the wind. They're endearingly fluffy and she takes a moment to imagine them beneath her head. An eyebot flitters through the wreckage of the world. It's speakers crackle like glass but it chirps senseless news as it bumbles through life. As she wanders, she finds herself at the bank of the Charles. Even after everything, it runs fast and true. If she wanted, it could take her far away. She doesn't want that, though. She watches the water flow, uncaring of time or human conflict. It doesn't care. It's loud and powerful in her ears and she throws her head back and laughs, why do we call this a waste?

Bad

She's in a thick forest, trees so tall and full of dead leaves, crumbling to dust above her like a mockery of rain. It blocks out the sun, but little rays stab through the dark, just enough for her to see a few feet ahead. A pillowy fog swallows the forest floor. It's full and solid around her legs, like slime, like wading through water. It eats the crunch of snapping bone and branch as she runs. She doesn't know what's behind her. Blood and pus seep from its open, vacuous maw. Its jaw clacks and clicks almost mechanically, slowly falling open before yanking itself back in place with a creak. It chases her, but doesn't run. The beast ambles, drags its mass of bone and matted red fur like a puppet too heavy for its strings. Where Cait ducks and weaves between the grey, rotten trunks, it walks through them, shoving them to the ground, barreling them over. The claws grab at fistfuls of the dirt as it goes along, digging but never staying long enough to get far with that. It's grabbing to grab. Taking the dirt to take it, feel something squish and spill from its hands. It tries to speak to her. The only noise it makes comes from its lung. It wheezes, the skin stretched so thin she thinks it could pop, let loose whatever innards it still has. This creature tries to breathe, to sniff, to speak, and all it can do is gasp.

Curie

Good

As the daygate opens, her systems struggle to adapt to the sudden airflow, the light. The sun is so much brighter than she assumed; it's nothing like a light bulb, as Dr. Flint described it. It doesn’t hang so much as looms overhead, so far away, too bright to even perceive. Hiding in plain sight, even. Dr. Burrows sighs, a winded, stunned sound, as he takes a tentative step onto the dirt. His legs shake with tension, coils armed to snap and collapse beneath him, but he is the first to brave the rocky soil, and step away from the plastic pathway into Vault 81. There is a moment where her companions don't dare to move, breathe. They wait for something and it does not come, and then Dr. Collins joins Burrows in the above world. Her sensors pick up flitting figures in the treeline—birds? Bugs? The wind is cold on her plating. It must chill the doctors to their very bones. Flint follows behind her, hiding in her shadow. Burrows has already ventured past the fence, stepping into grass and foliage and putting his face to a bulbous, purple flower. Collins warns him to mind the unfamiliar plant, and calls Curie to identify it. She cannot. This specimen is from this new world, and that means this world is living, growing, and there are so many studies to be done.

Bad

It has been 1,423 years. Vault 81, once a creaking, living beast, fell. There had been times she could hear the inhabitants, on the other side of the walls. Only silence, now. The hum of machinery and technology gave one sputter of life, before there was a great groan that shook the walls. And then, darkness. Whatever came of them, be it freedom or death, Vault 81's residents were gone. At first, Curie had thought a simple power out, a technical failure. She waited. She paced the hallways, said good morning and good night to the decrepit Protectatrons. She tended the graves. The light never came back on. Never again did she hear the faint sound of life, somewhere in her Vault. Her only light came from her own hover jet. But time came for her. She had never thought it could. Time was a mortal's fear, and she, a robot, lacked a soul to be such. She braved so many years, she never thought there was an end. Her systems failed her long ago, computers too old to continue functioning. The meager fuel supply ran out. Actuators and joints suffered rust and exertion, and her limbs hung limp. Curie tucked herself, like a bird settling for sleep, next to her long gone friends. Something stirred in her, and she thought fit to call it fear.

Danse

Good

He's home. It isn't home like he used to say. It isn't a fort, a ship, an encampment. It's a home. Thin, wood walls, a porch, too-wide windows. Terribly impractical, a nightmare to fortify. It didn't matter. That was okay. For once, for the first time in his life, he had nothing to fear. There was nothing just over the horizon, nothing below ground. Just a home, among many others, and thoughts of death and destruction didn't wrap around his neck and squeeze. He shares this home. With friends, with people he thinks family, with his own family. Today, he shares it with Krieg. Both of them stripped of their titles, as the wasteland has no need for the Brotherhood, and no need for Paladins. Krieg eyes his home with pride poorly disguised as disdain. He barrels into every room and makes a show of critiquing the lack of barricades, the weapons locked away for his childrens' safety, the curtains simply because he hates stripes. When Krieg has his fill of pretending Danse amounted to nothing, learned nothing, he turns around with a smile so big, you'd think he'd just watched a Mutant eat a live grenade. Claps his big hand on Danse's shoulder and tells him well done, but if you skip on training like Cutler, I'm shoving my foot so far up your ass, your spouse will taste the rubber for months. Danse raises an eyebrow and grins, and against his better judgement, tells his once-commanding-officer-turned-father-figure that he and his spouse taste plenty of rubber on their own. It takes him a moment. Krieg makes a face like he just saw a Mutant eat a live grenade and survive. He starts yelling about that, and he yells, and yells, and yells until Danse's spouse and children come home.

Bad

He hates medical bays. Of course, his nightmares take place in them. And he's had this one so many times, he's forced to stare it down, knowing he'll have to wake up and go about his day like it doesn't haunt him. He's in one of the emergency rooms. He isn't injured, this time. Sometimes, his organs are strewn about the room. Others, his limbs melt off like candy in sunlight. But this go-round, he's fine. There's an IV in his arm, and he can't look away from Cutler in the chair beside him. His head is still Cutler. His mouth is hanging by one jaw hinge. A scream rips from the vocal chords, draped down his opened throat. It's wet, like he's crying. Sometimes he is. Sometimes his eyes are too bloated, green as grapes and bursting with blood. Cutler holds his hands in front of him, his body twitching, trashing, something awakening inside him as the FEV takes hold. He tries to put his jaw back in place. Danse softly tells him that isn't how that works. This scene's happened before. Cutler will try to speak, to beg Danse to kill him, but his hands mutate into his face, and he becomes a wet, bloated mass of green flesh, swallowed by himself, and the screaming muffles into puppy-like whimpers. Danse says he's sorry, and that he's here, and Cutler isn't alone. He knows its just a dream, but it matters. He hopes that Heaven is real, and Cutler can hear him from up there. The real Cutler couldn't. Neither can this one. This one holds his belly and throat and throws up on the floor, an endless stream of all of his bodily substances as he turns inside out. Danse reaches out and gives him his hand, as he always does. Sometimes he wishes he could resist, let himself treat this as a nightmare. But that would harden him, and he wants to remember. Cutler deserves to be mourned and missed. Danses misses him because he loved him, and he can't have one and not the other. So he holds his hand as Cutler crumples into a misshapen lump of organs and limbs and eyes. There's a selfish part to it, too. Cutler always held his hand when he had nightmares. Like this, he still does.

