#frost forevermore

[mint-shrike]

The Lawless

Lawless belongs to an extremely small colony of mutated/evolved scugs that live on the Soft Breeze Above Clouds' territory. Due to the territory existing on a high altitude the scugs there have copper-based blood instead of iron-based one. Due to a lot of water around the SBAC's can they are capable swimmers and can hold their breath for extended periods of time. They are known to be vicious hunters and opportunists, sometimes going as far as to hunt down anything that is not part of the colony, including scavs and other scugs

Lawless has sharp spines that move depending on his mood and can be used for protection or intimidation. His ears are often pressed close to his head, never standing up to avoid frostbite. He's also a facultative carnivore and has sharp teeth. Curious by nature, he's less afraid of most creatures, preferring to use his agility to evade attacks and escape. He enjoys stargazing and looking at all the little details of everyday objects

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Over and Over and Over Again

So there's this animation meme going around of 'Are we together in every universe?' and I don't have a tablet or anything to dray my animation on, so I figured maybe I should just write it out. This is really more of a drabble, a very very short story, but it's one I've thought of for a while.

I hope you all enjoy!

TW: Just fluff, maybe existentialism?

Wordcount: 1k

Art from This Post

Story Below the Cut

Over and Over and Over Again

The setting sun paints the landscape in golden orange tones in the far distance. Its crimson head only just peaks over the hills in the horizon as the moon begins her faithful ascent to the heavens. The world orbits and tilts all around you, but none of it matters as you lay under an apple tree beside your beloved.

You take his big hand in yours and look up at him.

He’s staring off into the distance, entranced by the beauty of the world around you. He has the slightest smile on his face as he watches the clouds meander through the sky like sheep in a meadow. Soft, puffy white things touched with gold as they graze on the dying light.

You look up above at the tree, its branches winding out and up to touch the sky with spinster’s hands. One leaf breaks away in a gust of pleasant wind to twirl down to the dying grass beneath you both.

The world is finally at peace. You’re safe, and for once, you can confidently say König is safe as well. All those years of waiting for a letter to arrive home, waiting for a strange soldier to show up on your doorstep with your husband's dog tags in their hands, waiting for one single phone call to shatter your world, it was all wasted anxiety. König was safe now, and he always would be. The military was a distant thought now, KorTac a lingering dream, just a simple passing breeze fluttering through the leaves. You could actually relax now, knowing that König would be by your side forevermore.

König’s hand squeezed yours.

“Is everything alright?” you asked.

König hummed, “Everything's perfect.”

You nodded and leaned over to rest your head on his long arm. The world was beginning to frost, but you felt warm and comfortable by his side. The peace and calm was a welcome escape from the fear that had haunted you for years.

“Actually,” you murmured nervously, “there is one thing I’m thinking about.”

König gave you another hum, this time tinged with concern.

“I was just wondering if…”

An albatross pushed another branch into place in her nest. She looked at her mate with sad eyes, “Do you think we’re together in every universe?”

Her mate rolled his eyes and gave out a small squawk.

“No seriously, do you think we’re together in every universe?”

The male groomed his partner and hummed.

The male fox drops the rabbit at his mate’s feet, “I think you’re overthinking again.”

The female drops her chin to her paws. Her tail flicks once, then twice, and she says, “I don’t think so. I don’t think I overthink, actually.”

“Thinking about thinking is a form of overthinking, isn’t it?” the male laughed.

“No!” the female huffs, her fur standing on end as she bristles up.

The anemone hums to the clown fish, “I think you just don’t want to admit I’m right.”

The clown fish swims irritably through the fronds of the great anemone, “I think it’s an important thing to think about. Don’t you?”

The anemone waves idly through the waves, “I don’t think so. I think I'm happy in this universe, and that's what counts to me.”

The squirrel huddles in the knot of the tree, hanging on desperately as the winds whip around it.

“I mean, it’s just…” the squirrel pauses as lightening cracks through the sky, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. So what if…”

“What if?” the tree hums back.

“What if something tears us apart? What if you can’t be there for me again?”

The wolf laughs at his mate and hurries the pups out of the den to play. He lays beside his mate and licks her cheek fondly.

“If you’re asking if anything can take us apart,” the male says, “then the answer is: I don’t think so.”

The female whines, “Are you sure?”

The male chuffs, “I’m sure. You just have to trust me.”

The male penguin shifts the egg from his pouch to the female's, careful as he possibly can be with the fragile life between them.

“But we’ve already spent so much time apart,” his mate worries, “it feels like something is always trying to keep us apart.”

“My time away has ended now,” the male says calmly, “I won’t leave again.”

“But how can you promise?” she asks.

“Because that time is over now,” the seahorse winds his tail with his partner, “we’re together now, and that’s what counts.”

The female snorts, but she holds onto him dearly, “I hope you’re right.”

“When have I been wrong?” the male points out, “I always come back. You always come back. It doesn’t matter how often we’re apart, we always come back to each other. Doesn’t that count for something?”

The shingleback lizard waves her tail back and forth. She wipes her eye free of dust and turns back to her mate.

“Maybe,” she admits, “but I'm not sure.”

“No?” her partner laughs, “well, what would change your mind?”

The female thinks for a moment. She absentmindedly digs a bit into the dirt, then covers it back up again before she turns and admits, “Maybe I’m just scared.”

The ocean laughs as the rain pelts his face.

“Why would you be scared?” he bellows over the raging tempest.

“Because I’m worried we might be kept apart one day,” the rain cries out.

The ocean reaches up to take more of her into him, bring her back into his hold. She readily falls into him, letting herself be taken up in his current once more.

“As long as we are here,” the ocean whispers into his depths, “we’ll always be together.”

A bright flash of light, a blinding epiphany, something truly wonderful whispers to another.

“So, you do think we’d be together in every universe,” one says to the other.

The other takes the one into himself and holds it close, “I promise you that we’ll always be together.”

“Do you truly think so?” the first asks as it peers up at its lover.

“I think so,” König says as he smiles back down at you, “I don’t think anything can keep us apart forever.”

You smile as you reach up to brush his stubbled chin with your fingers.

“I hope you’re right.”

König laughs and pets your hair.

“I’m always right. You just have to trust me.”

