#fire flowers are fireflys of the field

[starfireninja]

Fire flowers

[annwrites]

⸻ no sound but the wind. part one.

· pairing: adar x fem!reader · type: part of mini-series · summary: adar finds personal use for you as a slave of a different kind. · tw: non-con · word count: 3,212

“And do you swear allegiance to Adar, father of the Uruks?”

You stare ahead at the man he speaks of—if he is even truly a man at all—observing his long, black, silken hair, his gray, sallow skin, the ruined sides of his face where the skin is pulled taught from scarring due to, you presume, fire—his thin lips tightly pursed while he awaits your answer. And it’s then that you notice his pointed ears.

His is an elf. How—how could he let this happen? How can he partake in it? He is meant to be wise and strong, yet gentle and fair. Not…whatever he has instead become.

It does not much matter how he has come upon the path which he now follows. What’s done is done.

All is now lost that once was to you because of it. That you’d most loved. That which had brought you joy and much more.

Like your village, where trees had flowered and bloomed year-round. Those of almond and chestnut, apple and peaches, sour lemons and limes. Some, which ivy grew upon the trunks of, while blossoms were peppered throughout green leaves that dappled the ground below in sunlight, which rays shone through from a clear blue sky above—white, fluffy clouds slowly floating past.

Or lush, soft, green grass which you would lie upon and nap. Clear, cool running water in streams that were always warm in the summer, and crisp in the autumn when those same sticky apples fell into the soil, feeding it until the year next when farmers would tend their fields of potatoes, carrots, pumpkins, lettuce, and strawberries—the various types of crops nearly endless. Mayhaps a few bushes of berries were to be had, as well.

Animals grazed the fields: cows and sheep and goats alike, and chickens would peck about around the settlement while pigs oinked in their pens, lazy cats slept upon windowsills, and pups ran along after smiling, playful children—their adoring parents watching along after them as young couples in love strolled into the small market in the middle of town to purchase goods.

Like spices and cured meats, colorful fabrics and dresses, woven baskets and pillar candles, pots and pans, and shimmering, beautiful glassware, among so much more.

And there would be gatherings in the square quite regularly: dances and festivals, competitions in archery or axe throwing, or quilt-making and pie baking.  Woodworkers and blacksmiths would presents their creations to all for purchase, for the cost of a pretty, shining coin—celebrations abound. Music and delicious foods were to be had, young maidens with flowers in their hair waiting for a kiss as their dresses of chiffon and tulle swayed round their slippered feet.

In the evenings, fireflies would flit through the air like tiny sparks of light while you and your mother would prepare dinner, your father always tending to something. Whether it was in your household’s small stables outside—where horses would quietly whinny as he fed them or brushed them down—or inside, fixing something in the cottage where the three of you lived contentedly.

And you would listen through open windows to crickets and cicadas while you quietly read your parents a story or two from a novel you’d retrieved from upon the mantle your grandfather had designed when the home had been his and your grandmother’s—the books hers—the three of you sitting before a small fire in the main room’s hearth.

And now… Now the once-fertile and emerald hills are unrecognizable. They have been, instead, replaced by black sludge and darkened, smoking ash—the skies overcast and always looking to be on the verge of an ugly storm as these hideous beasts rape the land for all it is worth.

They take and they take, and for what? Perhaps merely just to destroy for the sake of the act.

You will not willingly partake in ruining your beloved homeland. You would rather die and be with them: your family, your friends—forever to live upon those rolling hills once you shut your eyes for the last time.

You raise your chin, ignoring how it trembles when you meet his black, empty eyes.

He does not react. Does not so much as raise a brow in interest as he gazes back at you.

Something shifts behind you, and you steel yourself—refusing to look. You will not tremble in the face of death which calls you home.

And then he raises a hand from where it rests beside him, upon the arm of his make-shift throne—but barely, at that.

“Wait,” he calls quietly.

You hear something settle into the dirt and gravel behind you once more.

He rises slowly, descending step after step in measured moves, until he’s standing before you.

He places an index finger beneath your chin, tipping your face upwards, forcing you to meet his eyes.

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

“Comely little thing, aren’t you?” He says softly, his voice monotone.

You keep your mouth shut.

He nods infinitesimally. “Take her to my tent. Ensure she’s watched carefully. I’ve use for this one.”

One of the monsters he commands takes hold of your upper-arm, his other hand coming to tug at the shackles which bind you, pulling you away.

“Kill me!” You finally shout, tears brimming in your eyes.

He turns slightly from where he’s begun ascending his throne once again, looking at you from over his shoulder.

You tug against your restraints, pulling free of the revolting thing that touches you.

“I want to die, so kill me. I’m of no use you to here. I do not know how to…”

You shake your head, grasping for words in your panic. “How to carve wood, or assemble structures, or break apart stone—”

He chuckles lowly, turning round fully, coming back to you.

He slides his rough hand along your soft cheek before cupping the back of your head. He tangles his strong fingers in your hair, yanking your head back by those same strands, causing you to whimper in pain.

“You think I desire you for hard labor?”

You gulp in fear.

“I have far different plans in-mind for you. You will serve me well in other ways. Ones more…”

His eyes trail slowly along your body, before meeting your own once again. “Suited to your feminine form.”

You choke back a sob, realization filling you, along with an unbridled sense of terror.

He releases you again, nodding toward his crony.

You’re taken in-hand once again, and led away—your pleading cries falling upon deaf ears.

Adar’s tent is nothing exceptional—somewhat opposite of what you’ve expected it to be.

His bed is not a cot, surprisingly—certainly large enough to fit two, if not two-and-a-half—and he has a rather cluttered war table, which you’ve been informed, quite firmly, that you are not to touch. So you look at it, instead, from a distance from the wooden chair you’ve been provided.

You see small metal and wooden figurines placed about—construction plans, you assume.

You fail to understand what he could possibly want with the now-destroyed land, but decide you ultimately don’t want to know. You’d rather remember it as it’d once been instead.

You glance to the entrance of his tent, where an Uruk stands guard—the flap pulled back, allowing you a peak outside as the others like him mill about, coming and going and working.

Bile rises in your throat at the sight of them. They’re wretched. Cursed. Vile.

You won’t let him touch you.

You’ll do whatever you must to instead give him cause to drive a blade through your beating heart instead. You will not dishonor yourself—not even for the sake of survival.

You will die as you had lived: as yourself.

You’d waited so long for him to come—rehearsing in your head all the ways you might achieve that which you most desire at his hand; but nevertheless of your own causing—you’d fallen asleep.

You jolt awake when heavy footsteps enter the tent, staring in fear as bastardized elves carry inside a large, wooden tub full of steaming water.

They settle it into the middle of the space, retreating just as promptly as they’d come.

And then he steps inside, the once-open curtain flapping closed behind him.

He settles his arms behind his back as he gazes down at you.

He glances to the tub, then back to you. “Bathe. Once you are finished, I shall next.”

He goes to his war table, seating himself heavily, opening a scroll which lies atop it, and he begins reading over the item in his large hand.

You remain seated, too terrified to move.

“I need…privacy,” you say—your voice breaking, tears filling your eyes.

He keeps his back turned to you. “And you have it. Now, do as I bid you.”

You slowly stand, feeling unsure on your feet—your movements hesitant and wavering—as you come closer.

You study the back of his head, nervously flitting your eyes about the table before him, searching desperately for a weapon.

“I would not attempt it.”

You jerk in surprise.

He sets the parchment aside, retrieving a small, sharply pointed figure in the shape of a diamond. “You’d do well to make things easier for yourself. Obey me, and your days will be easy. Don’t—”

You interrupt. “I’ll never give m-myself to you willingly. I’ll—I’ll kill you,” you say, the threat sounding far more like a question than anything else.

You do not see how his lip twitches in mild amusement.

Finally, he sighs, pushing out his chair, standing.

You shuffle backwards, desperate to get away from him—from this place as a whole—from all of the rot and disease that has now claimed this land you’d once called home. Once you’ve backed yourself into a solid pole, which upholds the side of the tent, you stare up at him.

“So you should instead kill me,” you finish.

He softly shakes his head, cupping your cheek gently, brushing his thumb along the apple of it.

“You merely think that you wish for death. I have quite…creative ways to make you obey, until death is so far from your grasp that all you can see ahead of you is more of whatever I’ve been forcing you to endure. Until you break. Until you are ready and willing to do as I please just to make the pain stop.”

He cups your other cheek, holding you firmly in-place.

“I have been here for a very, very long time. Longer than your young mind may ever comprehend. I am not a man who is easily swayed. Nor am I merciful to any others than my children. It is not in my nature. But, for your sake, if you do as I command, I may consider a more gentle touch.”

He releases you. “Time shall tell.”

Your face crumples and you begin to cry, all hope fleeing you of obtaining a different fate than whatever he has in-store for you.

He seats himself once more.

“Now, do as I’ve told you. I will not ask again.”

You tremble violently and feel distant from your body, but you still manage to strip yourself of your soiled, stained gown, letting the heavy material pool at your feet, before ridding yourself of your smallclothes next.

You keep your eyes on him—never removing them—as you step closer to the tub, and then ease yourself into the hot water, sucking in a sharp breath as you seat yourself.

 You grab the small bar of soap you’ve been provided, lathering yourself.

You wish to be finished sooner than late, but also want to take your time—to savor this final moment of something…nice. Because you will do it: find a way tonight to make him take your life.

You’ll not stop until he does.

The two of you remain silent as you cleanse yourself—desperate to get the stench of this new environment from your skin. It is no longer that of fresh air and flowers. It is now that of something pungent and oily.

Death.

That is what it is.

Eventually, you rise, drying yourself with a small towel, and then you glance around in a panic for clean clothes.

Just as you think to dress once again in your previous garments, he gestures toward the small wooden dresser beside the table where he sits.

“You’ll find clean tunics in the second drawer.”

Once you’ve put one on, you take a step back. “What of…trousers, or smallclot—”

“You won’t be needing them any longer,” he replies, rising, the two of you staring at one another as he unbuckles the belt from his waist which holds his sword, setting it atop the previously-occupied table.

You promptly look away, your nose growing warm and eyes stinging as you seat yourself at the foot of the bed, watching as shadows pass by the curtain at the front of the tent.

You tightly grip the blankets beneath you, considering, watching intently.

You hear water lapping, and then a quiet groan as he leans back, enjoying what heat still remains in the water that fills the tub.

“I wouldn’t,” he states in that rasping voice which barely reaches above a whisper.

You bristle.

“You’ll not make it more than a handful of steps before my Uruks return you to this tent. To me. You won’t enjoy what happens to you next.”

He sighs. “Save yourself some pain.”

“Why’re you doing this?” You ask tearfully.

He begins to wash himself, keeping his eyes trained on you. “What is it which you refer to?”

“You’re an elf. You’re supposed to… Meant to be kind. Wise and—”

“You think I value that which I come from?  You think the high elves of this land care any more for your life than they do my Uruks? Pride is their virtue. They see themselves above all else, including men. Because they’ve made it so. They would see us all sequestered away to darkened corners of Middle-Earth if it meant all could be theirs once again.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “You destroyed my home. Took everything from me. And you think I mean to give myself to you? Willingly? To play at being your—your—”

“You will be my concubine. And nothing else. That is your role now. In time…you may come to see matters differently. Come to see me differently.”

“That will never happen,” you whisper.

He rises from the tub—his damp strands dripping at the ends as he shrugs on a clean tunic, padding toward you.

He grips your chin, forcing you to look up as he towers over you. “In time, I believe it will. For your survival, if naught else. Even if you find such a prospect to be of little value to you now.”

He grabs you roughly by the arm then, forcing you to your feet.

Your chest presses against his own as tears slip from your exhausted eyes—your heart pounding like a hammer against cloth at him being so close.

“I’ll give you one final chance, child. Give your body to me willingly, and be given mercy, or don’t, and I will unleash upon you pain unlike any you’ve ever known.”

You make a split-second decision, praying it be your last.

You swing your free arm upwards, swiftly, and slap him as hard as you possibly can.

He barely reacts as he turns his head back in your direction, shaking it lightly.

“Pain it is, then.”

He throws you back onto the bed, swiftly removing his tunic, settling all his muscled weight atop you, weighing you down—forcing you into place as he forces your own garment up and over your head, ignoring your screaming, pleading, panicked protests as you battle against him.

You squirm and pound your fists against his chest, and kick your legs and wail in terror, but he acts as if he does not even notice.

He grips each of your wrists tightly in his hands, holding them above your head while he knocks your legs apart with his knee.

You suddenly still, fervently shaking your head, choking on your own tears as you struggle to draw in even one steady breath.

“Please—Please don’t. I beg of you! Please, not this! Please, please!” You scream shrilly.

“I gave you another way and you refused it. Now, you will learn.”

He plunges inside of you with one forceful buck of his hips and you choke on your own saliva at the excruciating pain which manifests between your thighs. Burning. You feel as if you are on fire where his body now connects with your own.

And he is anything but gentle, just as he had promised you he would be.

He ruts away inside of you, grunting quietly, his skin slapping against yours as his long, throbbing member plunges in and out of you while he searches for his peak against your will.