Deacon

Good

He was never a good cook, but everything rides on this cake coming out okay. No burnt edges, no dry patches, no underdone bits. Perfection is the bar and he'd electric slide under the Devil's shiny throne in Hell if it meant clearing it. He would kill a man if he had to, if his blood would make it moist. Obsessive? Yes. The first cake was...dubious. Those eggs had to have been off, he's sure of it. Cakes don't taste like...that. The second one, he floated his eggs until he determined all were dubious, and ran to the neighbors with the hens and bought more. Floated those, those checked out. But...that cake was wrong, too. It wasn't overcooked...or undercooked...it's just, the texture made it impossible to decide what it was at all. He stuck a fork in it and the fork bounced up and hit the ceiling when he let go. The third cake had similar results in that it broke the fork entirely, despite being pale. The fourth one he treats with the severity of a heart surgery, because the clock is ticking and he refuses to serve a cake bought at the baker. He measures to the individual salt particle. He adds milk with an eyedropper and counts the drops. He drops an egg and screams but that's okay, because the two that make it to the batter bowl make it in at all. The mixing process makes him sweat and he doesn't trust his oven as far as he can throw it, but he has no choice. The second that cake is done, he frets over it like a newborn. Once it cools, he applies a smooth layer of tarberry frosting, a dusting of confectionary sugar, and decorative Dandy Boy apples, because she loves them even if she pretends she doesn't. There is no time for pride. Their door swings open, and he can hear Barbara kick her shoes off in that telltale way that says her day's sucked. He sticks in the candles, and manages to light them just before she staggers into the kitchen. When she looks up from her feet and sees it, her smile and the glittering in her eyes is worth all the wasted eggs. And...forks.

Bad

He wakes and sits up. Stands on his legs. Walks to a dresser. He opens a drawer. Inside sit various faces. He puts on the scavenger, and yeah, it stinks of piss and garbage, but this one, it's a real resourceful one. You get all the good deals from the caravans, like this, and the raiders might look at you all hungry, but you're closer to them than anyone else, so they leave be, most the time. If not, you're a scavver, so you ain't got any qualms shooting first. He takes off the face. He puts on the soldier. It fits well-enough. This one is useful in circumstances where having a straight spine and good trigger discipline can make all the difference. Surviving the wasteland requires constant vigilance and sharp instincts, and the steadfastness to act on both. Civilians often skulk away, which is a bonus, given his need for subterfuge and anonymity. He takes off the face. He puts them all on, one by one. There's one face in an old Dandy Apple box. He doesn't know how to open it. The tape sticks to the fingers he's using, no matter how thin or thick, short or long. It asks he leave it be. Leave it in its box.

Gage

Good

Crickets chirp, out in the wasteland. It's a high, light sound, so gentle it could be wind. The only thing those pests are good for, these late-night songs. It's deep into the evening, and Porter Gage is alone in the forest. The last drop of sunset bleeds through the trees, just before the dark swallows it all up. His fire is good to last the night, where he camps in the hollow of a tree trunk. Trees didn't grow this big before the war, he's pretty sure, and he thinks Old World folks missed out. He remembers being young, and wanting to do this. Hide away in the old logs, his own fort. But then, he was skittish. Nervous about the bugs, the firefrogs, the draugators. Now, all those things are just ambiance. The forest isn't even that dark, with the frogs shooting at every bug that comes their way, drawn to the glow in their vocal sacs. He still finds those little things charming, and wishes they had anything like them back up north. But right now, he's content to listen to their distant burning. He missed them. Porter Gage lights a smoke from his fire, takes a sip of his rustrod tea, and luxuriates in the simple pleasure of a peaceful night back home.

Bad

The wallpaper is gone. Little scraps of it remain where the adhesive didn't budge. The carvings in the doorframe have worn away, too. He can barely make out AG, MJG, LG, WG, HG, KG. PG sits at the very top of the other marks, but the number is ineligible. He walks into the kitchen. Whole house smells of charcoal, but the fireplace is empty. Not even a speck of burnt wood. Everything is so clean. His footsteps trail dirt. That behemoth of a cleaver hangs dutifully above the window, right next to the skillet. It was heavy in his hands, almost too big for his palm, but he made it work. He hangs it back up, and notices how little it takes to do so. Used to be, he had to strain and stretch, stand on his tip-toes. He exits the kitchen. Spent so much time in there, he doesn't need a refresher. If that is what he's here for, anyway. He doesn't know why he's in this house again. He's after something. Closure? An answer? Revenge? He doesn't want those. He never did. That might be the worst part. He's a raider. A greedy, desperate, opportunistic creature, all open hands and mouth. And he wants nothing from this. He wants to leave again. Out the window like when he was a boy. If he listens, he can hear the wind whistle through the crack where the tracks are broken. Where it doesn't shut right. They never fixed it, did they? He goes to that room, down the hall. The door is locked, but it opens for him anyway. Dust everywhere. Dust, cobwebs, the window screen he ripped out. His bootprints trail from the window, coming from the outside in. If he didn't know this place, the story, it'd look like young Porter was yanked from his bedroom and stolen away. He thinks of what his parents would think of that and wonders, what did I want?

Hancock

Good

A squall hits Boston, the same night he wanders away from Goodneighbor. He doesn't turn back. His whims take him to the edge of Boston, right up against the river. The wind is brutal, the rain harder than bullets. He finds a greenhouse. It's dark, but it's shelter. The door is already open and he takes it as a warm welcome, even if its just as cold. He thinks he's alone until he isn't. A man leans against a trough filled with dirt, stares at one single flower, creeping through the dirt. To be polite, he says hello. The old man doesn't look at him, only gestures for him to come closer. He steps forward, and the old man says, "You don't see much of this, these days." The flower is light purple, its five petals reminding Hancock of a star, or a toy pinwheel. It gives off a smell that's pure sugar, so sweet it could be candy. He says he never paid much attention to flowers. The old man's voice is hollow, but light and clear, like a flute. He says that's a shame, because they're something to appreciate. All this time, all the war, and still, the world gives them flowers. Sometimes they have a purpose. Sometimes that's just to be, just to fill the air. That's enough. Hancock sees a few more bulbs sprout from the dirt. He asks what kind of flower it is. The old man tells him it's a violet, and says again, "You don't see much of this, these days." Hancock asks if he grew it. He says no. He says it grew itself. He gave it the water, and the warmth, and the dirt. But it had to choose to grow. It chose to drink, to eat, to bloom. He could have given it everything, but it had to do the hard work itself. The old man turns to Hancock, and his eyes are rocks inside the sockets, but still seeing. Still aware. The old man tells him he can do the hard work, now. He doesn't have to repot. John doesn't get it but wants to believe him all the same.