Konig Dump

Regular Fanfics

[sotiredimbored]

mutual appreciation post

what i would get everyone for the holidays(not christmas bcuz holidays)

if this is basic asf i apologize i am currently exploding <3

also if i forgot you i am so soryr i forgive me please i am afraid(maybe im afraid of you and youre too cool)

@sweetest-thing-in-hell ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you an album (soryr i dont know you well but sabrina carpenter)

@mintbecrazy ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a camera like a vintage one

@woahg-i-am-thoroughly-confused ˋ°•*⁀➷ its your bday soon !! sorry mention of bdays anywho i would get you alien stage merch because i think you like that

@apjofan ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a mug that says "it will all be ok"

@emdabitchass ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you pjo merch

@just-another-starry-dreamer ˋ°•*⁀➷ at the comis store in the mall i always go to theres a litlte sign that says i am an unpaid therapist and id get you that

@that-willowtree ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you bsd things

@starkissed-mars ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would give you a fucking hug bc i fele as though you need one(if ur ok with hugs)

@here-am-i-sitting-in-a-tin-can ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a book of robert frosts poetry because yes

@asters-tempo ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you art supplies(praying you dont think this is basic)

@stars-taylorsversion ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would write you marauders things(soryr i dont know you superly yet)

@rins-batcave ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would give you a wallows album

@deadatthealtar ˋ°•*⁀➷ ride the cyclone merch

@circe-butbetter ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would write you fanfiction

@emilem-forevermore ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a hoodie that says "all my friends think im amazing"

@racc00ning ˋ°•*⁀➷i would get you something from epic(idk if theres merch but)

@aidens-ocean-galaxy ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you yellow jackets things and let you rant to me more about them because yes

@calypso10191 ˋ°•*⁀➷ CAL MY FRIEND i would get you airplane tickets to visit anyone you want

@seekmemystar ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a greek painting(the vibes trust trust)

@thestrawberryapologist ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you that ring that expands into an angel

@planetjinko ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you all the tbhk books

@a-t1r3d-b1s3xual ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a laptop bcuz i know you want one

@moku-and-his-madness ˋ°•*⁀➷ getting you merch of tsuchigomori(i spelled it wrong didnt i)

@serialkilluh-1996 ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a red button that screams(trusttrust)

@arandombiped ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you alice oseman merchandise

@demigod-jack-hearth ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you hestia paintings

@blizzardtheartisticfox ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you hermitcraft things

@choucon ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a star pin(badly drawn) that says "your did it"

@xx-neuro-xx ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you tally hall album

@kermit-the-fag-official ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a kermit puppet

@pearl-div3r ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would write you epic shit

@fishcow99 ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you newsies stuff

@hershey-not-the-chocolate-maybe ˋ°•*⁀➷ i woud get you arcane shit

@kunikisss ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you call of duty things because i think you like that

@kawaiibarty ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a record player idk trust

@butch-marauders ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a girl in red album

@sunsets-are-my-universe ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a break(you need one lets be real)

@mun-urufu ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a mug that i made

@raeprise ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you spn things

@k-is-for-potassium ˋ°•*⁀➷i would get you a banana for the funny

@yourlocalbadgerscales ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you taylor swift merch

@stqrgirl3 ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a star mirror

@you-will-never-be-satisfied ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a hamilton advent calender

@whydousernamesevenexist ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would give you one of my old peanuts comic books from like the 1950s n shit

@aesthetic-writer18 ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would give you WRITING MOTIVATION WOO

@klondyke-the-bearˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a stuffed animal

@funz1es ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you oil painting sets becauz i think it would be good for you

@themortalityofundyingstars ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you sunflower seeds

@lifegoalsofafish ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you tcgf things( i hope thats how it works)

@garden-of-runar ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a cotton candy machine(its off vibes)

@gasolinehornet ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you tickets too a movie you want

@stars-on-my-bedroom-ceiling ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would give you a childrens book

@definitionoffuckup ˋ°•*⁀➷ i would get you a tea packet(trust is this a shit gift perhaps)

if youd like to be removed from this lmk !!

[wholoveseggs]

Gingerbread

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}{Five Days of Fluffmas}

{Stefan Salvatore x Reader} A gingerbread house competition with Stefan turns into a playful, sugary disaster! And maybe something sweeter than frosting...

♡♡Happy Fluffmas♡♡

1k words - Warnings: flufffff, holiday baking chaos, competitive banter, playful food fights, lots of sprinkles and sweetness...

@starkleila @lydia1369sworld @notleylaaa @vampiresluv

@myanmy @xflowerbombxo @maryvibess @always-and-forever-daydreaming

@spnaquakindgdom @amournoir @meeom @damienmorton @wickedmuse

@cs-please @complicatedandconfusing-25 @youcanhavemybuckanyday @akala6670229 @yeaiamme2

@itsjulzandmydiamonds @witch-of-letters @elijahstwink @rosecentury

@amanda08319 @starshipcookie @li-da-savage @veggie-eggrolls @spideybv28

@sunkissedebony97 @idk00sblog @savannaounana @sekaishell @b1tchy

@loving-and-dreaming @fancycassie-stayfancy @hcqwxrtss123 @iamawkwardandshy @ziayamikaelson

@absolutemarveltrash @darkened-writer @nina6708 @evasmlp

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight @blacknightrises @poppet05 @sweetieseven

@xoxo-shy @nova-j @decaffeinatedparadisepost @fandom-princess-forevermore @theotherworld97

@origshipfan @cocoabliss @eternalnoble @darth-laeka

The aroma of fresh gingerbread and cinnamon filled the air as you walked into the Salvatore mansion. Stefan was already in the kitchen, a tray of gingerbread pieces laid out before him, a focused expression on his face. He looked up when you walked in and smiled warmly, beckoning for you to sit down across from him. You obliged, smiling back.

"I didn't take you for a baker," you teased as you sat down, picking up a gingerbread piece and inspecting it.

"Well, it's actually been a long time since I baked," Stefan admitted. "But, well, Christmas is my favorite time of the year, and I just...I thought it would be fun."

You looked around the kitchen and saw various cookie cutters and icing. There was a bunch of different candy for decorating, too.

"Are we making gingerbread houses?" you asked, your face lighting up.

"Yeah, if you want," he replied, a slight flush on his cheeks.

You let out a happy squeal and reached for a piece of gingerbread, trying to find the perfect piece. After a moment, you finally found one and set it down on the counter, ready to start decorating. Your expression was serious, your tongue sticking out slightly in concentration.

"What's on your mind?" He teased, pouring you a glass of whiskey and eggnog, which you gratefully took.

"I'm thinking about what style I want my gingerbread house to be."

He laughed. "Oh? And what's the plan?"

"I'm thinking I'm going to recreate your house, it has such interesting architecture." You grinned, looking around.

"That sounds like a fun idea. Why don't we have a little competition? Whoever makes the best house has to pay for dinner,” 

"Oh, you're on," you said, grinning.

Stefan smiled. He grabbed a piece of gingerbread, placing a few more pieces next to it, and then carefully assembled a rough outline of the Salvatore mansion, which was quite impressive.