You stare upwards, at the billowing canopy, desperate for it to end. Desperate to die. To disappear.

This is nightmare from which you will never wake, and you have naught to comfort you from it.

No home.

No family.

No friends.

No warm bed of your very own where you may rest.

No village which is full of joy and safety.

No nothing.

Nothing is left.

Not even that which you’d hoped to one day give to your husband.

He has taken every single thing, and intends to take even more yet still.

You break then—far sooner than expected, than you'd hoped—resigning yourself to letting him have it.

You will instead go away inside yourself, back to the place you most wish to return to.

And you find peace there. In a quiet field where vibrant butterflies flit about, and chimes which hang upon tree branches tinkle gently in the wind.

You close your eyes, humming in contentment as the sun warms your skin, listening as sheep baa at one another close by.

And then you are ripped from the fantasy and forced back inside that claustrophobic tent as he pours himself deeply inside of you, moaning as he takes his final thrusts—pushing his rotten seed further into your core.

Finally, he collapses beside you, heaving for breath.

You do not move. Not an inch.

Hot tears slip silently from the corners of your eyes while he runs out of you elsewhere. Your body begins to gently jerk against your will in shock, and you sniffle and whimper in pain and fear.

After a moment, he rises, washes himself off, then pours for himself a mug of water, downing it quickly.

He pours himself another, leaning back against the dresser across from where you lie.

“It will get easier when you let it,” he states.

He takes another long drink. “It’s been…many years since I’ve had a woman—a maiden, even more-so.”

You refuse to look at his blood-stained member.

He returns to you, seating himself upon the edge of the bed, his leg bent at the knee as he gently grasps your chin, his fingers ghosting along your hot skin.

“As such, I don’t intend to let you go. So, do what you must.”

He sets his mug atop the bedside table, climbing atop you once more.

“I shall do the same,” he states, sheathing himself inside your slick core once again.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: With your father off to serve the Continental Army, you've taken up the mantle of protector for your family - so when redcoats arrive on your property looking for him, you stand your ground. Sure, this ends in your arrest as a prisoner of war, but you don't plan on making it easy for them.

Until, of course, your interrogation is co-opted by Colonel William Tavington - the cruel, brutal Butcher of the Continentals.

Unfortunately for you, he's also the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Words: 5500

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS PERFECT LOVE, @bastillia.

If you made it through, thank you for reading this first chapter to a mini-story about a villain from a film that's 24 years old. No better way to celebrate Fourth of July than fantasizing about fucking a British soldier!

Bastillia and myself are currently in a Jason Isaacs phase and we desperately need him and in particular William Tavington. So! Here you go. <3

Love y'all so so much!

Grace found you in your father’s rocking chair, dressed in his clothes. Taking a seat on the porch bench next to you, she let her head fall back, her gaze following the ceiling. When you didn’t speak, she sucked in air through her nose and sighed. 

“Are you going to sit out here all night again?” 

You shrugged, and she nudged you.  

“You and one gun won’t stand much of a chance against a bunch of redcoats.”

You frowned, glancing from the pistol in your lap to the dirt path cutting across the grassy field in front of you. Evening’s claws crept across the village, sank into the horizon. Since the fall of Charleston to the British, darkness carried an hourglass with it, the bottom growing heavier every night. Jaw stiff, your eyes followed a firefly as it drifted and winked out like an ember over the grass.

“You would rather I let them burn our home?”

Grace sighed again. “They won’t burn our home.”

You turned on her. “Won’t they? Mrs. Miller has a cousin outside of Charleston. Told me they fired her barn.”

“That’s one person.”

“Mr. Allen said his brother told him about a whole town down the way from Camden they found burned to the ground.”

Grace snorted. “Ah, yes, Mr. Allen, our esteemed purveyor of truths.”

“Grace. If…” You gripped the barrel of the pistol, your mouth drawing tight. She didn’t know, and it had to remain that way. There was no ‘if’ to your father’s return in her mind. He’d left the truth behind his departure only with you.  “I won’t let father come home to a pile of ash.”

A family of crickets swelled in song. Grace shifted closer to you. “You would rather I let him come home to your grave?”

You looked at her. Seeing her expression, a small part of you softened. She wasn’t wrong to worry. Your eyes ached, your head heavy from the lack of sleep. But even when you decided to lie down, your mind refused to release you to rest. Your shift as sentinel would end when your father returned home. With a sigh, you slumped back. The chair eked back and forth on the planks, the drumbeat of your station. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said. “Nathaniel’s been paying you quite a bit of attention, hasn’t he?”

Grace stiffened, battling a grin. “Yes, he has.” She folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks reddening. “Why?”

A laugh rumbled in your throat. You knew it. “What do you think about him?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth. “Well, he’s very sweet. Very kind. He always has been, you know the Joneses, they’re such good people.” Her shoulders melted into the bench. “He’s been walking with me after church. Just through the town. We look at the flowers.” She sighed, finally letting herself smile, her gaze drifting until her eyes hesitantly found yours. “What do you think about him?”

“Me?” you replied, as if you didn’t know the question was coming. “I don’t know him that well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What have you noticed about him?”

You hummed in thought. Nathaniel Jones. 

“Well…” His jawline was seldom free of razor wounds. “Probably a little clumsy.” The grooves in his fingers were always tread with dirt, the collar of his shirt tanned by sweat. His hands had stained almost every page of his Bible. “Not sure if he ever washes without needing a reminder.” He always showed up to church with at least one piece of tack fastened wrong on his horse. His mouth would mimic reading aloud during service, but his eyes would be trained on the floor. “And I don’t think he’s very bright.”

“Really.” Grace studied you. “Mrs. Jones taught all of those boys, though.”

“Doesn’t mean they all have the same capacity to learn,” you mumbled. But before Grace could protest, you shrugged. “Kind is good, though.” You offered a small grin. “Kind is very good.”

With a laugh of relief from Grace, the two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in cricket song. The rocking chair squeaked back, forth, back, forth. It squeaked in tempo with your heart, rumbling, louder, a vibration skittering through your toes. Deeper, deeper it grew, staccato in its cadence, a pounding that rocked your porch. 

It wasn’t until Grace turned to look at you, her eyes shimmering in starlight, that you realized it wasn’t your heart at all. Torches floated over your lawn and up the dirt path, bobbing in rhythm with horse hooves. A dozen of them, each illuminating a soldier in a crimson jacket.

Your throat thickened. Your stomach tightened. You squeezed the handle of your father’s pistol. Beside you, Grace whispered your name.

“Quiet,” you said. “Just get behind me.”

You leapt to your feet, crossing over the top step of your porch to lean against one of the wooden columns, gun held slack but unconcealed at your side. The officer in front—a white-wigged man with a sword on his hip—held his fist in the air. Behind him, the squad stalled to a stop, dust swirling in the halos of light. 

Swallowing, you stuck your chin toward the sky, hoping that your father’s farm boots made you a little bit taller, that the breadth of his shirt made your shoulders even a little bit wider. The officer in front dismounted his horse and waved his hand, and a soldier behind him joined him on the ground. Together, they marched toward your home. 

“Officers,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

At the foot of the stairs, the inferior officer looked between you and Grace. His brow furrowed, he leaned toward the ear of his superior. “No record of a son according to our intel, sir.”  

You frowned, but didn’t correct him. Being mistaken for a man had its benefits in this situation.

The superior officer scrutinized you, hairline to hips, his lips screwing in thought. Whatever he was considering, he didn’t say it—instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from one of the pouches on his hip. 

“Good evening,” he began, his nose wrinkling as he glanced at you and Grace. “You may call me Sergeant Dalton, this is Corporal Bancroft. Is this the home of Michael…” His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the last name. But you didn’t care to wait.

“Yes,” you said. “This is his home. We’re his children.” You stared between them. “Is that all? My sister needs to be getting to bed soon.”

Dalton returned the parchment, his hands meeting behind his back. “You’re aware your father is an officer in the Continental Army?”

Your heart—it was definitely your heart, this time—thumped in your temple. This was the part you didn’t want Grace knowing about. The soldiers waited, studying your face. You needed to say something. Words died on your tongue.

“What?” Grace stepped forward, peering around you. “No, he’s not. He’s been away—”

“Grace, be quiet,” you hissed. 

But she’d already caught the interest of Dalton. “Would you like to continue, young miss?” He advanced a step toward you both, and your finger slipped into the pistol’s trigger well. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to submit to questioning regarding your father’s whereabouts?” He glimpsed your hold on the gun. “Come along, quietly, and you may very well be pardoned by His Majesty’s army.”

You shook your head. “Just take me. She doesn’t know anything.”

Grace whispered your name, grabbed your hand, and proceeded to undermine you. “No,” she said. “Take me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Dammit, Grace—”

“That’s enough.” Dalton looked at you, then at Grace, then at Bancroft. “Arrest them both.”

---

In the tent, the air was thick with breath and sweat. Candles swayed in the center, their lambent glow hovering on the walls, deepening every shadow. Voices filtered in from outside, so low that they clogged together through the canvas. Sharper was the ache where your bindings had begun to bite your wrists to rawness. Louder the pulse in your own eardrums, and the sniffled prayers coming from the young man bound beside you. 

Twisting your wrists sent a knife of clarity to your brain. You bit back a hiss—you needed to think. 

By your estimation, they’d brought you between two and five miles beyond the outskirts of town. But between the darkness and the burlap sack which had been so benevolently foisted upon your head for the entire wagon ride here, it was impossible to say for sure.

More alarmingly, you’d lost track of Grace somewhere in the weave of shoves and barked commands. When the tents had been erected, you’d been thrown in with the men—Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, and Nathaniel Jones, as fate would have it. Whether this was somehow a genuine mistake even after your thorough handling by the soldiers, or some drawn-out taunt to your choice of attire, you also had no idea. 

Each unknown seemed to hook itself upon a tender sinew in your mind, and stretch it taut. You tried shaking your head, but that only set off a ringing in your ears. 

Beside you, Nathaniel sobbed out another prayer. Your teeth ground together.

Craven would have to be added among the placards you’d already tacked to his character, you decided. 

Outside, hooves thundered again. As they slowed, one pulled ahead of the others and into the heart of the camp. Your ears pricked. There was an unevenness to its gait, the rattle of a bit shank as the horse threw its head before slowing to a halt several yards away. Voices rose and hushed, soldiers shuffling. A distant chorus of acknowledgement to a new arrival.

“Colonel, sir,” said one that sounded like Dalton. “The Dragoons weren’t—I wasn’t aware you’d be arriving.”

“Another detail among many which seem to slip your awareness, Dalton,” said the voice belonging to this colonel, whoever he was. “The rebels, then. What have we learned?”

Dalton was silent for a moment. “Well… Nothing yet, s—”

“Nothing.” 

“We haven’t begun the interrogations, sir.” 

Boots struck the ground. As his horse was led away, the colonel dusted his coat twice. And, with the manner of someone chiding a forgetful child, said: “Well, no time like the present, is there, Sergeant?” 

There was movement, grass rustling, canvas flapping. You stuck out your neck as if this would help you hear—all it managed to do was strain your collarbones. Beside you, Nathaniel was still sniveling, sorry for himself and his whole family, as if now was the time to be crying. Closing your eyes, you caught the frayed wisps of voices, drowned by the sound of his sobs.

“Nathaniel,” you murmured. When he didn’t respond, you kicked his boot. "Nathaniel.”

He snorted up snot. “What? Who are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me. Grace’s sister.”

“Grace’s—” He inventoried your outfit. “Dear God. I didn’t recognize you. Is that why you’re in here with…” His eyes gained focus through his tears. “If you’re in here, where’s Grace? Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” You tilted your head toward the origin of the other voices. “Be quiet.”

Nathaniel choked and nodded, his nose still leaking, his face ruddy. You caught a sigh in your chest and sat straight, listening for intakes of breath, stammers, the scrape of metal, the chime of glass, anything that would give you insight.

The colonel’s voice first, dipping in and out of your perception. “All of you have… Captain Michael…”

You swallowed. This was about your father. But he should be with the Continentals up near Virginia by now. 

“... his crimes against the King’s army… may be spared and released.” 

Spared and released? Civilians weren’t targets, torture wasn’t permitted, you had nothing to fear from soldiers who would be your future brethren—this was according to the Loyalists in your village, anyway. Recent reports sparked doubt in their confidence. This colonel concealing threats stoked it further.

God, you hoped Grace wasn’t in that tent.

Silence. The candles wavered under the sodden air. One, two, three steps in the grass. You closed your eyes. 

“Very well.” The click of a pistol. 

Your breath stalled. 

“Wait! Don’t—don’t…” 

Grace. Grace was in that tent. Your consciousness slipped with a skip of your heart, but you sucked in air, fighting the ring in your ears. If you were going to help her, you needed to be alert. 

“Is—is that Grace?” said Nathaniel.

You kicked his boot again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. Michael is my father.” Grace’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he’s—you have the wrong idea about him, sir. Or the wrong man entirely. He’s not a soldier in the Continental Army, he’s been away visiting our grandmother in Pennsylvania.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, Grace, no…”

“How very interesting,” came the colonel’s even reply.