Bad

Bright red flowers litter the streets, one day. They're redder than anything he's ever seen. The petals cup around the pistil like hands, delicate and careful, before draping down in a sheet. He asks of them, and no one else can see. They smell of citrus. They're soft, when he dares to touch the petals. They can't be a figment of his mind. He tries to ignore them. Flowers don't grow in the Commonwealth, anyway. But they do. These flowers grow everywhere. He speaks to MacCready, sees the way his throat bobs when he asks how the search for a cure is going. Around MacCready's worn boots, flowers of all colors sprout from the tile. Their petals curl upwards, and white rings around the pistil, like an eye. They lack any scent. MacCready brushes him off as he points at them. Hancock goes to Daisy, lets her speak of her husband. He's never learned the man's name, and he thinks she doesn't remember, anymore. White flowers burst from the walls. These petals...they bundle so tightly together, the pistil is hard to make out. The whole thing looks like paper maché, this round, bulbous flower almost too perfect to exist. He leaves her swiftly, and as he looks behind to give his goodbye, he finds more of those first red flowers, following behind him. He opts to go to bed. He enters the Statehouse and it's a garden. Flowers creep up from the floorboards, drape from the rafters, wrap around the stairwell. All red. Those red, sleepy-petaled flowers. Wood splinters litter the floor, dust falls from the disturbed ceiling, the boards and railing of the stairs give out under the weight of it all. He struggles upstairs, drops to his bed, and hopes it goes away in the morning. He tastes citrus in the back of his throat. He coughs and—and he's choking, puking? He leans over the bed's edge and hacks until his lungs clear. A single red petal falls to the ground. His throat tightens, feels full, and he can't breathe so he keeps coughing. It looks like blood drops, red slowly drifting to the floor in piles.

[nightingale2004]

Meet my Dc Titans oc

Phoebe Nyx Hayes

Age: 17

Looks:

(Her hair 👇)

Personality: distant, tough, cautious, short-tempered, sarcastic, rebellious, loyal, caring, strong-willed, creative, smart, nice, protective, playful, brave, observant, serious, passionate, calm, patient, open-minded

Family: Nora (biological mother/dead), Trigon (biological dad), Raven/Rachel Roth (half-sister)

Species: Human-Demon hybrid (cambion)

True Form: red skin, black hair with red fading to dark blue, yellow irises with all black sclera, red long horns on top of her head, dark red feathered wings

Items/jewelry: Phoenix necklace, feather ear cuff, flame Sunstone ring, silver nose ring

Powers/abilities: incineration touch, pyrokinesis, pyroportation, superhuman speed, strength, invulnerability, shape-shifting, hell-fire/holy-fire, healing factor, healing tears, fire mimicry, fire embodiment, necromancy

Occupation: Hero (formerly), Anti-hero (now)

Superhero name: Phoenix

Superhero outfit:

Extra: Phoebe's mother met Trigon due to an accidental summons from Phoebe's mom and her group of friends. After they did "it," Phoebe's mom found out she was pregnant, but she also found out Trigon's real intentions. After Phoebe's mother found out about Trigon and his plans for their daughter, she immediately found a way to hide Phoebe from her father and immediately set her up in an orphanage where she was far away from Trigon's grasp. After Trigon found out what Phoebe's mother did, he immediately killed her and met with Raven's mother shortly after. As Phoebe grew up, so did her powers. She was adopted by a foster family who didn't exactly like her except for the foster father. One day, as a kid, Phoebe was in a heated argument with her foster mother, and things actually got heated. Her house was set ablaze, and her whole family was burnt in the house except for her. It was like the flames were protecting her, and then she lived her life on the streets. She tries not to let her emotions run wild so she can avoid hurting anyone else. That was until she met Raven and now they help each other.

(Before Phoebe and Raven were born, there was a prophecy about them.

A Raven and Phoenix shall be born. Good or evil, a line torn. Where darkness turns to light by blazing fire. The world holds it breath, for it is dire. Two birds shall take flight, one in the dark and one in fire. Both born apart, but they will reunite.

When the birds of shadow and fire are one. They either become the saviors or worlds undone.)

[merinsedai]

for @dreamlingbingo

(who, thank goodness, said we can also use snippets to fill these prompts-which I am now doing. Prepare for spam. Maybe. This procrastinator has been procrastinating and now it's almost November and she's thinking... whoops. Anyway, here will follow some snippet prompt fills for different chapters in my as-yet unfinished fic, The Wizard and the Unicorn)

Square/Prompt: C3-Free Space (Creature: unicorn)

Title: The Wizard and the Unicorn

Rating: T

Ship(s): Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

Warnings: minor character death

Additional Tags: The Last Unicorn au, unicorn Dream, wizard Hob, magic, quests, castles by the sea, falling in love, learning to regret, magical transformations

Summary: "You can find the others if you are brave. They passed down all the roads long ago, and the Red Bull ran close behind them and covered their footprints..." Are all the unicorns gone from the world? Is he the last? What happened to the others? To find the answers to his questions, Dream must leave the sanctuary of his forest and face the dangers of the mortal world. Along the way he will encounter friend and foe, witches and wizards, harpies and highwaymen, and a demonic bull guarding the way to a crumbling castle by the sea...

A snippet from Chapter One:

Thomas tightens his grip on his reins and his rouncey-sensing his nerves- paws at the ground. With his master’s words ringing in his ears, he looks at the forest with new eyes and suddenly it does not seem so benevolent. An unnatural quiet has descended and he has the impression of many malignant eyes upon him. And still the black bird watches them from its log. “Mayhap we should turn around, sir?” he says quietly. “Hunt somewhere else?”

Sir William gives a sharp nod. “Indeed.” 

They turn their horses and urge them to a quick trot back the way they had come, both as eager as the other to be out from under the treeline. Yet at the very edge of the forest, Sir William draws rein and turns back. 

“Stay where you are, poor beast!” he calls. “This is no world for you. Stay in your forest and keep your trees green, and your friends protected. And good luck to you, for you are the last.”

And then they are away, the fading sound of hoofbeats leaving silence in its wake.

***

Long moments pass, and gradually normality returns to the glade.  The chirps of chiffchaffs and wood warblers compete with the distant drumming of a greater spotted woodpecker; a red squirrel bounds across the ground, returning from foraging to feed her hungry kittens; legions of bees and butterflies drift and flutter amongst the carpet of wildflowers. All is peaceful.

Then from out of the shadows steps the unicorn. 

He is a creature of rare magnificence, which of course he knows, for all unicorns are proud and vain. He is dark like the clear night sky is dark: black coat flecked with silver across his flanks and quarters, a reflection of the stars above. His mane is long and flowing, curling almost to his knees, though never knotting (it would not dare). He is tall and slender, with finely-feathered fetlocks, cloven hooves, and a tail that would put even the finest lion to shame. And his crowning glory, of course, is his magnificent spiraling horn which gleams like obsidian upon his noble brow. He is the lord of this forest, the guardian of its denizens, and his name is Dream.  

Dream comes to a stop next to the fallen oak and looks down upon the bird perched thereon. She has clearly been waiting for him, for she instantly takes flight, only to alight upon his shoulder.

“Did you hear them, lord?” she asks excitedly. “The humans? They were speaking of you!”

The unicorn turns his head to regard her out of one starlit eye. “I heard enough, Jessamy,” he says dismissively, before turning sharply on his haunches and making his way back into the shadows of the trees. He had been drawn out by the chatter of his charges regarding the human incursion into their realm, but he dislikes being so close to the forest’s borders. He feels Jessamy flare her wings for balance as he breaks into a swift trot, eager to return to his sanctuary deep within the woods, where his power is strongest and the laws of nature bend to his command. 

“They were saying that you are the last, lord!” Jessamy squawks. “Can it be so?”

“What would mortals know of the matter?” Dream tosses his head impatiently as he trots along. “Just because they have not seen any unicorns does not mean that they have all vanished. We know how to pass unseen in this world, and human eyes have ever been blind.”