You began to carefully cut pieces of gingerbread to create the basic structure of the mansion, which was a challenge considering how old and intricate it was.

After a while, Stefan finished the outline and got to work on piping the roof with icing, creating intricate patterns on the surface. You looked up from your work, your eyes wide.

"You are irritatingly good at this," you grumbled, focusing back on your task.

"Don't be jealous," he said, smiling.

After about an hour of working, Stefan had finished the basic structure, and had begun to add candy as decorations, creating a very realistic and detailed look.

You, on the other hand, were struggling.

Your roof had collapsed several times, and you couldn't seem to get the front door right.

You groaned and leaned back in your chair, defeated. All of your design skills were wasted on sugar and confectionery.

"You alright over there?" Stefan asked, a slight smile on his lips.

"No, I suck."

"You don't suck," he reassured you. "Let me help you."

"How are you going to help me?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged and leaned over you, piping a little bit of icing where you had failed.

You stared at him, a smile forming on your lips. His face was so close to yours that you could see each individual eyelash. You felt your cheeks warm up, but didn't move. You liked the closeness.

He continued working, his eyes focused on the gingerbread. You watched him, admiring his hands and the way he concentrated, his brow furrowed, his eyes squinted.

The nervous energy you felt from being so close to him, manifested as butterflies in your stomach. Your heart rate quickened, your breath hitched and you reached up and booped his nose with a dollop of icing.

He looked up, surprised, his eyes wide, and you grinned, licking the icing off your finger.

"Oh, you're asking for it," he warned playfully, taking the piping bag that was in his hand and flicking some icing at you.

It landed on your cheek, and you gasped, wiping it off, staring at him. He smiled innocently, shrugging, and then you retaliated, reaching for the container of sprinkles, grabbing a handful, and throwing it at him.

A cloud of sprinkles rained down on him, and you burst into laughter, unable to stop. He looked so cute, his face and hair covered in them.

He grinned, his eyes mischievous, and stood up, coming towards you. You squealed and jumped back, trying to run away. You tripped, landing directly on top of Stefan's gingerbread house.

Your laughter abruptly stopped as you stared at the damage, horrified. It was completely destroyed, pieces of gingerbread and candy scattered everywhere.

"Oops," you whispered, turning to look at Stefan.

He was laughing, his shoulders shaking, and you couldn't help but laugh, too.

"I guess I win, huh?" you asked, your laughter finally subsiding.

"Absolutely not," he said, a grin on his face. "Mine was better."

You gasped, feigning offense. "How dare you."

"It's true," he said, chuckling.

"It was not," you insisted, glaring at him. "You have no proof,"

"Was too," he argued, his eyes twinkling with mirth.

"Was not," you repeated, giggling and poking him in the chest.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your breath hitched as his face was once again close to yours.

You stared at him, your heart racing. His eyes flickered down to your lips, and he slowly leaned forward, giving you a chance to pull away. You didn't, your breath catching as his lips brushed against yours.

He kissed you, gently, tentatively, as if he wasn't sure how you would react. His lips were soft and sweet, and he tasted like sugar and spice and everything nice. You kissed him back, your hands resting on his shoulders, and you felt him relax, his hands gripping your hips tighter.

You pulled back, staring at him, and he stared back, his eyes searching yours.

"Stefan..." you whispered, unsure of what else to say.

He smiled, pulling you in for another kiss, and you happily obliged, losing yourself in the feel of his lips.

The gingerbread houses were long forgotten as Stefan pulled you upstairs, leaving a trail of icing and sprinkles behind.

[hyperfixate-on-ninjas]

Inspired by Cookie Run Kingdom and all the Ninjago Villain AUs.

I made a spin of a Ninjago Villain AU, in which the Ninja basically take over the world into a major apocalypse.

Though it’s never gonna be a fanfic, this is just for funsies.

I didn’t want to do a repetition of ‘Kai with Chen’s Staff’ or ‘Ice Emperor Zane’ so I decided to make my own spin of Evil Ninja.

Next

Starting off with the least destructive. (At best he’s the least.)

Zane Julien-The False Prophet.

Was second-to-the last to fall from the grace of heroism and light. Zane was built to protect those who could not protect himself, but slowly his heart filled with dread and insanity as the world spiraled out of control from those he once called friends. Due to Lloyd’s early corruption, whatever force giving Lloyd visions has somehow transferred back to him, driving him to insanity with every terrifying nightmare and prophecy being shown to him. Eventually, the Ice Ninja turned, reciting false prophecies and freezing people as his own act of mercy.

The False Prophet believes that the preservation of lives is the only way they could survive, telling terrible futures that are either lies or truth to get you to lower your guard, and once your despair sinks in, he embraces you in the frost, clouding your vision in ice forevermore.

He only attacks those who seek his domain, taking over the Cloud Kingdom as a further extension of ‘Controlling Destiny’ none have entered his icy domain back alive.

————————-

So Ninja Villain Apocalypse AU…great.

This is gonna go in order to the least destructive to the most destructive. Zane only freezes people who enter or trespass into the Cloud Kingdom, as far as destructive goes, Zane won’t do harm as long as he is in the sky. (Kai is in the ground he can’t do jack shit)

The Cloud Kingdom still wanders aimlessly in the sky, all of its inhabitants either frozen or had abandoned the Kingdom after Zane took over. It’s now just a snowy wasteland.

I decided to emphasize Zane’s Future Vision powers (Since DR seems to be…ignoring that) since most of his evil versions just ‘give him no will’ they just play with the fact that he’s a robot. But I kinda don’t want to do that? So I decided that he just lost sanity.

[planet-marz1]

Birthday Girl

Summary: Joel wakes you up with a sweet surprise on your birthday Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader Word Count: ~500

Tags/Warnings: no use of y/n, lots of fluff, Joel just being super sweet

A/N: This is dedicated to my favorite person ever, the loml @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin make sure to go wish her a happy birthday for me! 💜

| main masterlist | notifs blog |

The soft morning sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room. The scent of fresh coffee lingers in the air. As you stir from your peaceful slumber, you feel a pair of strong yet gentle arms wrap around you, pulling you close.

A contented sigh escapes your lips as you snuggle into the warmth of Joel's embrace. His chest rose and fell with each steady breath, creating a comforting rhythm that lulled you into a sense of tranquility.

Joel's lips brush against the nape of your neck, sending a shiver of delight down your spine. 

“Good morning, birthday girl,” he whispers.

You can't help but smile, your eyes still closed, savoring the intimacy of the moment. 

“Mmm, good morning, my love,” you reply, your voice barely more than a sleepy murmur.