A gunshot split the night. 

All three men beside you flinched at once, and your bones flashed to ice. When the tin-whistle screech died in your ears, someone outside was screaming. Another was pleading.

“No! No, no…” It was Grace’s voice. Relief hit like opium. She was sobbing, incoherent between retches and sputterings of "you killed her,” and “oh, God, no, please no…”

You swallowed bile. Nathaniel resumed his prayers with fervor, now rocking back and forth. Elijah joined him.

“Colonel Tavington, I must protest,” came Dalton’s voice through the chorus of grief, before dropping lower. “... cannot abide… protocol… my jurisdiction—”

“Fortunately for you,” the colonel—Tavington—said, “these prisoners are no longer under your jurisdiction. They are under mine. But do feel free to stand by, Dalton, if you’ve the stomach for it. Perhaps you and your men could benefit from a demonstration, hm?”

“Sir,” was the only acknowledgment Dalton offered.

“Tavington,” said Adam, looking at Nathaniel and Elijah. “William Tavington? The Butcher?”

Elijah met his gaze and nodded without stopping prayer.

Your father had never mentioned any Butcher, but tonight was giving you plenty of context. Bracing against needles of panic, you closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow. Wails wracked Grace, and your chest squeezed. She had never seen death. Perhaps naively, you had hoped to keep it that way. 

A gasp rippled through the women, and then Tavington spoke again.

“Now, now, darling girl. Shall we try this once more? Perhaps without lying.” The scrape of a ramrod resounded, then another click. 

“I’m not lying” The tone of her utter despair tightened your throat. “I—I promise, that’s the truth. You can ask my sister. She—”

“Which of you is her sister?” 

“I…” Silence. “She’s not in this tent. I don’t know where she is. But you arrested both of us, sir, she’s around here somewhere!” Another whimper crawled its way out of her. “There’s no need for anyone to die, please.”

You chewed your lip. You’d had enough. “Colonel!” you called out. “Leave her alone. I’m in here.”

“Stupid girl,” growled Elijah, “you’ll doom us.”

Ignoring him, you sat up straighter and willed your nerves to harden. Grace cried out your name, but was cut off with a yelp as leather cracked against skin. Fury roared within you.

Through the hot surge of blood, you heard footsteps marching toward the opening to your tent. Whoever this Butcher was, you’d halfway convinced yourself you’d spit in his face. But you needed to play it smarter than that, needed to keep Grace safe. With what little information you gathered, you at least knew he was a man, and from what you knew about men, they were easily swayed with a bit of physical encouragement.

With the shards of a plan coalescing, you shifted up onto your knees and thrashed your shoulders. Pain leapt from your wrists up your arms, but the movement had the intended effect—the front laces of your shirt slackened, the collar slipping open until it threatened to drape off of one shoulder. Pulse thundering, you settled back onto your heels. Exposed. Ready to bare your throat to the enemy. 

Boots came to a halt outside. Then the entrance peeled open, and the Butcher stalked through. 

You could make out little more than his silhouette. Tall and broad, head bowed to accommodate the tent’s low threshold. Then he straightened, took a step forward, and another, until candlelight thawed the shadows from his face. And as it did, the searing core of your anger surged and flashed to mist. 

He was disarmingly handsome. High cheekbones framed a face carved from cruel marble. His eyes, alive like blue signal fires, penetrated the dimness from beneath the bastion of his brow. Peering down a curved nose, he struck a hawklike poise, with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His long, dark hair was combed back into a bond at the base of his skull. Immaculate, apart from a single errant strand that drifted down to brush his jaw. Even beneath an ink wash of darkness, you devoured his shape. 

And, against every rational instinct left thrashing for air—found him exquisite.

A prickling sensation rose under your skin, spread hot across your bare collarbones and up your neck. You bolted your eyes to the floor, shifted on your knees. His presence stole even more air from the tent than you’d thought was possible. With a pang of frustration, you blinked hard once. If you were to have any chance of surviving this encounter, if Grace were to have any chance, you needed to pull yourself together. Now. 

One slow, controlled breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You dared to glance up again. 

The colonel’s head swung down the line of men, surveying his prisoners as a wolf might a flock. And then his eyes landed upon you.

“The sister,” he said, advancing. “Playing soldier with the men.” He clucked his tongue. “Quaint.” Your teeth ground in your skull, but words were not as forthcoming as you’d hoped when you’d shouted his summons into the night. The Butcher moved closer. “Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?”

“My father,” you began, “trusts me to take care of the family while he’s away.” 

Tavington’s eyebrow cocked. “You’ve done a wonderful job, then, haven’t you?”

The venom his beauty had diluted was gathering on your tongue again. With effort, you swallowed it. Stick to the plan. Eyebrows pinching together, you made a show of slouching in capitulation to his jabs. You then conjured a pained whine and wiggled in your restraints, hoping your shirt would expose more of your clavicle, that he’d be able to see the sway of your breasts when you moved.

The colonel frowned, but did not drop his gaze. “Something the matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You pulled breath through your voice, fluttered your lashes. The focus required not to crumble under the frigidity of his gaze could have earned you regional acclaim. “These restraints are just so tight.” You wrested your shoulders back and forth as if to demonstrate, gasping from the very real pain that screamed in your wrists. “Perhaps you could loosen them just a little…”

Next to you, you felt Nathaniel watching, caught from the corner of your sight his mouth agape in horror. The realization irritated you. What had he done for Grace other than whimper like a beaten dog for God’s help? Yet another strike against him.

He wasn’t important. Bargaining for Grace’s safety was. 

Meanwhile, Tavington had tracked your movement, his expression indecipherable. Your palms sweat in fear you’d managed to find the one man impervious to the temptation of sex. 

“Poor dear.” He crossed behind you, and you stifled a sigh of relief.

Strong hands slid down your forearms and found the bindings on your wrists. The leather warmed your skin, his breath skimmed your nape. Goosebumps raced over you along with an undeniable desire to shiver, but you held your breath, fighting it off. Instead, you tipped your head to the side, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder to his view, along with the intriguing pocket of darkness that had formed down the front of your shirt, between your breasts. 

Tavington paused. Your breath stalled. With an unforgiving grip on the ropes, he undid the knot—and then yanked it tighter. The fiber gouged your flesh, air fleeing your chest. 

He stood and wedged the sole of his boot along your spine, shoving you forward. You smacked the dirt with a cough.

Your cheeks burned. So you had managed to find this previously-assumed-mythical man. Fine. If your body wasn’t going to work, you would find an alternative strategy. 

“Perhaps that may help you focus less on squirming and more on the task at hand.” Tavington’s boots crossed your vision, shiny enough that you could almost glimpse your own pathetic reflection. With a grunt, you twisted to glare up at him. He was watching you like a child might watch ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny afternoon. “I’m going to show you a map. You’re going to show me where we can find your father. And if your sister gives me the same answer, you both may leave with your lives.”

Hoping the ground would yield a new perspective, you studied him. The horse he arrived on—it’d had a lame gait. Then there was his hair—a single thread of it kissing his jawline. His hands were concealed, his jacket and boots impeccable. But his stock-tie—the knot had been pulled slack, one tail creeping from beneath his collar. 

There was so little to gamble with. But you had to try your luck anyway.

You snorted, using your shoulder as leverage to hoist yourself back onto your heels. “That will prove fruitless for you. She doesn’t know where he is.” You leveled him with your stare. His own bore into you, almost hollowed you. “My father only entrusted me with that knowledge.”

Tavington stepped forward. “A mistake on his part, perhaps, given the situation you find yourself in now.”

“No,” you said. “I think he had the right idea.” 

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curled his mouth. “Then you’ll have no problem telling me exactly where he can be found.” He exhaled, the next words drawn out as if your lives were an inconvenient tedium. “Or you and everyone in this tent will suffer until you do.”

Nathaniel quailed. You jut out your chin. 

“Do your worst.” 

Tavington’s lip twitched. He snatched his pistol from its holster.

“You won’t kill me!” you spat. “You need me. Or you will fail.” Your voice was tight. 

Tavington regarded you coolly from over the pistol’s frizzen. That moment’s silence was admission enough—a mote of triumph surged within you.

“Terribly sure of yourself.” As stony as his expression remained, you caught a certain bile now laced through his tone. “Pity,” he tutted, moving forward to rest the barrel between your brows. “To think such a pale imitation of bravery could save you.”

“It’s your risk to take,” you spat out, heart drumming your chest. 

Something flashed across his expression. Seizing your chance, you held his gaze and pressed your forehead into the gun barrel. 

“No cavalryman of honor rides his horse to lameness.” Fear bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it. “Look at you, Colonel. Your hair, your stock-tie—utterly disheveled. One might think you rushed here. One might even think you need something. Desperately. But you won’t get it if you kill me.” You flicked your eyes toward the other tent. “And if you hurt Grace, you’ll have to, because I promise that if you lay another finger on her, you will leave here with nothing.”

The tent was silent. Tavington dropped to a crouch before you and pressed the pistol under your chin. The barrel moved, guiding your head side to side as he examined your face. You swallowed, heat creeping onto your neck with the intensity of his attention. He was reading you, calculating his next move. You followed the single strand of his hair. You wondered how it felt against his skin.

”Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your nose, “upon which observation I struck you as a man of honor.”

Tavington stood, unsheathed his sword, and in one swift movement, sliced Elijah across the throat. A sheet of blood draped down his chest. Your eyes widened. Adam and Nathaniel screamed. The sword gored Adam’s neck, silencing him, and with its blade still lodged there, Tavington raised his pistol, cocked the hammer, and blew a bullet right through Nathaniel’s head.

The blast flayed your senses to a single tone pealing through your skull. When the world reformed, something warm and slick had smattered your face. You smelled iron.

You heard Grace shout your name, ripped through with terror, and as you heaved a breath to reply, Tavington wrenched the sword from Adam’s flesh and trained it against your windpipe. Adam’s body joined the rest, the dirt rusting with their blood.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Best if sister dearest thinks you’re dead. Kinder that way, don’t you think? At least, of course, until we find out if you have anything of value to offer.” 

Dalton charged into the tent and cursed. He gestured toward the bodies still soaking the ground. “Colonel, please,” he said. “I must insist. I won’t know how to explain all of this to the General.”

Tavington turned toward him, his excitement waning. “How unfortunate for you.”

“I—I know, sir. But please. Let us just take the rest of these women to Charleston. We can handle this there.”

Crickets hummed in unison again. Tavington looked back at you. The terrible thrill flickered alive again.

“Take them, then,” he said, regarding you like a cougar would regard a lamb. “But leave this one with me.”

The sergeant nodded. “Uh, yes. Yes, Colonel.”

He disappeared again. Orders echoed to round up the women and get them on carts to Charleston. From the other tent, you caught Grace’s horrified, desperate tears. Everything inside you was bursting to call out to her, to soothe her despair. But Tavington’s blade prodded your throat. One noise could send it through.

You waited like that with him until the carts creaked off into the night. The bodies around you settled into death, their final breaths a gurgled epode to the dirt. It was impossible to stop the tears of anger that stung the corners of your eyes. Worse still, there was no way to hide them. No move you could make that wouldn’t add you to the litter of cooling corpses. All you could do with your last scrap of dignity was hold the Butcher’s stare.

A smirk flashed over his face. Your throat thickened.

“Now, there’s an obedient little soldier, hm?”

You held your breath, cheeks hot with humiliation or agitation or something altogether unfamiliar. God, what a bastard. If only you’d had your gun on you; you would’ve been happy to demonstrate just how much of a soldier you could be. 

Tavington watched you, checking your compliance as if you were his dog in training. The closer he moved, the greater the heat in your chest, the thinner the air waned. His attention in any other scenario would've felt flattering—he followed every line, every curve of your body, eyes scouring your skin like chipped timber—only he sought the evidence of your deceit, anxious for an excuse to pile you on top of his casualties. 

In any other scenario, the something altogether unfamiliar would've been simpler to define. In any other scenario, you might have wanted him closer.

Tavington raised a brow. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it—or the weight of your information while alive was greater than his desire for your death. 

He lowered the blade. You exhaled.

“Your father is a fugitive. Tell me where I can find him,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “And your sister may fare well in her trial for treason.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, in your temples. You had no idea where your father might have headed, and you didn’t have any intention of handing that information to this monster, regardless. But you first needed to survive him. The rest would come later.

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding. “If you show me on a map where he escaped from, I can show you the path he likely followed.”

Tavington considered you for a moment, then offered a mirthless grin. “I advise you not to move.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding outside. Breath trembled through you, your eyes jumping around the tent. They’d stripped it of anything potentially useful—no knives, swords, guns, not even a damn rasp or a pair of nippers for the horses.

“Colonel Tavington, sir,” came a voice from outside. 

“Do I appear at liberty, Bancroft?”

“Well, no—”

“Then it can wait.”

“But sir, it’s—”

“As you were.”

“It’s correspondence from General Cornwallis, sir.”

Silence. Your head cocked. He was unmoored. And behind you, candles crackled dutifully. 