“Yes, lord,” Jessamy acknowledges. “But now I think on it, we have not had the Lady Death bless our woods for many years, nor has the Lady Delirium come to dance with the butterflies… and when did you last hold counsel with the Lord Destiny?”

“They are busy in their own realms,” Dream snorts. “As I am here. The mortal world grows ever more dangerous; no doubt they do not seek to leave their domains unprotected to go visiting.”  

He slows to a walk as he enters  his sacred glade, deep in the heart of the forest. The oaks and ashes tower above him. The sunlight filtering through their canopies dapples the ground with green and golden light, and plays upon the clear waters of a deep, circular pool that sits in the very centre of the clearing. Here in the seat of his power, the world is exactly how Dream desires it to be. It is true that there are no real seasons here. Spring blossoms bloom alongside summer ripened fruits, and the days are gentle. The rain comes when he wishes it: to nourish the trees and replenish the streams,  but the harshness of winter is kept at bay.  Where in the wider forest his animals follow the natural rhythms of their lives- living and dying, hunter and hunted- here, around these sacred waters, all the creatures of Dream’s domain meet in peace. Here there is no predator or prey, no fear or bloodshed. The lion and his mate lie side by side with the wolf and the deer; the stoat the rabbit; the owl and the shrew… and if the years have turned outside the forest, their passing has had no impact here.  

Dream approaches the pool and gazes down at his reflection in the still water, thinking. In truth he is perturbed by the presence of humans in his forest. His woods have always been protected by his magic: hidden from mortal eyes, he has created and maintained a safe haven for the creatures under his care. Never before have men trespassed upon his land and threatened his subjects. He has not felt a waning of his power but perhaps something has shifted in the balance of the world…? Dream makes a decision. He must call his siblings, ask them if they have experienced similar.

He lowers his head to the water, casting his thoughts out. The pool is a scrying place: here, Dream is able to touch his horn to the water and call out to his siblings. No matter the distance, they will hear and be able to answer. Though he uses it seldom, indeed, Dream cannot recall the last time he called upon his family this way, always has he had an answer. This time, there is ringing silence in his head.

[frostings-silly-little-art-blog]

the silence breaks

Can I stay?

You’re always welcome with me.

…

I have begun to love you as well.

Is a god lovable?

I believe everyone can be loved no matter their story.

Yet my story involved so much darkness..

We all have shadows in our past.

..

I worry I may ruin you.

You care so much, I have faith in your ability to not hurt me.

I promise I will never do what those in your past have done, Quinn. You are so brave.

What is bravery but hiding your fear cleverly?

You don’t let it win, that makes you very strong.

I suppose so.

..

In all my long life I never considered my biggest dream would be to show a young bird the world.

Would you show her to me? The kingdom and further?

I would show you the stars and beyond. If you let me.

Oh, I see this beautiful place and I wonder if I will live to see many more or if this may be one of the last breathtaking sites.

You believe yourself to die young?

I believe I was always meant to blaze bright and fight for good, no matter the consequences.

Must you always be the hero? Can you not rest after such a hard young life?

Some aren’t meant to rest till they are feeding the roots of flowers.

And you are one of them?

I don’t know. I was told I am.

You were told many lies.

You may be right.

..

I want to see the world.

Then it is decided. It will be lovely. We should head back home for now, though.

Home.. home it is.

[jackdaniel69nice]

hi thoughts on tokoyami & aoyama? both as a ship and a platonic duo.

Ahhhh tokoyami and aoyama our classic sun and moon duo, i'll be happy to oblige anon ;)

There is a very obvious and glaring issue of Aoyama's quirk weakening and hurting dark shadow. Normally they would be very defensive and on guard around someone with a light based quirk but quite frankly aoyama is a bit pathetic (lovingly). Aoyama has a very weak and cowardly aura, and while he is certainly shown to have brave moments, he is just like koji and mineta in that there isnt an intimidating bone in his body. Dark Shadow could probably just look at him and he would faint with fear (very lovingly, i adore a pathetic crybaby man). Regardless Yuga does constantly give off light unintentionally due to his lazer leaking and his shining atire so Shadow keeps their distance out of annoyance of accidental burns. There is really only so much you can do when you are neighbors though.

Tokoyami's early avoidance was very superficial, he thought aoyama was loud, pompous, and annoying. tokoyami has a distain for bright things to the point he would claim he's "allergic to color" and decided Yuga's wardrobe was more than enough reason to avoid the blond. For as much as every one seems to think tokoyami is afraid of the dark that seems like a truly ridiculous idea. He purposefully makes his room as dark as possible and his character sheet says one of his favorite things is “dimly lit places”. Tokoyami feels at home in the dark (one could say he revels in it) and aoyama is one with the light, they couldn't possibly get along...right?

Aizawa obviously chose aoyama to be tokoyami's neighbor on purpose. As such they naturally have to spend more time together mostly due to aoyama's medaling. He has always found something alluring about our mysterious bird friends as such is the nature of light always chasing after the darkness. Although he is a bit frightened of the demonic shadow they do seem kind enough around the girls. Once Yuga decided to talk to him their conversations come naturally as they have a surprising lot in common (what a twist!). As someone (supposedly) from France he has a lot of knowledge on Europe and its culture and history which is a fascination of tokoyami's. And while their wardrobes are in opposing color schemes they have a surprisingly similar style in the mildly effeminate and victorian fashion. Aoyama admits to having taken fencing classes and dabeling in sewing but seems to have failed spectacularly at both although he plays oblivious to this and boasts his false talents. (If bakugo is a wonder boy who is good at everything he does, aoyama is the opposite who is spectacularly bad at everything) Tokoyami is good at both sword fighting and sewing and offers to help him try his hand at these hobbies again which obviously reveals yugas failings but tokoyami is willing to teach him until he succeeds. He still remembers to keep his distance though for shadow.

Dark Shadow and Aoyama end up having a lot in common too. They are both ridiculously dramatic and flamboyant in their actions and attention seekers. Even more important they are both chronically ill from their quirk side effects. Most people don’t understand the constant level of pain from lights darks shadow has to deal with but Yuga listens to them and shares his own struggles with his incontinence and stomach pain. Obviously Aoyama’s laser itself is a literal pain to deal with but after that conversation he tries hard to keep it covered when around them (he so thoughtfully what a gentleman). They can end up being very silly with each other due to their eccentric and emotional personalities. Which is good because Aoyama needs all the love he can get.

From here on out is season 7 Spoilers for the anime ->

Dark Shadow always knew there was something off about Aoyama. They have the ability to read the auras or emotions of people and they could tell he was hiding something very dark inside him. When they told fumikage he brushed it off as them being vehement towards his quirk. This assumption strengthened once they moved into the dorms and shadow could hear him crying late and night, pacing, sneaking around, and even getting an odd phone call or two. They tried to tell fumikage and even others but was once again was brushed off, most people don’t take shadow seriously. They did try to visit Aoyama when he was crying but he only let them in very rarely and never talked about what was bothering him, his perfect mask back in place by the time he opened the door. Shadow did their best to cheer him up. When he was revealed to be the traitor shadow wasn’t surprised but still felt betrayed (Tokoyami learned a very important lesson to listen to his shadow’s instincts from now on). Shadow usually holds grudges against people who have wronged them especially since they had almost gotten kidnapped because of him. But Yuga also saved them from being kidnapped too, and he was being forced into the situation to protect his parents. Tokoyami and Shadow felt the same about this for once. All they felt was pity and understood why he did what he had to, it was easy to forgive.