Joel's fingers trace delicate patterns on your arm, creating a soothing sensation that makes your heart flutter. “Guess what day it is?” he teases, his breath tickling your ear.

You let out a soft giggle, feigning ignorance. “Hmm, I wonder. Is it just an ordinary Sunday?”

He chuckles, his warm laughter resonating through your body. "Not just any Sunday, darling.”

With that, Joel gently turns you around to face him, his eyes sparkling with affection. His lips meet yours in a tender kiss, and you can feel the love he poured into that simple gesture. As he pulled away, a mischievous grin played on his lips.

“Now, it's time for your birthday surprises,” he declares, reaching for a tray that holds a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of breakfast treats, and a single cupcake adorned with a flickering candle.

“All of this, just for me?” you ask.

You couldn’t believe someone would do something so simple, yet so meaningful, just for you.

“Make a wish, sweetheart,” Joel encourages softly.

You close your eyes, a smile playing on your lips, as you make a silent wish. The same one you make every year, though your life right now seems pretty perfect. You already have all you could ever want, and more. With a gentle exhale, you open your eyes, and Joel leans in to help you blow out the candle.

You both share a celebratory bite, and you savor the sweetness as you look into Joel's eyes. Leaning in, you capture Joel's lips in a sweet and lingering kiss. As you pull away, a giggle bubbles between you, and you can't help but notice the frosting on Joel's beard.

“Looks like we got a little carried away,” you tease, a playful grin on your face.

With a gentle swipe of your finger, you wipe away the frosting from his beard, both of you sharing a laugh. As you lean back, Joel looks at you with a twinkle in his eye, his gaze filled with adoration.

“You're always full of surprises,” he says, leaning in for another kiss, this one filled with a gentle tenderness.

“I love you so much, Joel,” you whisper, your eyes shining with gratitude and affection. “This surprise, these moments – they mean the world to me. Thank you for making my birthday so incredibly special.”

Joel's smile deepened, and he wrapped you in another loving embrace. "Anything for you, my love. Here's to many more birthdays spent together.”

tag list: @pertinentpostmortem @party-hearses @mandoisapunk @bastardmandenni @chaotic-mystery @beskarandblasters @amanitacowboy @littlegrungegirlaf @pedrodascal @sweetercalypso @ilovepedro @cool-iguana @alwaysmicado @lovers-liability @futuraa-free @morgaussy @pedritoferg @spookykoolkat @wethairjoel @chronically-ghosted @buckyispunk @pattwtf @morning-star-joy @elvinaa @tinycozycomfort @magpiepills @pr0ximamidnight @joelscurls @janaispunk @5oh5 @farmerlarrry @maximoff-forevermore @atinylittlepain @joeldjarin @spookyxsam @mrsmando @hyzer34 @limerence4u @sin-djarin @reddedmiller @joels-shitty-puns @elvinaa @kajashe @vee-bees-blog @josephquinnswhore @worhols

[fairy-verse]

: ̗̀➛ Winter

The world was muted. The snow fell slowly from a hazy white sky, clouds so thick you did not know where they ended and the snowflakes began, yet few would look up on a late evening such as this. The sun had not risen for many days already, and what little light there was around noon did little to aid those who found themselves in the lands cast in white cold.

The lakes would sing at night, freezing what little had thawed in the less cold daytime hours. Icy crystals climbed the trees and their branches, making them, as well as the snow, glitter in the moonlight, even as the sight of Luna was hidden behind the clouds up above.

This was the time of the year which Error loved the most. It was quiet. It was peaceful. The fairies of Dream’s Valley were at rest, sleeping within warm nests until the days the sun would return. No song could be heard from there, and no laughter could be heard from the fairies of Ink’s great forest. They, too, were at rest. No, the only fairies, besides his kin of winter, that were awake and aware were those of autumn. Huddled and silent they may be within Nightmare’s underground nest, but sometimes during the evening and the night, Error would see them from his place atop his highest mountain peak.

Their light was hard to ignore. The crystals of their home twinkled with ancient magic, casting specks of blue, green, and purple across the white land, and the fairies of autumn would dance and twirl for the fairies of winter as they approached, eager for company in an otherwise deadly quiet world.

Strange it was not that there were more hybrids of winter and autumn, Error thought. They find themselves lonely, even as the dark and the cold bring comfort and rest.

He sat down upon the mountain’s ledge, letting his legs hang in the air as strings of silver blue swayed in the gentle wind. Specks of snow passed him by, and he sighed in contentment, savouring the moment of a time he desired to last forevermore. He would have let it go on, his beloved winter, if only he’d allowed himself the indulgence.

If only he allowed himself to let go of care and affection, thought Error. Then the world could forever be at rest, cast in a permanent state of white beauty and blissful cold, where only he and his kin would thrive.

Such horrid thoughts of his, a dark desire he’s since long ensnared and kept hidden deep within himself, yet never it left him. Never would he fully rid himself of it, because he truly did not want it to fade from him. It was a fantasy he could indulge in within his daydreams, allowing himself the pleasure of thinking ‘what if’.

Horrid and beautiful it was to imagine his fellow firstborn at rest. Dream would be such a beauty in his sleep, surrounded by crystals of cold as he remained beneath a blanket of moss and green grass. Ink would be another sight, entrapped within a cocoon of sticks and flowers frozen in time, restless even in his sleep, but never waking. And Nightmare, oh beautiful Nightmare, he’d be drowsy and tired, sleeping more than he needed in a palace of velvets and toadstools, tapestries of intricate designs framing his bed as he struggles to awaken in the night, frost enticing him to relax yet, all the same, wishing him awake and aware.

Error shuddered, letting the dark fantasy pass along with the wind as the voices of the big folk echoed through his mountains. They were singing again, passing along his border with blue glass spheres within their cold hands, their lights glowing gently. Clad in wool dyed with different shades of blue, they passed near silently over snow and ice, their voices oddly pleasant as they sang for peace and comfort to all who struggled this winter, wishing for the cold not to take them this year either.

Error knew they sang to him, gently pleading with him to show them mercy, to not take their homes and lives with the growing freeze. Sometimes, he listened, drawing back his cold from their villages and allowing them moments of rest so their fires could bring some warmth. However, sometimes, their pleas could not penetrate the freezing rage within him, and on those winters, many would pass; often the elderly… and the children.

What would Dream, Ink, and Nightmare think if they knew how little Error cared? What would they think if they knew that the suffering of innocent big folk didn’t thaw his frozen soul? Surely, they’d be appalled.

Well, maybe not quite, thought Error.

They’ve all caused suffering, be it intentional or not, yet none, not even Ink, took outright pure pleasure from it. If someone deserved it then they might, but Error took a wicked delight in the woes of the big folk, of hearing them weep as they clutched a babe to their chest, dead from the cold or the sickness that came with it.