If you had any stitch of time to take at all, it would be now. 

Your limbs moved autonomously. You rolled onto your side, working your bound hands beneath your thighs, tucking your legs to your chest. Wincing at the strain in your wrists, you forced them all the way around your legs. Now in an awkward quadrupedal position, you turned and focused on the candles. With a dizzying level of concentration, you managed to suppress the cries of pain as you dragged yourself forward. 

Your wrists throbbed. Numbness pricked your fingertips. Your lungs screamed for air. None of it mattered. Balancing on your heels once more, you wedged your shirt collar between your teeth. Then you reached up and held your wrists over the flame. 

Pain wasn't immediate. First there was only heat. Heat, and the acrid taste of your own heartbeat in your mouth. The fibers between your wrists frayed, dissolving like sugar upon the little tongue of flame. And then, it began to bite. 

If you’d wanted to shout before, it had been nothing compared to this. Everything inside you lurched with the singular need to snatch your wrists from the flame, cradle them to your chest. Your teeth tore into linen. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Blisters bubbled to life on your flesh, agony lodging in your throat. Vision blanching, you could feel every muscle shake violently as they went to war with your will. 

Just as surrender mapped a cannonfire course down your arms, the fiber snapped and your wrists sprang apart. You collapsed to your knees and elbows, wrangling the sobs that clawed your chest, blinking against the cotton fog that threatened to blanket your senses. 

Move. You need to move.

You spared one glance back toward the tent entrance before prying a candle from its pricket and shambling for the lip of the tent. As you flattened yourself to slide under, you caught the vacant stare of Nathaniel Jones. Behind him, the shapes of the other two men could have been cloth-covered stone. A lump wedged in your throat, which you swallowed with force. 

Was it regret? Maybe. Pity? Assuredly. Either way, all you could do now was slip beneath the edge of your canvas prison and light them a pyre. You left the candle on its side, the flame licking at a piece of rope rigging. And you ran.

Silhouetted against the summer night sky, you could just make out a treeline. That would be your haven, if only you could make it. Your feet attacked the uneven ground, somehow keeping you upright. You looked back just in time to see the tent erupt in flame, to hear the bellowing of redcoats and screeching of their horses.

The fire’s ghost haunted your skin. Pain hammered up your shoulders, and as you made your way into the forest, you bit your tongue to silence a burgeoning whimper. Familiarity with the terrain was your advantage, but you needed silence to make full use of it.

You leapt to avoid leaving footprints and snapping branches and dropped against a tree. The tent’s blaze pulsed in your periphery. Drawing a slow, long breath, a familiar rhythm rumbled close, closer. Rumbled, then pounded and clanked in an awkward, head-tossing gallop. 

Tavington’s horse. 

You froze, sunk to the ground, spying the torch that danced with the horse’s gait and watched as it met the treeline, spilled light on the leaves. It tracked through the forest, a flame aching to swallow a moth. The light’s edge nearly skimmed your toes. 

Tavington growled—a deep, furious grind in his chest—and tore off down the perimeter.

When you were certain he’d gone, you stood and kept moving, pressing your wrists together to will the pain away. You’d find somewhere to hide. You’d wait them out tonight. 

Tomorrow, you’d find Grace.

[marshmallowprotection]

I guess I just like giving the boys animal-related interests, but I have a hc that VAE Ray really gets into insects. It started off when he was having a hard time in recovery without Jihyun there to help out, and he suddenly felt a butterfly land on his nose and stay there until he inevitably calmed down a little just front how unexpected it was (cliché I know). Lots of people find insects ugly and disgusting... But if he can find beauty in these little misunderstood critters, perhaps he's not as horrible, either? Anyway, one of his favorites are fireflies and crickets because they are a huge source of comfort to him at night. It's kind of like being surrounded by many little friends, along with the flowers. He always makes sure his garden is a welcome place for any insect friend.

I actually really don't like insects myself but I can totally see him harboring these warm feelings towards them, I love his sm :(

See, I agree. One of the most vivid memories that both Saeran and Ray extend to the player is how their mother always likened them to be no different than a bug. She used that as an insult to say that they were the lowest of the low, easy to crush beneath her heel without a second thought, but that says more about her character than it'd ever say about them. Because she thought lowly of insects and saw not a single meaning in their existence. But, you know who does see value in insects?

Ray and Saeran... especially Ray. The flowers are his friends, and who are friends with flowers? Why, the insects that can be found inside of your garden! Sure, not all insects are wanted guests, they can eat up your flowers and anything food you grow, but there are plenty of the insects people look down—that are crucial to the growth of a garden.

I can see Ray behind unbothered by the bumblebees that come over to pollinate. Not only does he make sure his bird bath is full, there's a little water station set up nearby for bees to hydrate when need be. It doesn't cross him to think about that. He was thirsty once, and when you need water, you will find whatever water you can find. He doesn't want the flower's friends to get hurt. They have a right to live, too!

I don't know, though. There's something about Ray sitting in a field of fireflies after the bomb... he's afraid of bright lights because they take him back to the fire and the sights and sounds he experienced before the crash... but the fireflies? Their light is gentle... it's warm... it takes him to a place where his heart can breathe... and he doesn't have to fear the light anymore... all because he can lay back and realize there is something beautiful about being alive.

And he never would've been able to see this had V not dug him free from the rubble with his bare hands. There's a reason to be alive, and the reason is to experience everything this world has to offer, from the flutter of a butterfly's wings to the rumble of a hundred fireflies. I have to hope Jihyun realizes the same, because his mother pulled him from the fire to show him the same thing.

[knockyasocksoff2022]

Bungou Stray Dogs Osamu Dazai Animatic Idea.

Song: Fireflies

Artist: Owl City

Basically this is an idea dump for an animatic I know I'll never make. If anyone gets inspired from this pls tag me.

So you probably know, how I CANNOT draw to save my life, and have very little experience in animation. Yeah, well I still have ideas for animatics so reluctantly, (but also eager for all the artist on here to see it) I'm going to share this really crusty animatic plan I made for a Dazai animatic with the song fire flies by owl city.

Like I said, I can't draw, so I made this using google slides (my trusty compainion) and horrid clip art so pls exuse it. It's just for general lay out and some notes about motion. Also when making it, I didn't intend to have lyrics displayed on screen, but I did put them for reference.

Because I can't draw but I wanted to make an animatic, I give you this really specifc break down of one instead. I just really thought that the somg fireflies was perfect for Dazai so I made this crappy thing. Here you go!

Don't quetsion the flowers. I just put them there because I found them while searching for other stock images/clipart and though that they were pretty. The title slide is pretty much just for funsies and not part of the mian animatic.

ONE

So the basic idea of this one is the bed is in greater focus. He's laying awake, his arm handing off the side, with a bottle of pills spilt out onto the floor (from a failed Dazai typcial su!c!de attempt) Some fireflies flutter up in the top right corner of the room, maybe by a small high up window. There's a nightsand on the right side. The gardient has nothing to do with colour pallet, I just wanted to make a gradient. Lol

TWO

The door stock image is a little fancy, but I couldn't find a regualr door fpr some reason, idk. Pretty mush he's walking to the door, maybe Dazai's bandaged hand is reaching for the knob.

THREE

This one is arugaubly the most complicated. Yes, I know the detail is going crazy with this clipart (sarcastic). Here's the note I put, since it's too small. (He’s walking outside from inside. Going onto the lawn. Show him walking through the door. Show side of house with window w/ curtains to indicate, maybe wood siding. Def show grass and fireflies hovering outside of door. He’s crying a little bit.)

FOUR

He's standing in the middle of a field surrounded by many fireflies, looking around in awe, still teary.

FIVE

Farily simple. Somehow or another he's in space (hey, it's artistic license) He's standing on top of Earth and Earth is spinning underneath him. Starts blink/twinkle.

SIX

He's lying on his bed looking up at the ceiling. The fireflies have folowed him inside somehow. They give the mostly dark room a soft glow. Maybe he's barley illuminated or just his face has a glow on it. A firefly could land on his nose or the gem of his bolo tie. or maybe he's reading his hand up a bit nd a firefly lands on it.

SEVEN

Fireflies surrounding Dazai and some lading on his shoulders and maybe hair. (The arms on the clipart man are so messed up because the fireflies are on a white not transparent background but it's hard to tell because the slide is also white.)

EIGHT

He’s dancing kind of, no specific moves needed, just enough to give the impression. Maybe twirling, idk. Fireflies follow his movements, drifting up and down and side to side with him. They move a little before he does, appearing to guide him.

NINE

A kitsune jumping over Dazai's bed. I imagined it looking like the full fox form of him in that one Kitsune Mayoi card. (https://images.app.goo.gl/atvjvAELR2ec1eBv9)

TEN

He's laying under his bed staring upwards. Maybe the fireflies are above, maybe they look as if they are trying to find him and guide him back to the light. maybe not. Or maybe one or two are under the bed with him. Idk this scene is weird, I know.

ELEVEN

He's on his tippy toes recahing up towards a disco ball suspended from the ceiling by a noose.

TWLEVE

This scene again

THIRTEEN

This one again

FOURTEEN

Yay a new scene after the repeats! It's the front door again from the inside veiw. It's cracked open and there's light comming from within the house, fireflies fly out of the house and back into the night.

FIFTEEN

This scene to me is about his guilt. He's now sititng up in bed and there's a thought bubble with the logo of the sheep.

SIXTEEN

Ofc it wouldn't be a true Dazai animatic without his bestie! Oda cameo, yay! Here he's standing over Oda's grave, not crying (because he's found the light, represented by the fireflies which surround him like an aura) but looking very sad.

SEVENTEEN

I don't think i need to explain this one very much lol. I couldn't find a way to show this with images so I just wrote it out. Reminescent of this scene (https://www.reddit.com/r/BungouStrayDogs/comments/u57xqv/what_does_this_scene_in_the_opening_symbolize/) But with Dazai and Oda instead of Dazai and Chuuya.

EIGHTEEN

He's getting dreams of the dead apple dragon and vampire chuuya.

NINETEEN

Zooms into his nightsand to show a jar glwoing and full of 7 fireflies

TWENTY

Yup, this one is back again.

TWENTY ONE

And this one

TWENTY TWO

and this one again

TWNTY THREE (last one)

The differne between this one and the others like it are that in this last scene he finnaly falls asleep. Slowly the fireflies fade out.

Thanks you so much for reading this far down the post of just my nonsense. Pls have an amazing day!

[cherrybombfangirlwrites]

Romantic Snippet Tag 💖💖💖

tagged by: jumping on @oh-no-another-idea 's open tag! (I remember being tagged for this game ages ago but I can't remember who or find the post for the life of me. if you tagged me here it is!)

tagging: Open Tag for whoever wants it! and soft tagging @winterandwords | @theimperiumchronicles | @italiangothicwriteblr | @space-writes | @ink-fireplace-coffee | @sleepyowlwrites | @words-after-midnight

I have thousands of words worth of angst for my babies Raven and Sapphire, but I'll be nice and give you some fluff I have instead from Draft 0 for Sleeping Beauty's Bodyguard:

“Did you always want to be a knight?” “For a while. I wanted to protect myself and my family from bullies, and knights seemed like people that could do that. I didn’t sign up to be your bodyguard though…” “Do you ever wish you hadn’t become my bodyguard?”  “Sometimes-” Sapphire’s face fell and he quickly added. “-but other times I wouldn’t change it for the world. You’re the most frustrating person I’ve ever met, but… also the most happy and excited to live. I haven’t known a lot of people that were excited to just live.” “Why do you think I hate my parents' overprotective tendencies? They’re scared of me dying, I’m scared of spending all my time surviving rather than living. I want to live my life.” “Why are you excited to live?”  “Oh, there’s so many things to be excited for. Clear nights like this where you can see the whole sky. The festivals, and dancing and seeing all the lights at them. The feeling of the breeze blowing through your hair. Sunshine. Flowers and flower crowns. That feeling when you think you could take on the world.”  Her eyes flicked to his hands and heat crept up her neck. “Someone braiding your hair for you with care.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and looked at the flames of the campfire dance across the logs, mesmerized. “Listening to stories about magic and the gods. Splashing in a creek and not caring about getting wet. The sound of crickets at night. Fireflies…”  She added, “I’ve never seen them, fireflies… but I’ve heard of them, seen pictures. They light up all on their own and only come out at night, and if you're gentle you can even catch one.” She turned to Raven. “Have you ever seen one? A firefly?” Raven smiled a little, leaning forward and watching the campfire. “We have them all the time back home, there’s lots of big fields just outside our village- one behind our house. That’s where fireflies like to be, especially at night. They only come out after the sun goes down, and they don’t start showing up until summer, when it’s warmer at night. When me and my siblings were small, we used to catch them and keep them in jars that my ma’ma had- she did make us release them after a few hours, but at least releasing them was the fun part. It’s like holding fire- the sun, moon, and stars themselves in your hands.” She said softly, “Maybe you could show me one day.” He couldn’t help his smile getting bigger as he looked at her and his heart fluttered. “I would like that.”