Aoyama was reluctant to get too close to any of his classmates but if anyone could understand him it was the prince of darkness himself. Although tokoyami never recognized the mask Aoyama wore Aoyama could recognize his. He could see fumikage carries a terrible weight of guilt on his shoulders and felt empathetic. Tokoyami and Aoyama were both trying to cheer each other up just as hero’s do.

For tokoyami and Shadow their relationship went from dislike to “reluctant” friendship after getting to know him. Aoyama is forever grateful to have gotten so close to them.

Manga spoilers past here ->

Aoyama’s decision to leave was a devastating one and was the worst betrayal of all to shadow. They took it personally as him saying they aren’t friends anymore and that he doesn’t care about 1-a anymore. This is an illogical and emotional conclusion to cover up their hurting because they would rather feel anger and resentment than heartbreak. Tokoyami was much more rational about his decision and realizes his feelings about being abandoned and hurt as an untrustworthy emotional response. He deals with this the same way he deals with all his unwanted emotions, intense suppression. (You guys thought he was going to work through his feelings normally? HA! WRONG!)

Yuga’s decision to leave is admittedly not one I understand well. All I can see is that his quirk hurts him far too much for a long career of hero work with it. I would like to think all he did was change to general studies like trading places with shinso. He could have had his license revoked for a year, had private training, then went back to the hero course with support gear to fight with instead. The in universe explanation that he never even wanted to come to UA doesn’t make any sense. He obviously said he wanted to be a hero and likewise had many heroic moments (6 off the top of my head) that prove he could back up his motives. UA is the best place to become a hero, so there is no reason for him to leave. The only real reason he could have wanted to leave was his guilt and fear pushing himself away from his friends. Which is very similar to when Midoriya pushed everyone away during his dark deku phase, but everyone came after him and forced him to come home then. Will they go after Aoyama too? My hc says yes they do because they are a family and I said so. Mido was on his own for a few months so I think it will be a few months of them trying to contact Yuga and him trying to run away before they hunt him down >:)

In the mean time Dark Shadow takes out their anger about Yuga leaving on Shinso unfortunately. Since he’s an insomniac they have far too many times to interact without tokoyami to mitigate…but that’s another can of worms to deal with. Eventually tokoyami’s suppressed feelings blow up in his face (like always) and he has a breakdown saying how much he misses him and doesn’t want anyone to leave their class ever. Things get better after that with toko not denying his emotions anymore and Yuga soon to return. They will make up and become proper friends again (although tokoyami will still act tsundere towards him). Dark shadow cries and hugs him which they have never done before because of the burning; they are to happy to see him to care though!

I know this was sort of all over the place but I needed to talk about Aoyama’s decisions somewhere. Thanks again for the ask anon!

[lacunasbalustrade]

wax

years are so unbearably short without you. i think I have gone mad from pretending they are not, wasting my hours away by starving them with a lack of productive activities. over anyone else's company i want yours; i have tentatively admitted;

and will admit again;

a world without you in it does not hold a scrap of interest for me. it is not sensible. where is your real face? where is your throaty laugh? there are qualities in you strangers remind me of and yet they lack the certain darkness about you that pools in my shadow,

like a reflection. i confess that my shadow is a collage of all your silhouettes, a chinese paper cutting of your every pose sewed together with blood and fealty. every bracing step onto a lower stair, your history and mine flows together quickly, seamlessly, float as friends do when they chat.

it doesn't matter that i make sullen promises to you. i never keep those promises. "I'm not going to talk to you anymore.", "I might just leave you behind.", all that is empty talk that i break over my knee like a single chopstick in a few seconds, casual lies that i still rarely give (and always withdraw from, given a single moment to repent. i let you win all our quarrels.)

someone told me that i love like an open wound, well, another thing i've been told, "to vow yourself to someone is to open a wound". and i would willingly bleed out on the floor in dirt or in the dark, alone in a forest falling and making no sound, for the privilege of being someone to you. i already have, and though once more cannot be nothing (indeed, it is more than the first time to open my eyes and know what I am doing and to keep walking),

to even have a five minute conversation with you, i would give all my worldly goods. you are the hinge to my conscience and the door to my soul.

and how do i know this? this is a secret that i don't know how i've kept silent. simple, seriously. ask me to throw myself off a cliff. if you truly want it, here i am. you can even push me yourself, if you like. ask me cannily to tell you the truth of where you can aim to make me feel. i will spare no detail in relating my heart to you, nevermind my shame, never mind the slow, excruciating bearing of showing my hand (an equivalent to losing at cards.), ask me curiously for the prompt that never runs out of poetry, and your name will rise to the top of the milk like cream. in the darkness, when prayer was all

i had to connect me with your company,

you were a choice i chose to wait for.

in your own darkness, there was a resolute purpose in weathering your storms for me.

i knew from the core of instinct that when you bumped into me for the first time, something

unbelievable

had just occurred.

i squashed it down acting as (well, not normal) frivolously as usual, although a tad more dramatic. and somewhere in me there was a quiet voice insisting "this is it, this is it, this is it"

not loudly, but surely. and when you finally acknowledged what was going on i had to hesitate still, because i had never done this. i had to lay bare my own bones and i knew you would ask me to flay them. i never been brave enough to say yes to perhaps. but i promised you to make myself worthy of the potential you saw in me, i wanted to be the person you believed i was, and so i jumped without looking - falling headfirst. i had to stop myself from looking back plenty of times. i had to question my own judgement a number so large it has surpassed fifty sets of fingers and feet.

have i regretted it? never.

warming to my theme, years are unbelievably stagnant without you. i do think they're quick, but it's a quick characterised by disassociation and speed lines, a rushed comic with an unfinished story kind of quick, a stagnant quick like the monotonous chirping of birds when the morning comes all too soon.

i would like to spend a slow, measured day with you. there was a comet that i managed to catch in time, despite being dumbfounded, to make a wish. i want you, i said to that comet, i want you. i want you in your own favourite pacing, like music on the original speed, not in that brutally efficient 3X, and to memorise your lyrics. to know the composition of your being and be able to play it note for note, matching you in wits and in love. don't be a flash so bright it leaves me with the scars afterwards imprinted on my corneas.

dandelions, also, i have spent on you. if there is a thirteen o'clock, or any kind of magical fey adventure, it will not come for me. i have spent my magical allowance on you, in full and in debt. how many white seeds have i blown into the gusty winds, begging for them to reach you? how many bubbles, which i filled with my thought-heavy messages? i would not trade my memory of what has transpired between us for a door into Fairyland.

years are merely flashes of an empty lighthouse without you. there should be a keeper of the lighthouse who knows the bays and the docks, a you who comes to be with me where i am because i know where you are now dissatisfies you. our roots are bound together and i will not have them rotted away by lack of care.

but you are not here,

a wafer of wax on the envelope of time, that taunts me with little seals of your presence but never the full present. and that is the agony and summation of all my problems.

that your soft heart and quick temper is being used as a peacemaking weapon by the Greenwich which has so cruelty wronged us. that years are short and boring and life has lost all sweetness without you.

look, i am aware that i tend to state my feelings in a most detached and subtle manner, but surely this need not be deciphered,

this poem, this time.

because this is not a poem, this is a letter, and i am writing it to you, to you, to you.

years are stupid notions without you, mulled snow apple cider at Hari Raya Puasa instead of Christmas and battlements on a New York apartment. take my days like ripped paper pages of a calendar and let us rewrite them, scribbling new stories on top of what we have done during these empty durations. all of them are yours - do not be shy.

you are the name I carry in my heart, no one else can contest it.