He took a breath, a wisp of mist filling the air as he released it. Each winter the desire to let go increased, and each time his resistance grew weaker and weaker. A part of him did not wish to be this way, the part of him that once was innocent and young upon the meadow they’d been born to, and though that part of him still lived within him, it was weakened.

Weakened, but not yet dead, thought Error. Still, he feels it, even at the present, bringing warmth to him as the song of the big folk drew faint and distant, swallowed up by the continuously falling snow. And all the more he feels it when his fairies surround him, their armoured, leather, and fur-covered bodies moving seamlessly about his Mountain Halls. The light of their lanterns, so golden and warm, brought a sense of comfort to him, too.

It is they, and his firstborn, that keep the darkness within Error at bay. Without them, he would not have cared anymore. Without them, the world would forevermore have been cast in darkness and cold, forced to sleep beneath a blanket of white snow that glittered in the light of only the moon and the stars.

[leifyposting]

Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. 

Or are you misremembering again? You’re forgetful, these days. 

Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. You are certain of this. It meant something, once.

It is so cold out here. At least, you think it ought to be cold. It’s probably a bad sign that you are starting to feel warm. Or… don’t some of the native Snezhnayans make houses out of snow? Maybe that’s the reason you’re suddenly feeling warm, warm and toasty, like you’re snuggled up by a fire. When was the last time you sat by a fireplace? Do you remember?

Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. Your father’s name is Crepus. 

No, that’s not right, is it? Try again.

Your father’s name was Crepus. 

Right. Because you killed him, don’t you remember? 

It was an act of mercy.

Put your hands around his neck and squeezed until the life faded from his eyes. 

It was an act of mercy!

Or maybe you placed your hand on his chest and pumped flame into his heart until it stopped beating. Wouldn’t that be poetic, the coveter killed by the very thing he had so coveted?

Your Delusion gleams on your chest, the same colour as the blood that’s blooming on the snow underneath you. It winks out at you from the bird that adorns your coat, like it knows something you don’t know, like it knows something you have forgotten. You have forgotten a lot, lately. 

He would have died from his injuries anyway. You simply couldn’t watch him suffer anymore.

Does that help you sleep at night?

No. It doesn’t. 

You haven’t slept well in a while. Three years, now; three years of tossing and turning and waking up from nightmares in a cold sweat. You can mark the time down to the day. No one tells you that when you turn 18 you forfeit any claim you had to a good night’s rest. That happens to everyone, right? Or is it just you? What happened on your 18th birthday that robbed you forevermore of rest? 

What else do you remember?

You have one brother. 

Oh?

Had one brother. His name is Kaeya. 

What happened to him?

You… You don’t remember. 

You do. Try harder. 

You don’t remember. 

He can’t have meant that much to you, then. 

He did! He does!

Then why don’t you remember?

You… 

Red against the night sky. Raindrops hit your blade and sizzle, sending steam into the air. You swing your claymore blindly, your vision obscured by flame, towards someone standing in front of you. Are you aiming for him, truly? Are you simply overtaken by grief? Either way, the effect is the same. When the steam clears, there is frost on the ground — an acknowledgement of the gods’ favour upon him. You turn and do not look at him again.

You had a fight, the two of you. 

Ah, there we go. What about?

It was after your dad died. 

And?

And he told you… something. Something that made you hurt him. Why can’t you remember?

Was it important?

It felt important at the time. 

And now?

Now it doesn’t seem worth much of anything. 

The snow is melting underneath you. You have always run hot, even before you received your Vision. You sink further into the snowdrift and it cradles your body like the mother you never knew. High, high up above you, an eagle makes slow circles in the air. You try to look around, but you are too weak to lift your head. 

Death has a way of putting things into perspective.

You’re not dying. Are you?

Sure looks like you’re dying, little prodigal. 

Kaeya will save you. He always has before. 

Kaeya’s not coming. You disowned him, remember? You tried to kill him. 

You didn’t mean it. 

That doesn’t change what you did. And now there is no one but yourself to save you. 

You remember… a boy on his knees in front of you, cradling a newly granted Vision to his chest. You remember the charred sleeves of his jacket, the skin of his arms raw and red, the blood that’s oozing from underneath his eyepatch. You remember the look of horror on his face. You don’t remember what you did to put it there. You don’t remember who he is. You don’t remember who you are.

It is so cold out here.

Stop that. 

And you are so tired. 

Enough of this. Who are you?

You don’t remember. 

Think. 

You don’t remember. 

Who are you?

Your name is– Your name is Diluc Ragnvindr. 

And?

You are 21 years old. Your father’s name is Crepus. Your brother Kaeya…

You hear crunching on the snow behind you. Footsteps, growing louder and faster as they spot you. A flash of blue in your peripheral vision, half obscured by the blood in your eye. Kaeya? Is that Kaeya?

Your brother Kaeya is not coming to save you.

Someone sinks to their knees next to you. “Gods, kid. Always getting yourself into trouble, aren’t you?” A woman’s voice. She gets her arms underneath you and lifts. You feel the earth fall away, blood and melted snow dripping from your coattails. “Let’s get you home.”

You don’t remember what home is. 

Yes, you do.

You remember a fireplace. The smell of wine. The feel of dirt beneath your feet, the gleam of a crystalfly outside your window, the dense heat of a summer evening before a storm. You remember a woman’s voice, gently chiding you for trekking mud into the house. You remember your brother’s obnoxious grin as he bends to take his boots off, ever the rule-follower. 

That’s not the home she’s taking you to.

You know that. She’s taking you back to headquarters.

Is that a good thing?

They will keep you from dying.

Is that all you want?

That’s all you deserve. 

But is that all you want?

No. It isn’t. 

Oh, little prodigal. Isn’t it time to go home?

[sunny-mercya]

Frostbites

Edmund Pevensie x Male Reader

Fandom -> Chronicles of Narnia

Masterlist

Edmund was, besides possibly Lucy too perhaps, the only one who knows the reason of why you hated the joyful Christmas and Winter season with a raging passion—so much, that calling you a Grinch would be still a compliment.

It wasn't Christmas itself—you do enjoyed the festive holiday, not in a big gathering to celebrate, only with Edmund and some of his and your family, more than just a bit—it was the sole whole season of 3 (if you count March and Mid-April to it, would be 5 and a half) Months Winter, which you detested and trying to escape from like the plague.

When November starts with its days getting darker sooner, nights longer and the very first blast of cold chilly air blew through the cracks of our home, grazing even the tiniest bit of your skin—you would instantly crumble into a mess. A mess of a frightening state, too wary and paranoid about your own surroundings and yourself.