[bonefall]

Clanmew warrior cats oc name translation time again? Yes.

Coalfrost- Kitchiki (hot coal-frost)

Dewlight- Pesooane (dew-ray of light). I chose ane over shayu because Dewlight was named for being optimistic and outgoing, kind of like a ray of sunshine... or a ray of light!

Eveningcloud- Piarrwifha (evening-thin cloud). Went for thin cloud over fat cloud because Eveningcloud is chill but not in a lazy way, more in a they kinda vaguely don't care way.

Foxcloud- Aowaohai (fox-fat cloud). Now THIS is a fat cloud cat. Chill but because they're lazy lol.

Falconscreech- Yassganyaolr (raptor-yowling) No word for falcon, so just used raptor! For screech, I was torn between screaming and yowling, but I chose yowling since it gives more of the this cat is really loud vibes.

Fireflydawn- Ahaigioochawhaf (glow-bug-dawn). In the absence of a word for firefly, i figured combining glow and bug would do.

Heatherbounce- Ssnibpipip (heather-bouncing). I picked the present tense mostly because she is always in action haha.

Maplestream- Hwooqshush (field maple-stream). Making use of the new word for maple here!

Moorstride- Kiyyrpaohao (grass-travelling). Struggled to translate this one, but it's where i ended up!

Softsnap- Wuffgnamna (soft fur-biting). Chose bite over snap just because in the absence of the alliteration, bite has more, well, bite to it.

Sparrowchirp- Qeeyanaya (sparrow-singing). No word for chirp, so I figured singing would do well enough.

Spiderbite- Skegnamnag (cobspider-bit)

Weaselsight- Byrrirpipo (weasel-sight)

Hydrangeadawn- Meyfuhawhaf (violet-dawn). No word for Hydrangea so I picked an approximation.

Pinefoot- Nyyp'pwyyar (pine needle-foot)

Songspeckle- Errarriwoowoo (song thrush-spotting). Chose the bird over song itself because I think that's fun.

Swanstep- Hchomssappap (swan-walked)

Tideshred- Saossassrapssen (current-shredded). No word for tide, figured current was the closest thing.

First submission to use the new Maple word award! I appreciate the use of thin-cloud for Eveningcloud, fat-cloud is the popular choice so it's nice to see the underdog get love lmao

Words for you;

Peregrine Falcon (Falco peregrinus) = Pree

Eurasian Hobby (Falco subbuteo) = Yowpiu

Moor = Hwayao NOT JUST A GRASSLAND. This is the equivalent of "Forest" to "Woods." When Clan cats say "moorland" they are referring to an entire biome, encompassing heaths, grasslands, tors, and dales.

Heath = Afwa The "woods" to moorland "forest." This is a particular parcel of the moorland, an area with acidic soil that needs to be managed through fire or grazing, lest it success into sparse woodland.

Chirp/Note/Beat (Word is used interchangeably) = Bwi The same Clanmew terms for various songs are used for birdsongs. A Bwi is a single beat of the larger song of a bird, or just one word in a speech. When combined with another Bwi, you have a Tune. Put Tunes together and you have a song.

Hawthorn (Crataegus monogyna) = Arke Clan cats don't have hydrangeas, so I went and found a plant that looks a lot like them! Hawthorns have fluffy clusters of flowers and grow with big, strong, thorned bushes. Feel free to translate as 'haw' or 'hydrangea,' however you'd like. If you want to keep the 'exotic' feel of a domestic plant, feel free to play around with the words for domestic rose, or fuschia.

[wouldyoustilllovemeifiwasawyrm]

Brightblooms in the Well

Linktober 2023 Day 27: Light/Sparkle/Bright As soon as the idea popped into his head, he knew he had to act upon it before Zelda stopped him. He closed the gap between himself and his princess, cupping her face with nectar-soaked hands, pulling her into a kiss. A small gasp escaped her as she realized what he’d done. Her own hands flew to her cheeks as she pulled away, her fingertips brushing the glowing handprints he’d left. “Link!”

The evening sun begins to dip below the tree line of the western woods. Fireflies flicker to life along the well-trod path up the hill between Bolson’s model homes. Fresh, small footprints remain in the dirt, pressed in from the afternoon’s drizzle. A set running in, a much fresher set running back out toward Hateno.

No smoke rose from the chimney of their cottage this evening. Her golden horse nickered at him from the stall. Link clicked his tongue, leading Spot by the reins over to his own trough and stall box. He patted both horses on the nose, offering them each half an apple. Their soft lips tickled the palms of his hands.

Though he listened for signs of activity within the house, he heard none.

Curiously, Link climbed up onto the ledge beside the window, peering inside. No fire lit in the hearth. Not even a candle beside Zelda’s desk.

He furrowed his brows, trying to make out any sign of her in the darkness. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d returned home after a day of teaching and fell asleep. He squinted, just barely ascertaining the perfectly tucked sheets still intact on their bed.

No Zelda.

He frowned, trying to recall if anyone had said anything regarding her whereabouts to him on his way back to the house after working the fields with Reeve. Nothing came to mind. Quite the opposite, even. Clavia remarked that Zelda appeared in a rush to get home when the children finally ran out of the schoolhouse doors.

He walked along the raised pathway down the side of their home. There was still one place to check before he needed to worry. He peeked his head into the small storage room in the back of the cottage. Nope. Not in there. Though, as his eyes passed over the small tomato plant beside it, he noticed only the orange and yellow fruits remained. He doubted the children picked them, as most of them claimed to hate raw tomatoes and would only eat them when cooked onto something else. Zelda, on the other hand, ate them raw like apples.

With a hop, Link descended onto the stone step and back to the ground. He hefted himself over the edge of the well, slid down the ladder, and landed with a soft thud on the wooden dock beneath.

A blonde head turned quickly, her eyes wide in surprise. Ink stained her right cheek.

“You’re back early.” Zelda observed, incorrectly.

“It’s after seven.” Link informed her.

“Is it?” Zelda quickly checked the small timepiece on her desk, a gift from Robbie. A failed version of a miniature Sheikah Slate, not useful for much of anything except to tell the time. In blue symbols, the time shone across her features. “Oh, so it is. I’m sorry. I had intended to start making supper at five.”

“S’alright.” Link assured her. After checking that the book in front of her had a different color cover than her diary, he approached. “What have you been studying?”

Zelda held up a small, greenish-blue bud. “Brightblooms. I’ve been trying to discern what makes them glow.”

Link took the bud from her hand, examining it curiously. “And what have you found?”

Zelda heaved a heavy sigh, shrugging her shoulders. “Very little, I’m afraid. I’ve discovered that it is the nectar within the flower that supplies the light. See, here, the translucent skin of the petals. But as for what exactly within the nectar causes the luminescence, I have no idea. I thought perhaps it was a similar substance to that as is within fireflies, but I’m not sure.”

While Link had passed by brightblooms dozens of times, using them frequently in his explorations of dark caves, he hadn’t thought much about the why. He smiled. Of course, Zelda, in her inexhaustible curiosity, wanted to know what made them glow.

She slid her notebook toward him. Sketches and theories dotted the pages, which she flipped through as she spoke. “Fireflies produce a yellow light from inside a closed system. I believe it also has something to do with electrical signals that the firefly produces when it’s alive. Based on my observations, only living fireflies produce light. But that may not be the case at all. I’m afraid I don’t have the heart to squish one and observe whether the glow remains. I’ve only dissected ones which I’ve found already deceased.”

Link would offer to squish one for her and record the results, but that would defeat the purpose of her good-natured hesitation. He’d just tell her he squished it by accident.

“As you can see with this bud here, it also appears to be a closed system, emanating very little light.” Zelda continued. “But when the buds are struck, or else left to bloom on their own, they produce an abundance of light, but for a shorter duration. The ones I’ve planted down here will need to be replaced when their light eventually fades. They respond to physical stimuli, such as being struck, with quickly blooming and sticking to a surface.”

Link nodded, quite happy to listen to her talk science for as long as she wished.

Zelda produced another book, flipping through the pages until she reached a small sketch of a firefly. “This author speculates that the firefly produces light by the interaction of an enzyme with a kind of sugar located within the body of the insect. This book, in general, is about enzymes and their various uses. Fascinating material; you really ought to read it. It’s a perfect interaction of biology and chemistry.”

En-zime. Or, no, enzyme, with a Y. He quickly scanned the page, which had only a handful of words he recognized and several diagrams which he couldn’t hope to interpret. Lines and triangles and letters, arranged in some order that he was sure made sense to Zelda.

“As for the brightbloom, there is no mention of it in his book, and so I’m left to grapple with the mechanism with which it produces luminescence. I don’t believe it to be electrical.” She pursed her lips, tapping her fingertips on the wooden desk. “I’ve been comparing a bloom to these buds for, well, I suppose it must be several hours now. I had intended to discover something about the nature of the glow tonight. Symin and I were going to compare notes in the morning and discuss a lesson plan on bioluminescence for the children. But, it seems, that will have to wait, and I can only hope that Symin has made more progress on the subject than I.”

Link turned the bud over in his hands, examining it closely himself. The petals were very closely tucked together, with only the faintest glow emanating from within. If he struck the bud, or threw it against the wall, it would stick and bloom brightly. That much he’d observed firsthand. But what if he-?

In a moment of pure curiosity, he smashed the bud between his palms.

Blinding light burst in a sparking display and dripped between his fingers, sticky nectar splashing him in the face.

“Link!” Zelda cried, shielding her face from the splatter, specks of light landing on her hands and sleeves. “Hylia’s wings, why did you do that?!”

He could barely make out her exasperated expression from the light that shone around his eyes, obscuring everything in the darkness of the hidden study. “I wanted to know if it was air-reactive.” He answered honestly with a shrug.

“You- Well, Professor Link, what do you think?” Zelda asked.

“I think,” Link compared the split halves of the smushed bud in his palms, each of which glowed like a tiny, dripping star. “It might be.”

Zelda stood from her desk, pushing the little wooden chair back into its place tucked underneath. “I think that’s a very astute observation.” She took a small handkerchief from her pocket, and began trying to wipe away the nectar from his face—gently at first, then more aggressively as the stubborn nectar refused to budge. “Goddess, Link. This stuff will not come off!”

He winced as she dragged the handkerchief across his cheek rather forcefully, like she was trying to wipe his skin away.

She huffed, pulling the useless, now-glowing fabric away. “I think that only smeared it. I suppose we could just wait for it to stop glowing on its own, though there’s no telling how long that will take.” She folded the handkerchief carefully, keeping the glowing nectar from touching the surface of her desk. The palms of her hands also sported droplets of light, faraway celestial bodies blinking in and out as she moved. “Perhaps it’s water-soluble.”

“You want me to jump into the pool?” Link offered, already taking a step backward toward the edge of the platform.

Zelda pursed her lips. “I suppose that would be one way to remove the nectar, though a wet rag would probably be sufficient.”

“Aw, but that’s no fun.” Link teased. If this nectar really was water-soluble, which he hoped that it was, for his own sake, then there’d be no harm in… sharing it.

As soon as the idea popped into his head, he knew he had to act upon it before Zelda stopped him. He closed the gap between himself and his princess, cupping her face with nectar-soaked hands, pulling her into a kiss.

A small gasp escaped her as she realized what he’d done. Her own hands flew to her cheeks as she pulled away, her fingertips brushing the glowing handprints he’d left. “Link!”

Link laughed, the sound echoing off the stony walls of her study. “Now we match!”

“Oh, you cad!” She scolded. Though he couldn’t tell for sure beneath the glow on her face, he thought she might be blushing. Or maybe it was rage. Something in that range. “Give me that!” Zelda snatched the remaining brightbloom bud from his hands.

“Aw, come on, Zel. I was only jok-,“ Link started, cut off by Zelda’s very firm return of the kiss. Rather than her hands resting on his face, as was her typical habit, they roamed. Down his neck, up to his ears, tangled in his hair. All the while, the drip of nectar followed.

When she finally pulled away, a satisfied smirk on her lips, he could only imagine the state she’d left him in. “Well, what do you know? Maybe there are some similarities to fireflies after all. You certainly look like one now.”

Link would not be outdone. “Nah, a firefly is more like-,“ He grabbed Zelda’s ass, giving a playful squeeze. “-that.”

Zelda let out a small squeak of surprise, though she made no attempt to push him away. “You’re terrible, you know that?” Despite her admonishment, she soon returned the favor, grabbing his ass in return. “Just terrible.”

Link snickered, resting his forehead against Zelda’s. “You know, I bet this stuff washes off of skin much better than it does fabric.”

Zelda raised a brow. “Probably. Why does that matter?”

Another light-filled kiss brushed against her lips, leaving a celestial glow around her mouth. “Because,” Link whispered, trailing kisses toward her ear. “I want to cover you in it. And it would be a shame to ruin your nice blouse.”