[burrichgreer]

How To Make A Birch | Part 1

The city of Stratholme was the jewel of eastern Lordaeron. Strong, stone walls skirted its borders with sturdy towers perched atop the ramparts. During the day, banners and flags of the richest of blues danced in the wind, proudly bearing the sigil of their fine kingdom - the embellished, golden 'L' of Lordaeron. At night, torches lined the parapets, illuminating the outer walls with enough light to be seen from miles away. All who came to the fair city could find whatever they were looking for in abundance, be it entertainment, commerce, or refuge. At nearly every entrance to the city, bards could be found entrancing those passing through the gates with tales of heroic deeds and romance set to song. The Market Row bustled with the sound of enterprise from sunrise to sunset as merchants, shopkeepers and street vendors alike peddled their goods and services to any and all. And on the far side of the city, the port was almost constantly alive with activity, with ships of all varieties coming and going all through the day. There was always an energy about the city, a resilience and steadiness. After all, there was no better place to be than Stratholme City.

But that was before.

--

The ores splashed through the water, urging the small, fishing boat deeper into the dreary port with each stroke. A lone, cloaked figure sat in the vessel, looking very much on edge. His head turned up to the sky for a moment, even as he rowed along the dark waters. Any other day, there would be gulls calling in the distance and gliding on the breeze off the sea - but not today. The darkening sky was illuminated by the nefarious glow of the fire that still consumed the city. Instead of birds, there was only smoke and ash - so much ash that it looked like it was snowing.

As he neared the city, his gaze turned over his shoulder toward the approaching docks. Any other day, he would have seen dozens of ships, both human and elven, docked with crews scurrying about their business - but not today. There were only a few, lifeless boats still docked there. And while he had expected to find the docks abandoned entirely, to his surprise, he could make out the silhouettes of a dozen or so people still moving about! A desperate hope swelled inside him as he was hit with the thought that his mother and father may very well have survived what was now being called the mad-prince's Culling.

He pressed on, passing by the larger docks and making his way to a smaller, private landing that he hoped was still gated from the harbor - a more cautious approach, just in case those were remnants of the prince's forces left to hold the docks for some reason. There were only a few small boats making use of the dock. From the look of things, they belonged to a handful of survivors who were either brave enough or desperate enough to take to looting. He eased his way between two of the boats until the wooden edge of his vessel met the stone wall of the dock with a light thud and a quiet splash. After climbing up onto the landing, he made quick work of securing his vessel before rising to his feet and taking a look around. A group of rather gloomy-looking men loitered around the gate, each one with a grimace slightly more menacing than the one before. The boy tugged his hood down around his face as he stepped toward the gate, not caring one bit to linger in present company. Hoping to slip by the man at the gate without making a scene, he lowered his gaze and attempted to step by without a word.

A hand caught him by the collar before he could pass, "Boy." A gruff voice muttered, before the man tugged the younger man over to stand in front of him. "Where the hell do you think you're goin'?" The man demanded in an almost mocking tone.

"I'm looking for someone." The younger replied, his face still hidden in the shadows of the hood.

The tall man, whose face looked much like a horse's except somehow uglier, let out a noisy snort as his free hand shot up to toss the hood off of the boy's head, revealing the dirty but stern face of a teenage boy framed in a mess of blond hair. His green eyes were bloodshot and his brow was creased tightly as he stared straight ahead, refusing to dignify the would-be gatekeeper with a glance. The man studied the boy for a moment before remarking, "Stubborn little shit, eh?" A dry chuckle followed as he released the young Burrich Greer with a light shove in the direction of the gate. "Fine then. Light keep ya, if ya still believe in that horse shit." he said, punctuating his empty well-wishing with a grunt. If the other men on the landing had any concern for the boy, they didn't show it.

Burrich adjusted his cloak, pointedly pulling his hood back up before pressing an ear to the gate in an attempt to hear what was happening on the other side. Hearing nothing, he lifted the gate's bar and pulled it open, slipping through the passage to the larger harbor beyond without giving the men behind him a second glance.

Once he stepped clear of the gate, he was startled by a loud thud behind him. He turned and pressed on the gate - it had been barred once more. His jaw tightened as he squelched the desire to introduce the gatekeeper's horse-like face to his fist. And that train of thought might have continued were it not for the sudden realization that there was no going back now. He turned back to the harbor, brow knit as he willed himself to ignore that his heart felt like it was about to pound its way right out of his chest. He drew a deep breath and crouched down, finding a bit of security behind a stack of crates.

Any other day, he would have strode through the harbor like he owned the place. His father was Edmond Greer, after all. And Edmond Greer was one of a few unspoken leaders in this part of the city - a man people knew they could rely on - a steady, sharp, thinking man. Burrich had always enjoyed a small amount of unearned respect on the docks, just for being who he was - but not today. A haunting silence loomed over the harbor and there wasn't a single face to offer a smile or greet him as he peeked around the crates. And yet..

In the distance, through the haze of smoke and fog, he could see the silhouettes again - the same ones he had seen from the water. He hustled a bit closer, slipping behind a stack of grain sacks to get a better look. Now closer, he could see that they weren't wearing armor, nor did they carry weapons. That hope rose in him again. These were not soldiers. His heart continued to pound as he fed that seed of hope. Maybe the prince didn't make it this far into the city. Maybe some survived! What if his parents survived? What if they were out there looking for him right now?!

In a moment of reckless hope, the boy rose to his feet, lifted his hands in the air and called out to the strangers in the haze. "Hey! Its me! Burrich Greer! Are you alright?!" He moved out from behind the sacks to grab a nearby lantern that was still burning on its post, holding it up for a bit of light. "Have you seen my parents?! Edmond and Cadence Greer?!"

They didn't respond so he called a bit more loudly, his youthful voice echoing through the ghostly fog, "Hello?! I.. I didn't think anyone survived! Please! Have you seen my parents?!" Finally, he saw one of the figures turn in his direction as if he had heard the call. Then another. And another. Slowly, all of them turned in his direction and began to move toward him. Burrich smiled, an almost joyous laughter slipping from him as he began to make his way into the haze to meet them.

Any other day, he would have been met by men and women he had grown up around. The families who lived around and worked the docks were a tight knit community - with a flavor and culture all its own. There were very few people he didn't know and most people he could recognize by just the sound of their voices as he passed by.

But not today.

The hope that had driven him to make the journey here, that led him to open that gate, that had led him to call out to these strangers and hasten to meet them... it vanished the moment he heard them. Not the sound of familiar voices calling back to him with news of his parents. Not the sound of fellow survivors cheering at his safe return. No, all he heard was a chorus of groans. Dull, lifeless, droning groans that only grew in intensity with every step the figures took toward him. And in a moment, a single, terrifying thought took root in his mind that sent a chill up his spine and made his stomach sink like a brick. A thought he could not shake any more than the way his body suddenly froze in horror: whoever they were, whatever they were... they were hungry.