And when the first snowflakes are tumbling down the sky and onto earth, creating a Winter Wonderland of frost and glistering diamond like sparkling—an agonising cry would leave your mouth.

Crying through the weeks, nights even, till you hit the point of utterly exhaustion—leaving you sluggish and burnt out and a decaying ghostly shell of yourself.

To put it simple; Christmas and Winter was making you depressed. Bringing back a trauma, which you tried so hard to forget, to bury it deep inside of your mind—locking it up as if it would be belong to Pandora's Chests.

Though with every new-coming Winter, the depression and trauma returns, stronger and stronger than ever—hitting you like a whiplash, full force till you're just a whimpering mess—it, no, She haunts you forevermore till death will claim your soul.

~~~

Bitter it was; that on one side, you absolutely hated silence—having the radio on whenever you could at home—on the other side, having to constantly listen to the jazz and swing-full Christmas songs—which are played on loop—is a saddening torture for your mind.

Edmund had you in his arms. Your face buried deep into the crook of his neck as you weeped and sobbed for the third time that day—and it was only around Tea Time now.

Softly and gently, how someone would handle a expensive set of Crystals figurines, does Edmund drove his fingers through your hair—whispering promising sweet nothings to you, in hopes of calming you down (again).

The Christmas tree which stood relatively near the fireplace—but not close enough to be accidentally set on fire or burned—decorated with candles and ornaments, felt for once this year and all of sudden so out of place—in a way unhinged and surreal—that Edmund too, felt a rage building up in him.

If it weren't for her, the damned Witch, you could've enjoyed the season like everyone else with joyful delight.

Snowy Winter was Edmunds favourite season of the year—even though Edmund himself had a bad encounter with the personification, one of them, of the frosty cold season too.

One of his few wishes is to enjoy Winter with you; to walk through the forest and fields, building Snowmen's, taking you ice skating on a thick frozen lake or simply huddle under the blankest in front of the crackling fireplace and enjoying a nice cup of hot coca.

Once the next lovely Christmas song has started to play, you sobbing had gotten even louder, uglier.

~~~

Edmund had carried you back to bed, at one point when your breath had started to get ragged and shortcutting. He tried his best to get you back into a normal breathing pattern, but when you painfully cried out and pushed him away—curling into yourself, like a newborn and if you had been burned badly—Edmund knew he was being too much for now, too overwhelming for you.

Edmund didn't even tried to touch you again, knowing from experience, you would flinch away from such a simple gesture. So he covers you a bit with the add-on blanket, before getting up from the bed and back into the livingroom. Leaving the door just a bit ajar.

Normally Edmund wouldn't, if not nonexistent rarely, drink a glass of Irish Whiskey. You two only had alcoholic beverages, for when Peter, Lizzy or Henry comes over. Occasionally you two would drink some beer here and then, but never wine or the strong kinds and especially not in the mid afternoon.

Though when Edmund had witnessed your ever first mental breakdown—after the adventures years in Narnia and when you two moved in together—he needed something, anything, strong and since Cigarettes weren't his thing, taking a sip—a full blown swing—from the Whiskey bottle once, till he was drunk enough to not remember anything that night—he still talks with the local priest about this—was what helped him through this nerve pulling time. It still does.

Edmund took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes, taking another sip from his glass and throwing his head back. Body relaxing ever so slightly.

Edmund knew the reason why you hated Winter and the memory flashes vividly through his mind;

It was back then when they first had gone to Narnia—through a Wardrobe—and Edmund, being the naive bitterly and dumb child he was, had took sides with the White Witch Jadis—the enemy.

At first it had been fine till he realised how cruel and evil this woman, like a true witch indeed, was.

The moment when Edmund had meet you for the very first time, was when Jadis had throwing him into the Ice-Cell as a form of disciplinary punishment.

There you sat in the far corner—in the same cell as him, it probably was your cell to begin with—in nothing but a simple nightgown, curling into a ball in hopes of getting a bit of warmth. Though all you were was a shivering mess. Edmund inched closer to you, frighting you into a yelping—alerting one of the wolves, which sneers at them both, growling out a warning, which you took so scared seriously—that Edmund wonders what they, Jadis, has done to you to make you so frightened.

It took some time and coaxing of Edmund—Lucy told him that kindness and patience is the key, though Peter once said that being straightforward is just as good—to get you to talk to him.

In a hoarsely whisper, so grave and hoarse as if you hadn't spoken in ages and Edmund had to strain his hearing, you told him your name.

[Name] [Surname]. A name so rare and yet so common at the same time and Edmund, he didn't knew why, liked your name—had a nice ring to it, sounded so fitting, so much like you.

«I like your name, I'm Edmund. Let's be friends» thats what he told you, taking your icy cold hands in his own, shaking them.

During his stay in the cell, which could have been just mere hours or days or weeks even, he has chatted you up—telling you about his siblings, how he was being a big dumbass and about Aslan. You hung on every word he said, listen with uttermost attention and excitement.

Edmund, about to give you his extra coat—wanting to give you some warmth, your blue chapped lips was something he couldn't look at��saw a glimpse of grotesque he wished to never have to see—but he will—again.

The scars, shaped like snowflakes and frosting, which covers most of your right arm, had a deep bluish purple colour to it and the row of bitemarks looked freshly made—drops of blood trickling down your wrist and onto the iced floor.

Edmund didn't dared to ask you about this, a too personal question in his option, though it burned on his tongue. He wanted, needed, to know.

«Don't trust her. She's evil.» nothing more you said afterwards, taking his hand and gripping it.

And Edmund promised to himself and you, in a wordless whisper, to get you out of here.

Edmunds lips curled up into a smile, chuckling a bit to himself as he looked at the ceiling above. He had saved you from Jadis—once (and also twice)—and when they all returned back to their world, imagine the surprise he had when he saw you at his new school.

His reminiscing smile, of how you to became best friends and than lovers—close to be married—turned sour, making him take another sip of the Whisky.

When you had told him, one day during a walk through the snowy park—because Edmund asked you out for such activity, even when you told him your dislike towards anything winter related, you still agreed to—about those particular scars you had, a newfound bubbling anger had risen in Edmund.