[idkfitememate]

This is for you @hyperfixat , said I would a while ago and finally decided to-

Here’s that fic of (one of) my Obey Me OC, the way it looks is wildly different from from my now fics-

︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑

Fated Meetings

Seraphiel (OC) x Barbatos

𝗡𝗼𝘄 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴:

"Zankoku Na Tenshi No Thesis-Salomé Anjarí"

01:23 ━━━━●───── 04:01

ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ

---˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹❀♡❀˖⁺. ༶ ⋆˙⊹---

︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑

The Demon of Time. A being to be feared. Able to see both past in future at once, to jump across timelines and alter events to suit his current masters needs. Well know across all three realms, he was truly a monster amongst men. What most didn’t know, however, was that this demon of time had a counterpart. His exact opposite.

The Angel of Space. Able to jump dimensions and warp reality to his Fathers choosing. A Seraphim.

Much like The King of Demons and The Father, they were seen as opposing forces, but in truth, their creation was one of the first ever attempts at a peaceful negotiation between the realms of Angels and Demons. By separating the two powers — Father parting from his infinite time and the Kind relinquishing his infinite space — both had equaled the playing fields a bit, creating an illusion of true equality.

Both right hands to their respective lords, the two never saw each other after their creation and following gifting. Though, unbeknownst to their creators, they kept in touch via letters.

Millennia of simple letters past and they were finally allowed a meet by their lords commands. This was when tensions between the Celestial Realm and the Devildom were at their “Lowest”. They met in the human realm, the middle point, and would have a couple hundred years to talk. To the angel, this seemed far to little, but to the Demon, it seemed far to long. A testament to their differences.

˖⁺.꒦꒷꒦꒷⛧꒷꒦꒷꒦˖⁺. ˖⁺.꒦꒷꒦꒷⛧꒷꒦꒷꒦˖⁺. ˖⁺.꒦꒷꒦꒷⛧꒷꒦꒷꒦˖⁺.

A forest was chosen for their stay, glowing dimly with fireflies and luminescent flowers. The moon had risen into the sky on that cool summers night. The tress flowed gracefully in the small breeze that had fallen onto this beautiful forest. In the center there was a wide circular clearing with a gorgeously huge oak tree, its branches weighed down with age. Moose and deer dappled the landscape, munching lazily on grasses and beautiful purple and green flowers.

The demon, who went by the name “Barbatos”, finally arrived to the clearing, having warped straight from the castle of his lord. Brushing off his suit, he reached for the pocket watch in his breast pocket, checking the time to ensure he wasn’t late. Not that something like that had ever happened before, but it was a habit he had developed from watching his King over the years. Wandering around the clearing for a few minutes, running his fingers through the tall grass, he finally stopped and cleared his throat.

“I know you’re here,” he mused, “So please do make yourself known. We could easily get introductions out of the way seeing as we know each oth-“ He was cut off by giggling coming from the large oak. Looking up he was met with lavender eyes staring into his teal ones as well as wide smile, shrouded by shadows. The giggling only grew stronger.

Sighing, turned to face the being covered in shadow and opened his arms, just in time to catch the much larger angel that had just jumped from the branches of the tree, right into his arms.

Unlike Barbatos, who was in his demon form with skeletal wing like horns folded behind his head and duel-headed tail flicking through the grass while the tails of his black and teal suit fluttered in the breeze, the angel was in his simpler human disguise; no wings and eyes of burning fire in sight. Shirtless, he had on large oversized pants, akin to traditional hakama, bellbottoms, or a mix of the two. A sash wrapped around his waist in an almost loincloth fashion. With long mid bicep length artist like gloves covering his arms, the entire ensemble was brought together by the long veil that wrapped around his head and trailed long after his body, white fading to black on the outside and a ‘galaxy’ on the inside with accents of gold, greens, and blues.

“Hiii Barbatosss~” The angel lovingly spoke. His soft yet melodic voice reminded the demon just what kind of angel in his arms was. A Seraphim. An angel of immense power and strength that could rival his own. And here he was, wrapped in Barbatos’s arms like a child. The tealette huffed before smiling, setting the angel down in the grass and forcing him on his knees, leaning up on his tip-toes — and forcing the angel to lean down with gloves hands on his cheeks — to kiss the taller male on his forehead, right where his skin met the silk of the veil. “Hello Seraphiel.”

The angel, now known as Seraphiel, leaned down — nearly folding himself in half despite being on his knees due to the dramatic height difference between the two — and began smothering the much smaller demon in kisses, holding his demon’s delicate face between his much larger hands. The angel caressed the demon’s cheeks between his gloved fingers. Barbatos’s also gloved hand met the others, melting into his touch.

“Oh how I’ve longed to see you my dearest Aeon!~ I was wishing the day we would finally be able to see each other would be closer, and closer it came! How wondrous, isn’t it darling?” Seraphiel’s speech was muffled by the many kisses he pressed all over Barbatos, light purple lipstick smearing the smallers face. Finally letting his guard down, Barbatos smiled at his lover of many years, letting out a small chuckle of his own.

“Yes my dearest Astrophel, it is wondrous indeed.”

︶꒷꒦︶ ๋࣭ ⭑

[chwedout]

✨films i watched for the first time in 2023 that i think everyone should watch at least once in their lifetime✨

favourites are listed in bold

20th Century Girl (2022, dir. Bang Woo-ri)

All Quiet on the Western Front (2022, dir. Edward Berger)

Asteroid City (2023, dir. Wes Anderson)

Audition (1999, dir. Takashi Miike)

The Banshees of Inisherin (2022, dir. Martin McDonagh)

Barbie (2023, dir. Greta Gerwig)

Beau Is Afraid (2023, dir. Ari Aster)

Better Days (2019, dir. Derek Tsang Kwok-Cheung)

Bottoms (2023, dir. Emma Seligman)

Canola (2016, dir. Chang)

Columbus (2017, dir. Kogonada)

The Darjeeling Limited (2007, dir. Wes Anderson)

Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009, dir. Wes Anderson)

Grave of the Fireflies (1988, dir. Isao Takahata)

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 (2023, dir. James Gunn)

The House (2022, dir. Paloma Baeza, Niki Lindroth von Bahr, Emma De Swaef, Marc James Roels)

House of Hummingbird (2018, dir. Kim Bora)

I'm Thinking of Ending Things (2020, dir. Charlie Kaufman)

In Bruges (2008, dir. Martin McDonagh)

Infinity Pool (2023, dir. Brandon Cronenberg)

Isle of Dogs (2018, dir. Wes Anderson)

Killers of the Flower Moon (2023, dir. Martin Scorsese)

Memories of Murder (2003, dir. Bong Joon-ho)

Lady Vengeance (2005, dir. Park Chan-wook)

May December (2023, dir. Todd Haynes)

The Menu (2022, dir. Mark Mylod)

Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984, dir. Hayao Miyazaki)

Next Sohee (2022, dir. July Jung)

No Country for Old Men (2007, dir. Joel Coen, Ethan Coen)

Oldboy (2003, dir Park Chan-wook)

Past Lives (2023, dir. Celine Song)

Paprika (2006, dir. Satoshi Kon)

Perfect Blue (1997, dir. Satoshi Kon)

Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019, dir. Céline Sciamma)

Priscilla (2023, dir. Sofia Coppola)

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish (2022, Joel Crawford)

The Quiet Girl (2022, dir. Colm Bairéad)

Ramen Shop (2018, dir. Eric Khoo)

Saltburn (2023, dir. Emerald Fennell)

Shiva Baby (2020, Emma Seligman)

Sing Street (2016, dir. John Carney)

Sound of Metal (2019, dir. Darius Marder)

Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse (2023, dir. Joaquim Dos Santos, Justin K. Thompson, Kemp Powers

Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance (2002, dir. Park Chan-wook)

The Tale of Princess Kaguya (2013, dir. Isao Takahata)

TÁR (2022, dir. Todd Field)

Theater Camp (2023, dir. Molly Gordon, Nick Lieberman)

The Truman Show (1998, dir. Peter Weir)

Weathering with You (2019, dir. Makoto Shinkai)

Women Talking (2022, dir. Sarah Polley)

2021 | 2022

[myososheep]

I AM HERE NOW a day late but I am here sadhgfvsgfv

I know you already ranted about your OCs but I can't remember shit so uhh

for Hibi and Suzka: 2. Is your OC a loner or a social butterfly? Are they satisfied with how they come across to other people?

for just Suzka: 10. Is your OC sentimental or pragmatic? Do they keep mementos or only what they need to survive? Have they always been this way or did something happen to make them change?

Hibi and Yoan: 15. What places hold significant meaning or memories for your OC? Do they have a positive or negative association with those places?

for Alim: 5. Does your OC have a signature weapon and/or attack? How long did they train to master it?

HAHAHA lets not dwell on how late i am to respond to this cough cough ANYWAY

2) Suzka is THE social butterfly of the group. she's very talkative and charismatic, and she likes meeting new people, which made her pretty popular in school. she knows how to talk to people and doesn't mind the attention.

Hibi would be more of a loner. because of his social anxiety and past bullying, he quickly becomes uncomfortable in crowds or around new people, especially if he's alone. he prefers being with friends and family.

10) she's very sentimental, if you offer her something she will keep it forever, even something as silly as a branch you snuck in her hair. she's always been that way, collecting trinkets here and there. for a bad period in her life Suzka would hide all these mementos, but quickly started displaying the good ones as she realized they made her feel better.

15) for Hibi it's a field hidden in the forest he lived in. It is full of high grass and wild flowers, and at night it is filled with fireflies. it brings both happy and sad memories, as it is a place his parents would bring him to when he was feeling down.

for Yoan it's the treehouse at his grandparents' farm. he had helped his grandpa build it when he was young, and it has always been a safe place where he is free to be. it's a very precious place to him, he has only let 4 people in his treehouse : his grandparents, Hibi and Suzka.

5) whether he uses his swords or his bare hands, Alim almost always pair them with fire magic, and when needed earth magic. he spent 8 years training with his mentor until he realized he was strong enough to surpass him. because of the intensive training his mentor forced on him, it has left permanent scars on him.

[warriors-rewritten-chaos]

Warrior Cats Prefixes List- F

I had a WC Name Generator on Perchance that I made but I don't seem to have access anymore, so I'm remaking it here as just a simple list. The definitions used are the ones that Clan cats have for those things, and thus are the origins of the names. Definitions used are whatever I found when I googled it.

Faded-: "[adj] in the sense of discolored"

Fading-: "[verb] gradually grow faint and disappear"

Faith-: "[noun] complete trust or confidence in someone or something"

Falcon-: "[noun] a bird of prey with long pointed wings and a notched beak"

Fallen-: "[adj] having dropped or come down from a higher place, from an upright position, or from a higher level, degree, amount, quality, value, number, etc"

Fallow-: "[noun] a Eurasian deer with branched palmate antlers, typically having a white-spotted reddish-brown coat in summer"

Fawn-: "[noun] a young deer in its first year; [noun] a light yellowish-brown color"

Feather-: "[noun] any of the flat appendages growing from a bird's skin and forming its plumage"

Fen-: "[noun] a low and marshy or frequently flooded area of land; [noun] flat low-lying areas of eastern England, formerly marshland but largely drained for agriculture since the 17th century"

Fennel-: "[noun] an aromatic yellow-flowered European plant of the parsley family, with feathery leaves"

Fern-: "[noun] a flowerless plant which has feathery or leafy fronds"

Ferret-: "[noun] a domesticated polecat kept as a pet or used, especially in Europe, for catching rabbits. It is typically albino or brown"

Fibercap-: "[noun] a poisonous mushroom of the genus Inocybe"

Fidget-: "[verb] to make small movements, especially of the paws, ears, and tail, through nervousness or impatience; [noun] a quick, small movement, typically a repeated one, caused by nervousness or impatience"

Field-: "[noun] an area of open land, especially one planted with crops or pasture, typically bounded by hedges or fences"

Fieldcap-: "[noun] a typically lawn and other types of grassland mushroom"

Fierce-: "[adj] having or displaying an intense or ferocious aggressiveness; [adj] showing a heartfelt and powerful intensity"

Fig-: "[noun] a soft pear-shaped fruit with sweet dark flesh and many small seeds; [noun] the deciduous tree or shrub that bears the fig"

Fin-: "[noun] a flattened appendage on various parts of the body of many aquatic vertebrates and some invertebrates, including fish and cetaceans, used for propelling, steering, and balancing"

Finch-: "[noun] a seed-eating songbird that typically has a stout bill and colorful plumage"

Fir-: "[noun] an evergreen coniferous tree with upright cones and flat needle-shaped leaves, typically arranged in two rows"

Fire-: "[noun] combustion or burning, in which substances combine chemically with oxygen from the air and typically give out bright light, heat, and smoke"

Firefly-: "[noun] a soft-bodied beetle related to the glowworm, the winged male and flightless female of which both have luminescent organs. The light is chiefly produced as a signal between the sexes, especially in flashes"

Fish-: "[noun] a limbless cold-blooded vertebrate animal with gills and fins and living wholly in water"

Flame-: "[noun] a hot glowing body of ignited gas that is generated by something on fire"

Flash-: "[verb] move or pass very quickly; [noun] a sudden brief burst of bright light or a sudden glint from a reflective surface"

Flax-: "[noun] a blue-flowered herbaceous plant that is cultivated for its seed and for textile fiber made from its stalks"