[thatapostateboy]

2, 23 and 34 from fifty rook qs?

Answered for my main Shadow Dragon Rook - Eva, romancing Davrin and Lucanis

Fifty Questions for Rook Ask Meme

2. How did Rook get the nickname? What do they think of it?

How Varric tells the story, it’s because of the chess piece; one of the strongest pieces on the board but she tends to think in straight lines.

How it actually happened, he saw a spark in some scrappy kid living in Minrathous causing trouble for the Venatori, a spark he hadn’t seen since his days running around Kirkwall. He nearly called her Hawke one day by mistake, and managed to wrangle it into a different bird; Rook. He’d joked, said she was lucky it wasn't Rookie, and hey, her shaggy dark hair looked like feathers, and so it stuck.

23. What does Rook wear in the off hours? Do they like dressing up?

Rook has little care for how she dresses, preferring practicality over design. She can usually be found in some sort of old shirt and leggings around the Lighthouse. It’s a good day if the shirt is fresh on and unstained.

She takes a little more care when she’s attempting to seduce her favourite Warden and Crow, maybe something a little more form fitting to try and catch their attention, but she soon finds that they don’t seem to mind what she wears; especially when the casual shirts she favours are usually one of theirs.

She has little love for dressing up, though once everything is over and she spends more time in Treviso, she does enjoy letting Lucanis fawn over her with Antivan fashions and the reaction she gets out of her loves the first time they see her in a proper corset.

34. How does Rook begin their day?

Rook is a disaster in the mornings. She’s used to sleeping light, ready to move at a moment’s notice with the Shadow Dragons, never really having anywhere safe to rest her head until the Lighthouse. If she’s able to stay in bed long enough to fully fall asleep, it’s a mission to wake her; one that Harding or Lucanis are usually put forward for as they can move the quickest out of the way if Rook lashes out in surprise at being woken (she swears Emmrich is exaggerating when he says she tried to bite his hand once when he shook her awake)

As time goes on, she is usually roused from rest by a cup of coffee from her favourite Crow. He knows she prefers something sweeter, but when the girl needs caffeine, the girl needs caffeine. A chugged back espresso, followed by a good breakfast, and tuning her lute or sharpening her blades to get her mind going for the day.

The only one truly brave enough to wake her (and not be at immediate risk of getting bitten) is Assan; she loves her half-cat half-bird son.

[shadows-starlight]

Shadows and Starlight

Book 50: A Night at the Opera

-

September 30th, 1791

Tonight was a very special night for tonight, the citizens of Austria flocked to the Theater auf der Wieden to witness the world premiere of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's latest opera, The Magic Flute.

Among the patrons were the sorcerer from Ebonvale, Malakar, and his baby daughter, Aurora.

Both of them were dressed to the nines for such an occasion like this. Malakar wore a deep green velvet, tailored suit with intricate white embroidery and a matching deep green flowing cloak, while Aurora was adorned in a delicate gown of silver and baby blue, her auburn hair tied with a matching ribbon that was fastened into a bow and placed at the back of her head.

Malakar was excited. He had been looking forward to seeing this opera for weeks and had concocted a special time-traveling potion just to go and see his old friend's latest story come to life.

One thing you should know about Malakar is that while he enjoys causing mischief in the dark arts in the village of Ebonvale, he also enjoys a night at the opera. Now, he was going to introduce little Aurora to this musical spectacle.

Mozart himself, was greeting the guests as they entered the theater when he glanced at the sight of Malakar. When he came closer, Mozart greeted them with a warm smile, "Malakar! What a pleasure to see you again!"

"The pleasure is all mine, Wolfgang," Malakar replied, shaking Mozart's hand with a friendly grip, "Ah, Wolfgang. This is my daughter, Aurora."

Mozart’s eyes softened as bent down a little to get a good look at the baby, taking her little hand into his and kissing it gently. Aurora giggled at the kiss. “She’s absolutely lovely, Malakar. What a special occasion for attending the premiere of The Magic Flute for her first stage performance.”

Malakar smiled proudly. “She’s eager to see what wonders you’ve conjured up tonight. I've been playing some of your music on the piano for her for a while now.”

"Well, I'm glad that we have another loyal fan of my work," said Mozart, brushing a hand through her auburn curls, and making the baby laugh.

When it was nearly showtime, Mozart led Malakar and Aurora to a private box seat that offered a perfect view of the stage. “I’ve reserved this box just for you, old friend. I wanted to make sure you two had the best view. I hope you both enjoy the show. It’s been a labor of love.”

"Thank you, my friend," said Malakar, sitting in the box with Aurora on his lap. "We will."

Mozart left to get ready for the opening act.

Malakar adjusted Aurora in his arms so she could see the stage. “Now, little one,” he whispered, “let me tell you the story about tonight’s performance. It’s called The Magic Flute. The opera is about a brave prince named Tamino. He’s on a quest to rescue a princess named Pamina, who has been taken by an evil sorcerer. Tamino is joined by a comical bird catcher named Papageno. Together, they face many challenges, including encountering The Queen of the Night."

Soon, the lights began to dim, the orchestra began to tune their instruments, and the stage started to come alive as the actors and actresses began to tell the story of The Magic Flute. The story begins as a young girl is swept into her imagination and lands in a world where nothing is as it seems.

In the realm, she meets Tamino, a handsome prince who is also lost in this strange land and is being pursued by a monstrous dragon, that was portrayed by a large, articulate puppet handled by seven puppeteers. Suddenly, three mysterious women appear, who are revealed to be servants of the Queen of the Night and together, they slay the dragon. They then give Tamino a portrait of the queen's daughter, Princess Pamina, whom he instantly falls in love with, vowing to rescue her from the evil Sarastro, Priest of the Sun, in whose faraway temple she has been imprisoned.

The three women give Tamino a magic flute to help in his quest and with the aid of a bird-catcher, Papageno, Tamino journeys to Sarastro’s temple and meets Pamina for the first time.

Aurora looked and listened attentively as the opera went on, she was completely entranced by the show and its music. Her mouth formed a perfect "o" as she watched as the girl, Papageno, and Tamino ventured forward on their quest.

During the intermission, Mozart peeked in to check up on his guests, "I’m so glad you both could come for the first performance. It truly means a lot to me."

"Of course, old friend," Malakar replied, bouncing Aurora gently on his knee, "I've been looking forward to this for weeks. Your work is truly magical, Wolfgang and Aurora and I are both enchanted."

Soon, the second act commenced which showed the girl, Tamino, and Papageno reach Sarastro's temple where they learn that Sarastro was not the villain, but the Queen of the Night was and that Pamina was only being held to keep her hidden from her mother. Sarastro gives Tamino a new quest; he must now undergo a series of trials to prove himself worthy of Pamina’s love.

Using the power of the magic flute, Tamino and Pamina can overcome their trials and earn the right to be with each other. At the moment of their success, the Queen of the Night arrives with her servants to storm the temple and destroy it, but Sarastro appears and defeats them, casting them out forever. The sun rises on a new era for the united heroes and the little girl returns home.