So Edmund perfectly gets it why you hated Winter. Being held captured and being tortured by Jadis—getting frostbites by her, making you withering in gruesome pain—to abide to her ruling ways—because she saw you as something special too once, though all you were—in the words of Aslan—a Knightly Prince from the stars above, send to protect the Kings and Queens of Narnia.

~~~

After his second glass of Whiskey, which begun to coat his mouth heavily with its sharp vanilla like taste, Edmund decided to call it a day and go to bed. It might be just late afternoon, sun begun to set ever so slowly, but he felt tried.

With slow and steady steps he walked into the bedroom, crawling into the bed next to you. You had significant calmed down, so much that you had fallen asleep. Breathing evenly in and out, a relief to Edmund.

Giving you medication for your hysterical moods, was something Hannah—a good friend and nurse—had suggested more than once. Telling Edmund how it will make you feel better and take off some mental straining weight of him too. Edmund always denied, you didn't need some pills to keep you calm, you had managed throughout the years without them, doing fine.

Edmund takes you in his arms, pulling you close. Kissing your cheek, he closed his eyes, listen to the faintly christmas song—before sleep overtook him too.

Edmund knew why you hated Winter, but he hoped one day you will have a love towards it once more and brining you joy.

[mint-shrike]

Description of areas around Soft Breeze Above Clouds' structure and their climates

Mainly, SBAC's structure has 3 areas around it due to the structure emitting warmth. Those areas ard: inner circle, middle circle and outer circle

1. Main hyperstructure where most calculations are made

2. Secondary structure. It is relatively small as SBAC has only recently started his plan on expansion of his structure. More minor calculations and processes that can be automated run there. It also can be used as a backup in case anything happens with the main one

3. Inner circle - area closest to the structure, it's pretty warm there and there's almost no snow, some liquid water that has spilled out of the reserve can still be found very close to the structure. Vegetation is common, but usually can only survive in closed spaces (caves and insides of mechanisms), medium creatures live there, such as harvergers and Scolipedes. A lot of pipes go through here to cool the water used in the systems down. Winds are harsh and strong, when SBAC's structure is cooling down and almost nonexistent when it's working due to hot air radiating from it creating an increase in air pressure around, causing winds to travel slower, and when the structure is cooling down, the hot air around it looses it's volume, thus creating low atmosphere pressure and causing winds to become much stronger

4. Middle circle - small area with no developments from SBAC. No liquid water, everything is frozen, plenty of snow with frozen tunnels inside of it. Some vegetation can still be found under snow tho. Most scugs live there as well as burrower lizards and lesser vultures. Winds are still strong, but vary a bit less that in the inner circle

5. Outer circle - barely any vegetation, mostly rocks covered in snow, mainly big species live there such as yeti lizards, snowdeer. The only small specie that lives there is harverger due to their symbiotic relationship with snowdeer. Winds are harsh, but barely vary in strength, creating pretty stable environment

6. (I have accidentally forgotten about this number, uh)

7. The mountain. SBAC's structure barely holds any effect over the rest of the mountain, environment is pretty stable and is the same you'd find on any other mountains

Inner workings

8. Transmitting pipes. Almost no creature lives here due to extremely hot water and strong torrents

9. Main reservoir - main area that stores water. Due to strong torrents only species that are able to withstand them like needlefish and suckerfish can live there. Water temperature varies depending on how deep you go. The deeper - the colder

10. Backup reservoir - basically backup water in case any escapes main systems and has to be replaced. The water is cool there, most aquatic creatures live there. Big eyes fish inhabits those waters, aquatic vegetation is plenty

[velidewrites]

Summary: When 19-year old Feyre Archeron voluntarily takes her sister's place in the Hunger Games, she expects nothing but her imminent demise. But Feyre is a survivor, and as she is thrown into a battle between life and death, she discovers there are things worth fighting for.

Pairing: Feysand

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, graphic depictions of blood and gore, Feyre being sexy and unhinged, wait a second is that Rhysand? Is he also sexy and unhinged? AKA Feysand (literally) slaying the game

Read: Chapter II || Chapter III || Fic Masterlist || AO3

Chapter I: May The Odds Be Ever In Your Favour

From the Treaty of the Treason:

In penance for their uprising, each district shall offer up a male and female between the ages of 12 and 21 at a public “Reaping.”

These Tributes shall be delivered to the custody of The Capitol, and then transferred to a public arena where they will fight to the death until a lone victor remains.

Henceforth and forevermore this pageant shall be known as The Hunger Games.

***

The sun rose over the forest, waking up her prey.

Most of them had not yet shaken off winter’s cold embrace, buried safely underground in a deep slumber. But it was spring now—still in its early days, perhaps, though like many others in District 12, Feyre Archeron had exhausted her patience.

She was ready to hunt.

The morning frost covered the ground beneath her feet as she looked for animal prints. She’d take anything, at this point—the past few months had been colder than expected, and their icy breeze seemed to have permanently settled in the pit of her stomach, growling occasionally to remind her of its presence. As if she hadn’t already known. Hunger, these days, felt like the most stable companion she’d had in years.

A bush rattled somewhere, cutting through the silence, and Feyre’s grip on her bow tightened.

With her mind cursing the loud, heavy boots she’d chosen for the hunt—the only pair she owned apart from her slippers, really—she made way towards the sound, each step careful not to alert her prey. She’d done that too many times, stepping on a dried out branch like a fool, moments before firing the fatal shot. She couldn’t afford to do that again.

The bush rattled again, and Feyre reached for an arrow.

Please, please be a deer.

Another rattle. Feyre took another step, her heart pounding in her chest.

A deer would be good. More than good, actually—a catch like this would feed her and her family for a week, if not more. She could almost picture the look on Elain’s face as she placed its carcass on the kitchen table. Her sister could use some good news after the winter they’d had, and especially on a day like this.

Feyre shook her head, forcing her mind back into focus.

Two winters ago, she’d caught a wolf. It had been the best day of her life. Her family didn’t know hunger for three weeks, and Elain had sewn her a flimsy fur coat. Even Nesta had smiled a little bit.

I take back my wish, Feyre thought. Can you be a wolf instead?

The bush rattled for the final time, and, with a loud gurgle, her victim made its final step into the light.

“Oh, please,” Feyre groaned out loud, and fired the arrow straight through the turkey’s heart.

Served her right for setting her hopes so high. A wolf. How ridiculous, she thought, kneeling by the dead bird to pull the arrow out. Poor guy didn’t stand a chance.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Feyre murmured. “At least you’re fat. Thanks for that, I guess.”

“You are disturbingly good at that,” a familiar voice said behind her.

Feyre shot up to her feet, whipping her head to its source. “Shit,” she swore, placing a hand on her racing heart. “You scared me!”