Flea-: "[noun] a small wingless jumping insect which feeds on the blood of mammals and birds"

Fleck-: "[noun] a very small patch of color or light; [verb] mark or dot with small patches of color or particles of something"

Flecked-: "[verb] mark or dot with small patches of color or particles of something (past tense)"

Fleece-: "[noun] the woolly covering of a sheep or goat"

Fleet-: "[adj] to be swift in motion, nimble"

Flick-: "[noun] a sudden sharp movement"

Flicker-: "[verb] make small, quick movements; flutter rapidly; [noun] an unsteady movement of a flame or light that causes rapid variations in brightness"

Flint-: "[noun] a hard gray rock consisting of nearly pure chert, occurring chiefly as nodules in chalk"

Flip-: "[verb] turn over with a sudden quick movement; [verb] move, push, or throw (something) with a sudden sharp movement"

Flood-: "[noun] an overflowing of a large amount of water beyond its normal confines, especially over what is normally dry land"

Flounder-: "[noun] a member of a group of flatfish species"

Flower-: "[noun] the seed-bearing part of a plant, consisting of reproductive organs (stamens and carpels) that are typically surrounded by a brightly colored corolla (petals) and a green calyx"

Fluffy-: "[adj] of, like, or covered with fluff"

Flurry-: "[noun] a small swirling mass of something, especially snow or leaves, moved by sudden gusts of wind"

Flutter-: "[verb] (of a bird or other winged creature) fly unsteadily or hover by flapping the wings quickly and lightly"

Fluttering-: "[verb] (of a bird or other winged creature) flying unsteadily or hovering by flapping the wings quickly and lightly"

Fly-: "[noun] any of numerous insects that use only one pair of wings for flight but also have halteres, a reduced second pair of wings"

Flycatcher-: "[noun] a bird that catches flying insects, especially in short flights from a perch"

Foam-: "[noun] a mass of small bubbles formed on or in liquid, typically by agitation or fermentation"

Foaming-: "[adj] producing a mass of small bubbles or frothing"

Fog-: "[noun] a thick cloud of tiny water droplets suspended in the atmosphere at or near the earth's surface which obscures or restricts visibility"

Foggy-: "[adj] full of or accompanied by fog"

Forest-: "[noun] a large area covered chiefly with trees and undergrowth"

Fossil-: "[noun] the remains or impression of a prehistoric organism preserved in petrified form or as a mold or cast in rock"

Fox-: "[noun] a carnivorous mammal of the dog family with a pointed muzzle and bushy tail, proverbial for its cunning"

Foxglove-: "[noun] a tall Eurasian plant with erect spikes of flowers, typically pinkish-purple or white, shaped like the fingers of gloves"

Freckle-: "[noun] a small patch of light brown color on the skin, often becoming more pronounced through exposure to the sun"

Fringe-: "[noun] the border or outer edges of an area or group; [adj] not part of the mainstream; unconventional, peripheral, or extreme"

Fritillary-: "[noun] a Eurasian plant of the lily family, with hanging bell-like flowers; [noun] a butterfly with orange-brown wings that are checkered with black"

Frog-: "[noun] a tailless amphibian with a short squat body, moist smooth skin, and very long hind legs for leaping"

Frond-: "[noun] the leaf or leaflike part of a palm, fern, or similar plant"

Frost-: "[noun] a deposit of small white ice crystals formed on the ground or other surfaces when the temperature falls below freezing"

Frozen-: "[adj] having turned into ice as a result of extreme cold"

Furled-: "[adj] neatly and securely rolled or folded up"

Furze-: "[noun] another term for gorse"

Fuzz-: "[noun] a fluffy or frizzy mass of hair or fiber"

Fuzzy-: "[adj] having a frizzy, fluffy, or frayed texture or appearance"

[milkstoner]

title: malleus maleficarum

pairing: malleus/me. okay no its malleus/reader unless you don’t relate to the way i love him

genre: poetry of the excessively rhyming variety

word count: 1.5k 😭

here we are… for malleus’ birthday, i wrote him a love letter (my take on malleyuu)

full text under the cut!

Born of the snow

He hides from his own shadow

He’d never wanted to look from above

In his heart he knows he’s below

How he’d wished for time to slow down

And for his wrath not to grow

For all to fear his crown

Look, how they overlook his sorrow

Look, how the fire overflows

Look, how the fireflies glow

In this winter forest a blessing bestowed

Wednesday, child of woe

Star, yearning leisure

Strength, burning pressure

To him I was a doe

King of thorns

Brings from the ashes his scorn

Violin harmonies from the hollow morn

Mourn treasures long gone

Memories ingrained in the stone of his throne

Only when he’s angry does he find himself reborn

Prince of arrogance

Wishes he wasn’t just his inheritance

What a fool; cursed by his precedence

He’s to rule; damned by his puissance

Only in romance does he find resonance

And in his dreams of decadence

He won’t be a means of defence

I’ve always wanted to dance with malevolence

Tyrant of destruction, child of misfortune

As everlasting as he is, so is his isolation

And for how much he hates corruption

He is unsurprisingly weak to seduction

Who could blame him for giving in to temptation?

Poor, fragile soul; his confused feelings are an eruption

Just waiting to happen

Ruler of the abyss

Emerges from the darkness

Walks weary in the pit of his loneliness

Tramples all over white amaryllis

Nonetheless he guides the faithless

Nourishes his hubris

And represses the viridescent bitterness

And me? I was shameless

To him I was a temptress

He’d never felt the need to possess

Whispered in my ear, ‘You’re an enchantress’

But, my love, don’t you know how much I obsess

Over the tenderness of your caress?

Poured some green tea over vanilla ice cream

That’s what he tasted like in my dream

Dressed myself in velvet

By his warmness I’m enveloped

Close to my heart, I held a green garnet

He’s loveliness incarnate

Young love in the rose garden

And blunt kisses in a forgotten heaven

He’s bittersweet

And I can taste on his tongue sweet defeat

‘Without you, I’m lost,’

He said, covering the flowers in frost

‘By your charm I’ve been ensorcelled,’

He whispered in the light of the chandelle

As he placed in my hair an immortelle

‘Don’t you ever leave me

I’ll set fields ablaze for you

I’ll kneel before you

I’ll chase you down the prairie’

Held me like I was going anywhere

As if I wasn’t meant to pull his hair

And tell him, ‘My sweet, I wouldn’t dare

Aren’t you aware

That without you, I despair?

I’ll tear down everything I own

Just to keep our affair sound

So care for me, don’t leave me alone’

And I felt his stare on me

A glare of mantis green

Oh, I’ve no wish to fight

Come, devour me alive

And in this tragic, starless night

Perhaps he’ll know of my plight

Because he set my soul alight

With deep green flames too bright

Spilled his passion over me with a might

That could only translate into delight

My calls to him like a prayer trite

And in the magic, godless blight,

Still the lust ignites

His long hair slips between my fingers

And I know that, for this, I’m a sinner

But he’s so much, so much bigger

The velvety darkness vibration lingers

In his hold my soul shivers

And my body can’t find slumber

So from the corner of my eye I find his figure

Tall as a tower

What a gorgeous man I’ve got

Somehow the night illuminates him

And I, unmoving

Can only stare back as eyes of peridot

Work their entrancing,

Ravishing

Charm

Eyes of adamantine green

Make me think of dreams obscene

The sheen in them took me out of this spleen

But I got lost all over again in his ravine

In the ruins he told me I’m his queen

His bed is sanctuary palatine

Where our essences entwine

He fed me the sour fruits of grapevine

He said I was sweet as wine

My dear, it’s all moonshine

I can see my face in the saturnine

Look of your eye

Come, I’ll swallow your pride

Piercing lightning in his gaze

Just that puts me in my place

And my thoughts race

To rêveries of strong arms’ embrace

And fingers enlaced

Where I’m worthy of his grace

He’d indulge me and my desire

Because the moon knows I’d suck a man dry

Of all his love and energy

He’s greedy as I am needy

No one’s ever handled me so gently

And talked to me so sweetly

So you see, I’m yours completely

Stab me with that spindle

And let me do to you the unspeakable

Strong hands carefully holding his belongings

For fear of them breaking

Were he a little bit more self-aware

He’d become afraid of himself

But I love when he shows off his strength

Crack it good, darling

Won’t you open this jar for me?

You don’t have to take all these bags in one go

Say, can you pick up this box?

Move the shelf? A bit more to the left?

Get my bike upstairs?

Carry me in your arms?

Drunk on him, I feel insane

Moonstruck, unveil the curtain

Loving him, sealed my fate remains

Worshipping him, a deal is made again

Treasure, cherish, contain this ethereal

Loss of sense

Threw up the depths of hell

And I still feel so, so unwell

He has me under a spell

And I shan’t be saved by the holy bell

And I don’t want to be freed

I know that he loves me

For his glory, I’ll bleed

I know that he needs me

I don’t care where this spinning wheel will lead

I know that he wants me

The lines of his body are my creed

On my knees, it is he to whom I plead

For him I’ll offer myself as sacrifice

For him I’ll go through supplice

For him it feels like paradise

My beloved won’t ever pay the price

For his vice

And if you told me my man was a beast

I wouldn’t be disappointed in the least

Just wait until his fury is unleashed

Those who preached will see themselves pierced

Those who resist, dismissed

For he is fierce

And the moon herself shall be eclipsed

So me, blissed-out hedonist

In the midst of his firestorm

I admire the back that raven wings adorn

I’ve never seen misery look so majestic

And agony seem so poetic

He’s calamity of a mystique

So prophetic

Cathartic

A catastrophe almost narcissistic,

The despair in his voice melodic

And he stands tall despite it all

I’ve never seen repulsion look so regal

And revulsion seem so graceful

Come here, my prince, it’s okay

No one knew it would end that way

We’ll live to see another day

And even as judgement is underway

I’ll cherish you in our eden of decay

Don’t feel bad; now no one will dare betray

The one they ought to obey

Those who are weak of mind fear beauty

They deem it evil

It’s not your fault, honey

You like my naïveté, you say

Well, I like your voracité

In an eternal January he let go of his cage

And history turns the page

In an eternal tyranny commences a new age

Someday our love will be tale of old

All over the land our love will be told

But for now, let us brave the cold

Steal the sun and absorb the blue skies

Unveil the lies they foretold

And from snowy rose petals, rise

See, fate has set the stage for us

So come, Malleus

Don’t be afraid, Malleus

Let me put you hair in a braid

Let me dip you in honey

Let me prove how much I love you

I’ll tell you in french, too

Si tu savais à quel point coule la cyprine

Mets ta main sur ma poitrine

Laisse moi partager mes envies

Laisse moi voler tes tentations enfouies

Dans les profondeurs de ton âme assombrie

Jusqu’aux lueurs de l’aurore

Quand les cieux seront amétrine;

Le feu se fond à la nuit

L’amour est enivrant quand tu es en moi

N’aie pas peur; donne-moi ton émoi

Savoure mes caprices assouvies

Ton ardeur ne fait qu’éveiller ma foi

Dans ta chevelure de soie obscure je me noie

N’aie pas peur; partage ma joie

La chaleur de ton corps oublie la loi

Laisse-toi te perdre en moi

Je sais, tu tuerais pour moi

Quelle torture qu’est ta voix

Si douce et si intense

Me réduit au silence

Tu es ma providence

Trouve ton bonheur dans mon impuissance

Et dans mon déshonneur ta douce sentence

Dans le ciel ton éclair de la délivrance

Verse ses étincelles dans ma chair

I said come here, Malleus

Decus marmoreus

Venus melleus

Dominatus malus

You got me speaking fucking broken latin

[whiteboardartstudios]

Situations To Put Your Characters In

going to a festival

sleepover

rainy day

after the rainy day (yippee rainbows!)

eating breakfast

stargazing

pride parade

going to the library

exploring the local forest (which may or may not be magical)

listening to music

watching ducks in a pond

doing laundry

sunflower field

making friendship bracelets

hanging out in general

going to a nice coffee shop

taking a walk

grocery shopping

shopping in general

snowy day!

making a wish

watching a movie

cloud watching

accidentally falling asleep on the couch

karaoke

making music together

uno

making food together

studying together

dancing

gathered around a warm fire on a cold winter night

night market

video games

birthday celebration

long-awaited reunion

watching butterflies/fireflies

making flower crowns

going to the playground

watching the sunrise/sunset

cuddle/hug pile

Feel free to add on in the notes! :D

[crmsnmth]

Let Me Count The Ways Or Some Other Clever Thing To Say

I loved you like star crashing making supernovas to brilliantly shine the sky Near infinite energy in explosions when my fingers caress the small of your back We were creating galaxies In millions upon millions of new shapes and sizes

I loved you the flower budding Showing off it's natural gang colors for bees The very breath of creation in petals Pollinate the air with the looks you give I'm happy to be some focal attention

I loved you like a flame to a flag my political revolution washing the streets In chants and marches in front of bullets It was excitement It was what it's like to be alive

I loved you like the field of fireflies blinking morse code on warm summer nights Little bursts of twinkle lights Such a beautiful sight Only half compared to you

I loved you like ocean loves the shore the constant gentle touches to the giant tsunami floods It's a power held by none There's a reason some of us don't swim

I loved you like a razor blade that came lashed in words of ending Just that it was over sharpening and this blade was tilted off It still managed to cut through every word

I love you like the smoke Waiting for it to fade But the signals still come through This fire just won't snuff I guess I was right all along

[kumeko]

A/N: For the @mythsofvoltronzine! A companion piece I wrote for “of hopes and doubts”, which both was written later but also got posted two years before I released this piece. I love Mahabharata, so heavily influenced by that. Lotor and Allura had a lot of potential in the series and I’m sad it never got properly explored for political alliance shenanigans or tension angst.