When the opera reached its end and the music's final chords filled the theater, the audience erupted into cheers and applause as the actors, actresses, puppeteers, musicians, all of the stage technicians, and Mozart himself, took a bow during the curtain call.

Some patrons even threw flowers at the people on stage which they graciously accepted.

Malakar stood up and clapped softly, holding Aurora close to his chest while little Aurora clapped her little baby hands at the actors. In the sea of flying flowers, Malakar was able to catch one and put it gently in Aurora's hair.

As the patrons were leaving the theater, Mozart met up with Malakar and Aurora, handing the sorcerer a glass of champagne to propose a toast. 

"To many more magical performances of The Magic Flute!" Malakar declared, holding the glass in the air. 

"Here, here!" said Mozart.

"Ba-Ba!" Aurora babbled as if she was trying to say "Here, here!", holding up the flower Malakar put in her hair.

The gentlemen laughed and together, they clinked their glasses (and marigold). Both Malakar and Mozart enjoyed their champagne while Aurora played with her flower. 

When they finished, Mozart turned to them and said, "Thank you both again for being here to share this evening with me."

Malakar smiled warmly. “The pleasure was all ours. Aurora’s first theater experience was truly unforgettable and I believe that she enjoyed the show as well.”

"Well," said Mozart, "it was an honor to have her here and I am glad that I could be a part of her first theater experience," he kissed the back of Aurora's hand again.

It was true that Aurora had a wonderful time at the opera, but, after an evening full of excitement, she was starting to get sleepy.

Malakar noticed.

He waved goodbye to Mozart and stepped out of the theater and into the crisp, evening air where Malakar conjured a portal that took them back to their cozy lair in the forest of Ebonvale.

Once back inside, Malakar used his magic to change them from their fancy attire into their night clothes and Aurora was tucked tightly into her cradle as she drifted off to sleep.

Her first theater experience was now a treasured memory.

[shimmerbeasts]

You would have been someone great.

Sometimes, the most salacious prey could be found in the most desperate ones. Insecurity found its way into the human body in many forms. Some withdrew into themselves, stayed in the shadows and became timid and shy. The permanent wallflowers, desperately hoping not to be noticed. Others masqueraded their crippling insecurity and loneliness by surrounding themselves with yes men and projecting an air of vapid confidence and loud, clueless boasting, hoping that if they were just noisy and obnoxious enough, people wouldn't notice the bleeding heart beneath or the emptiness in their skulls.

Ezreal was that second type of insecurity, hiding behind a cocky smirk and a smug glint in sapphire eyes. He was mostly skirting by on his good looks, from that charming Adonis complexion to those lush, dark golden locks. However, if you were to ask Ezreal to actually flirt with a woman without revealing how insecure he truly was, after the first few lines, you immediately had an impossible blushing mess on your hands.

It was this very same boy, which Ahri had set her sights on when she had returned to Piltover after a prolonged absence. And while Ezreal was an adult, his mental immaturity made him effectively a child. It made him a rare case of a meal, which extended in his memories far beyond the normal age of adulthood. Ahri would be a fool to let such a chance to fill her belly slip her by. Not that she would ever hunger in the City of Progress - it harboured far too many children, who had never learned to say No to strangers and were far too easily placated.

And so Ahri had strategically sought out Ezreal's company. A few swoons over a drink here, a charmed sigh as she looked after him there, the carefully dropped compliments in between, the fox Vastaya had done everything in her power to make the boy see her as a potential admirer and him as the brave, gallant adventurer, he liked to present himself as. At the same time, Ahri had carefully made sure that outside of seeing her as an admirer, the boy also got just enough hints of her own radiant beauty to wrap him all the tighter around her pinkie finger.

The hard work had paid off.

Ahri's palms were softly digging into Ezreal's shoulder blades. The boy lay underneath her on a beautiful couch with satin pillows and satin-decorated duvets. Only in Piltover could you find people living like kings while claiming the opposite. Yet there was no denying it: The merchant clans were the kings of the City of Progress. They traded with the most elusive goods ... and what was Ezreal but a trader of goods himself? Oh, sure, the famed 'Jarro Lightfeather' might have kept some of the goods for himself, but he still sold the most priceless artefacts to the highest bidder.

Part of Ahri wondered during the massage, she gave the boy, what he would ever do if he chose to expand his trading career into that of monsters and beasts. Ahri had had her fair share of run-ins with monster hunters, and while most had wanted her dead, there had been some, who had hoped they could sell one of her tails for some magical potion. And not just her tails. Ahri had met people, who had been after her liver or spleen and of course, her heart. Living as a Vastaya was a dangerous business - especially outside of Ionia.

The fox Vastaya had nothing to fear from Ezreal. Even as she massaged his back and whispered sweet nothings into his ear, a rumbling whisper, forming words in his mind, he wanted to hear, her eyes glowed a radiant pink, a dark rose as her charm enveloped the young traveller, falling upon him as harmlessly as glitter dust. Yet the lure dug into Ezreal's brain like knives, drenched in honey, the sweetness of the flavour barely masking the horror of what was happening to the boy.

He had gone almost entirely limp in her grasp. Ahri could flip him over like a fox might a dead bird. And much like a fox could chew up a chick whole with little effort, Ahri looked down at those glassy eyes and that blissful smile, plastered across that youthful face, with a gaze of primordial hunger and beastial malice. She smiled as she cupped Ezreal's cheeks and leaned over him. Her tails had unfurled, a mess of snow-white, whipping extremities, flitting this way and that way in a flurry of excitement and anticipation.

Her jaw split open, tendrils of spit connecting with sharpened fangs. Ahri's eyes went from the rose of her lure to a dangerous cyan blue, which filled out her entire iris. A similar glow shimmered in the depths of her throat. A vacuum-like sensation tugged at Ezreal's hair as like mist a fair blue substance poured out of his eyes and mouth. It connected into a thick strand, which transformed itself into a faint glowing orb, that settled quite comfortably on her tongue.

A little boy with blond curls was sitting on another woman's knee. Her hair was as golden as his and her hand stroked his back. Warmth, safety and comfort emitted from the boy like in waves - that woman must be Ezreal's mother. Looking at him with a soft, empathetic expression she spoke: "One day, you will be something great, my son. I know it." And that surge of excitement and joy, of utter trust... Ezreal believed every word.

Ahri rolled the precarious memory around on her tongue, savouring and drinking in every flavour and crumb of emotion it had to offer. Knowing how deeply that boy had hoped to be something great, to make his mother's words a reality... No wonder, he preferred being Jarro Lightfeather over that miserable, little loner, whom society had forgotten. It would be far too easy to break such a fragile mind. The thought made Ahri smirk. She thrust her head back and swallowed. The memory was so small, so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, it did not even leave a bulge in her throat. Yet for Ezreal, it had been everything.

Looking back down at the lethargic boy, Ahri dropped down beside him like a lover might have and caressed his side as she once more planted a kiss upon his temple. Her tails merged back into one thick tail, which brushed over Ezreal's thigh. Ahri kept a watchful gaze on those glassy eyes and as they started to clear, she spoke: "You dozed off during my massage. How are you feeling, Ezreal?"

@compasswithin gets a symbol-specific starter: Send 💭 to have Ahri feed off your muse's memories. Bonus: Specify the memory Ahri takes.