…

…

…

…

Allura walked next to a river of stars, her bare feet squelching in the soft mud. Tightening her shawl around her arms, she tried to ward off the chilly night air but it was of little comfort. Her thin nightwear was made to be slept in and a midnight walk was beyond its capabilities. The moon hid behind the clouds as she followed the river through a field of mustard, the golden flowers brown in the dim light.

Fortunately, she did not have far to go. The White Tiger had brought her here for a reason, and that reason was kneeling just ahead of her, shrouded in the shadows. Cupping water from the river, he caught a star and raised it to his lips.

“Rajkumar Lotor,” she greeted, coming to a stop next to him. Dozens of fireflies flickered around them, their tiny lights lighting up the tips of his ears, the brown of his pants, the rings on her fingers. She imagined this was what the heavens felt like, to be so close to the stars you could just touch them.

“Oriande is beautiful,” Lotor echoed her thoughts as he languidly stood up. His long, braided hair coiled around his neck like a snake. He was a thinly dressed as she was, not a hint of armour in sight. How strange it was to stand next to her mortal enemy, without a weapon, without protection, without malice. Turning to her, he touched his forehead as he greeted her. “Rajkumari Allura.” He appraised her clothing. “I see I am not the only one who was rudely summoned from their sleep.”

He looked slightly put out and Allura tried not to laugh. “The White Tiger was very insistent when he tugged me out of bed.” She gestured at her slightly torn sleeve. “I almost thought he’d bite me instead of my clothes.”

“I’m not sure if that’s better or worse than finding a giant lizard on your face.” Lotor grimaced. Glancing at her sleeve once more, he stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The White Tiger…I heard the generals of your kingdom are all bonded to different tigers. Gods’ messengers, as some call them.”

“Bonded,” Allura mused, scrunching up her nose. It was true, in a way. Multi-coloured tigers were the constant companions of her head generals. Unfortunately, just as the gods were, the tigers were capricious. “I suppose you could call it that.”

“And what would you call it?” Lotor asked. Despite his carefree tone, his eyes were sharp.

Digging for information, was he? Allura smiled politely. “Babysitting.”

His lips quirked, amusement and curiosity warring on his face. When it was clear she wouldn’t add anything, he gave up and changed the subject. “So this is Oriande.”   

“I had heard stories as a child.” Grateful for the change, Allura didn’t comment on the abruptness of it all. She cupped her hands around a firefly, bathing her skin in a pale yellow light. “I never thought I’d get the chance to visit it.”

“It is beyond us mortals normally.” Reaching down, he picked up a flat rock off the riverbed. He turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing over the hard surface. “Though it is more ordinary than I expected.” Expertly, he flicked his wrist. The rock skipped over the river’s surface, bouncing once, twice, thrice, before sinking into its depths.

“What were you expecting?” Shoulders shaking with laughter, Allura let the firefly go. It flew around her before floating off with the rest of its kin. “This may be the land of the gods, but they enjoy the same things we do. Of course there’ll be some similarities.”

“Glowing flowers? Floating fire?” Lotor’s lips quirked as shrugged. All ideas that Allura had as a child and she tried not to look away in embarrassment. “Something extraordinary.”

Lance and Hunk had suggested the same things when she’d left. It seemed unlike people, ideas crossed borders freely. Allura rested a hand on her hip. “I don’t know, flying here was pretty amazing.”

“That’s true—the world is very different to a bird.” Realization crossed Lotor’s face and he turned to her. “Is this an ordinary thing to you? Your mother is a goddess.”

“Not really,” Allura admitted regretfully, rubbing her wrist. “My mother is not one for visiting. All I know are my father’s stories and his are the same as everyone else’s. I had hoped to see her here.”

“I thought we’d see at least one god.” Lotor glanced around. They stood in the middle of a field, able to see as far as the horizon in any direction, but all that was visible was an endless sea of mustard. He glanced up. “Perhaps higher up.”

She followed his gaze. Above them were pink clouds and she caught the briefest glimpse of a white elephant, no doubt filling up its trunk with rain. Higher still were white rocks, glowing serenely despite the lack of light. Jagged lines of bright blue coloured the rocks and she wondered if they were abodes for the gods or just a playing field for one of their games. “A chance for privacy then.”

“Is anything private from the gods?” Lotor asked, raising an eyebrow. Stepping away from the river, he moved to a drier spot and sat down. There was a bitter tang to his tone. “I would say half of our troubles are due to them.”

Blasphemy. Yet, she couldn’t help but agree. There were many issues that would have been resolved if the gods hadn’t interfered. Or if they had just cleared up a simple misunderstanding. Moving back, she sat down next to him and stared ahead. “Even our war?”

His breath hitched and she peeked at him from the corner of her eyes. Lotor chuckled, pushing a lock of hair behind his ear. “Even our war.”

An agreement. She wanted to laugh. They had fought each other dozens of times before now. Never had she thought they could simply nod and agree with one another. Turning to him, she said, “Then let’s stop it.”

He snorted derisively. “It’s not that simple.”

She had thought the same before the White Tiger had brought her here. Perhaps it was just the beauty of this place. Perhaps it was the fact that they were able to sit next to each other, side by side, without bloodshed. Either way, she shook her head. “It is.”

“Really?” Crossing his arms, he looked at her scornfully. “You think Raja Zarkon will just give up, after all the years he spent preparing for this?”

A good point. She bit her cheek. “No, but…you can stop him. You are his son.”

“When he chooses to acknowledge that, yes.” His fingers dug into his arm, his lips twisting in distaste. “And even then, he’ll never take my advice.”

“Then.” Allura scrunched her nose. The White Tiger had brought them both here for a reason. There was a solution somewhere. They just weren’t seeing it.

“You could just surrender,” he suggested simply, a smirk on his face. She couldn’t tell if he was being playful or honest. “That would end the war.”

“You can’t be serious.” Allura’s hand curled into a fist. Whatever solution there was, this wasn’t it. “The Galra would destroy us.”

“Just a suggestion.” Lotor held his hands up in surrender, still grinning broadly. Like this discussion was a joke, like she couldn’t see the gleam in his eyes at the possibility. “I promise to keep Altea safe in that case.”

“Didn’t you just say your father wouldn’t listen to you?” Allura growled, digging a hand in the soil. Maybe she could throw it at him. It’d be worth it just to see dirt in his hair.

“No, he won’t.” Lotor’s smile finally fell. Pressing his palms on the ground, he leaned back and stared up at the clouds. “But he will not be emperor forever.”

“Not good enough,” she stated bluntly, her brow furrowed. This option was almost as bad as war. “He will destroy us before then. It’ll be annihilation.”

Lotor shook his head. “No, he doesn’t have long to live. My father is ill. Within a year, perhaps…and whatever you think of me, I am not Zarkon.”

“…no, you are not,” Allura begrudgingly admitted. It felt like a defeat to admit it, to say those words, but she had seen him in battle. Heard of his exploits outside. Whatever else she might say about him, he was a decent man. If a little misguided. “Either way, it’ll never work. We won’t surrender, ever, and even if—and this is a big if— that happened, my people will never submit to a Galran Emperor.”

There was a long, heavy beat, where Lotor didn’t say anything. He stared up at the sky and Allura sighed softly. An impasse. There was nothing to be done, no way to avert the war. The White Tiger had been wrong. Pulling her legs close, she hugged them and rested her cheek on her knees. At least she saw Oriande before she died. Allura closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

“And what if I were half Altean?” Lotor finally said, his voice no more than a whisper. “What then?”

Allura’s eyes flew open. The moon emerged, highlighting his features, and Allura wondered how she had missed it all these years. The silver of his hair, the sharp point of his ears, the marks on his face. Altean and Galra blood mixed alike under his skin and she should have recognized it earlier.

Noticing her shocked stare, he cocked his head. “Did you not hear me, rajkumari? What then?”

“You’re half Altean?” Allura finally muttered, sitting up. Her hand reached out, brushing the jagged lightning marks under his eyes, identical to those she saw in the mirror. It wasn’t paint. It wasn’t mehndi or kohl.  Her other hand reached up to touch her own marks, and they both glowed faintly.

Allowing the touch, Lotor closed his eyes. “On my mother’s side.”

“Oh.” She drew back, still trying to process it all. This didn’t mesh at all with what she knew of the Galra or Raja Zarkon. “Zarkon married an Altean?”

“I know, unbelievable, right? Even that monster found love once.” Lotor chuckled depreciatively. “Before my mother died, she told me stories of Altea, of its white spires and idyllic gardens. I’ve always wanted to see them.”

“Maybe when we have peace,” Allura murmured. She rubbed her ear and frowned. “The Galra are fine with a half-Altean heir?”

“Might makes right,” he shrugged. This close, she could see the gold flecks of his eyes, the shades of purple in his skin. The Galra in the Altean. “And I’m still half Galra. Who better to rule both kingdoms?”

That snapped her back to reality. She rubbed her ears, not sure if she heard right. “This is your plan?”

“Yes.” Confident, Lotor sat up straighter. His hand rose in front of him, gesturing grandly as he spoke. “When I’m crowned king, I’ll allow you to run Altea autonomously. There can be peace between our kingdoms then.”

At this she laughed in disbelief. “You are serious about this. It will never work.”

“Of course it will.” Indignant, Lotor scowled at her. “It’s the only way to minimize bloodshed and allow Altea to survive. You will also keep your independence.”

“You will allow it,” Allura bit out, the word itself showing just how preposterous his idea was. “What independence is that? You’ll keep a collar around our neck, forcing us to pay tithes to the Galra. There is no equality in that.”

“That is the fate of the loser,” Lotor defended, crossing his arms. A fair point, perhaps. It was the rule of the world. “But it won’t be subjugation. It won’t be destruction. My father would rather see you burn to the ground but I don’t want that.”

“My people will fight to the end,” she refuted, her blood boiling. She could feel her marks glow, her god’s blood churning within her, filling her with rage. “We will not be kept.”

“Even if their emperor is Altean?” Lotor asked gently, trying to persuade her. And gods, he thought it was true. He thought the world would work like that. “This is the best solution—don’t let your people die in vain.”

At this she laughed. Scathingly, she asked, “And how are you Altean? You’ve never been to Altea. You’ve never lived with us. You’ve spent your life fighting us. And now you want to rule us?”

Lotor stiffened, his lips curling into a snarl. “I am not entirely ignorant of our people.”

“No, you are if you think this is all it takes,” Allura growled. “Our ideas, our culture, even our clothing is different. They are my people. You are just another outsider.”

It was a blow. She could see him recoil. “I am—”

“No,” she repeated firmly, squaring her jaw. “You are not. You aren’t Altean, anymore than I am Galra.” She paused. “Anymore than I am a god.”

“I am still better than Zarkon,” he insisted. His hand curled into a fist. “And he will win this war.”

“How?” Allura bared her teeth, allowing her powers to flow over her. The power of her mother. The power of the white Tiger. The wind swirled around her. “You’ve seen me fight.”

His eyes glowed and for a brief moment, she wondered if he was like her. A child of the gods.  “And you have seen me fight.” Without warning, he shoved her, her back hitting the ground with a thud. Looming over her, he smirked. “Even better, I’ve seen how the other Alteans fight. They’re no match for the Galra.”

Oh that did it. She knocked over his leg and flipped him over. Pressing her hand against his throat, she sneered. “And you’re no match for me. You won’t win.”

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the White Tiger. He loped over the river, leaving faint ripples in his wake. Allura pulled back, quickly standing. Lotor gasped, eyes filled with fury as he struggled to get up. “You,” he hissed, venom in his voice, and this was the man she was used to. The man she had fought up till now.

The White Tiger softly padded up to her, his lips curled back to reveal his teeth. He glowed faintly in the moonlight—no, to be exact, it was more like he was moonlight. Her hand sunk into his fur as she stroked his head, a sensation that was more like a warm fire than fur. She glanced at Lotor one last time. His hair was mussed from their fight, stray hairs falling out of his usually neat braid.

If not for the vicious glare, he looked like an ordinary man. And she an ordinary woman.  A sense of rue filled her—in a time of peace, perhaps they could have been friends. Maybe that was the real tragedy of war, the relationship that were lost.

Not that it made a difference now. The gods were wrong. There was no way to avoid this war, to avoid this clash. Sitting astride on the White Tiger, she turned away. “I’ll see you in battle.”

With that, her mount bounded forward and with a powerful leap, she left him and her doubts behind.