Arms crossed as he leaned against a tree, Isaac offered her a coy smile. “Sorry,” he said, his shaggy brown curls shimmering in the sun as he angled his head in wonder. “Who’s this little guy?”

Feyre raised the bird in front of her, making the show of displaying it in its full might. “That,” she said, a sly smile playing on her lips, “is my dinner.”

“Ah,” Isaac said. “Not a great way to start off the day. For him, I mean.”

Feyre shrugged, pulling the arrow out of the squelching flesh. “We all have to survive somehow.”

Something flashed in Isaac’s eyes as he took in her words. “Yes,” he said, his expression dimming. “I know.”

Feyre bit on her lip, her head dipping to the bloodied arrow in her hand. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

“Relax, Feyre,” he said, taking a step in her direction. “I just came to watch you hunt.”

Shoving the turkey into her hunting bag, Feyre grimaced. “I’m afraid you’re in for a huge disappointment.”

“Still nothing, huh?”

“Just this pathetic little guy,” she said, patting the brown leather, then frowned. “I probably shouldn’t say that minutes after killing him.”

Isaac stared at her for a moment, then at the bag, its worn-out fabric already staining red. “He’s no less pathetic than the rest of us,” he finally said.

“What do you mean?” Feyre asked.

But Isaac had already turned away, his gaze focused on a point high up in the trees, where another bird chirped a sad melody.

“Mockingjay,” Isaac hummed, those absent eyes closing in content.

Pain stung at her chest as she watched him, so close within her reach, and yet so far away. She had barely known him before he returned from the Capitol two years ago, but she did remember him as the kind baker’s son who had always used to smile.

Now, Isaac only smiled when his mind escaped to a better place.

Sometimes, Feyre wished he would take her there with him—somewhere where she wouldn’t have to worry about the cold, the hunger, the looming realisation that this wretched reality would never change. Perhaps that was why she felt so drawn to him—in a world of pain and uncertainty, Isaac was a brief escape to peace.

“Do you know what day it is, Feyre?” his voice pulled her out of her thoughts. She assumed he’d dismissed her presence by now.

She answered him anyway.

“The Reaping.”

Isaac nodded. “The Capitol’s hunt.”

Feyre’s brows knotted in confusion. “I’m not sure I know what you’re getting at.”

At last, Isaac turned to her with a sigh. “How different, do you think, are we from your turkey?” He gestured to the bag at her side. “We, too, live out our lives in fear, our only hope to escape those who prey upon us.” Isaac shrugged. “The answer, Feyre, is: you and that turkey? You’re one and the same. The Capitol’s forest is only a little larger.”

A shiver went down her spine at the words, spoken behind the border yet dangerous nonetheless. They wouldn’t—couldn’t—hurt Isaac, not anymore, but her? She was fair game, and Isaac’s reflections were treason.

He must have realised this, and he flinched visibly, as if shaking off some haze. “I think I should go,” Isaac said, turning to her again with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

Ignoring the cold filling her veins, Feyre nodded. “I’ll walk you home.”

They walked through the forest, neither of them saying a word, even the mockingjays having seemingly decided to stay behind. Feyre couldn’t blame them. In Panem, not even birds were safe.

Especially not in District Twelve. Frankly, Feyre was surprised birds as beautiful as the mockingjay had still bothered to visit the place. Only ravens and magpies seemed to remain now, pests, as Nesta liked to call them, though Feyre had never agreed. They were drawn to jewels—to anything that glinted, really—scouting for any sparkle in the ground they could find. As if the stars they’d flown with in the night had not been enough. Feyre envied them, if anything. She used to dream of touching the stars, too.

Even the jewels were out of her reach, so far out, in fact, that she counted herself lucky if she managed to get her hands on coal. Coal, minerals—for the longest time, they had been her district’s export. The mines hid wonders of immeasurable beauty and infinite riches, her father used to tell her. Immeasurable beauty and infinite riches—it was no wonder the Capitol would put its hands all over them as soon as they’d see the light of day.

Isaac used to work at the mines, just like her father had. He never had to—his own father’s bakery had been doing a good enough job to sustain the family over the winter—but he volunteered. Feyre didn’t know the whole story, but according to Elain, Isaac had taken an old man’s place, too sick to answer the Capitol’s call to labour. And so, at seventeen, her friend had gone into the mines to become “his District’s pride.”

He had only stayed there two years, of course. Feyre remembered that day as clear as yesterday.

It had been the first time she’d been allowed to watch the Hunger Games. In what Nesta had called a foolish, ridiculous effort to spare them from the world’s cruelty, their father would send them to bed early, every night from the day the Games began to the day they ended. Nesta and Elain would always sneak out, watching the screen in horror from where Father could not see. Feyre had stayed, and would continue to do so until he died.

She was seventeen, and Nesta has hardly shared Father’s sentiment. It’s my last year, she’d said. If they choose me, at least I’ll have some comfort in knowing my sister are watching until the very end.

But they had not chosen Nesta, a girl called Clare Beddor taking the female Tribute’s title. She’d died almost immediately.

The last time Feyre had seen Clare—in real life, not getting butchered on the small screen at her kitchen counter—was when she stood in front of the District’s Hall of Justice, tears streaming down her face as she shook the hand of the male Tribute beside her.

Isaac Hale had not cried that day.

He never cried after his return, either, though he was never quite the same. The Capitol hadn’t let him mentor last year, and from the rumours, he wouldn’t mentor in this edition, either. He’s getting a well-deserved rest, the news would say. He’s gone mad, the locals would whisper. But Feyre knew they were all wrong.

Isaac was simply…broken.

“Mind your head,” he told her gently as they leaned under the electric fence.

She’d have to turn right to head home, but Feyre had promised to walk him back to the Victors’ Village, and she fully intended on keeping that promise.

She’d never been into his house. He told here there were cameras.

The noise grew louder, and soon enough, they reached the black market, its merchants shouting over each other, each of them claiming to have the freshest, most affordable produce from Eleven. Feyre avoided them all like the plague, unless she herself had something to trade. It had been far more enjoyable to look at their stock knowing she could do more than simply look.

“Does my eye deceive me?” A raspy laugh reached them. “Feyre Archeron, back from the hunt!”

She turned to the old man with a polite smile. “I’ve got nothing for you today, Andras.”

His one, yellow eye narrowed. “And Isaac Hale, back from the dead.”

Beside her, Isaac paled.

Feyre gripped the sleeve of his tunic, nudging him forward. “I’ll come on a better day,” she offered. The man only shrugged.

Isaac stopped her at the end of the street. “I can make my way from here.”

Her brows furrowed. “It’s okay, I can…”

He placed a hand on her arm. “Feyre. Go home, eat your turkey. I’ll be okay.”

Her hand covered his own, and she did her best to keep herself intact. “We could run away, you know.” She swallowed hard. “We could get away with it, you and I.”

For the first time, Isaac truly and openly smiled. “I’ll see you at the Reaping, Feyre.”

***

The smell of blood and carcass filled the house as soon as Feyre stepped foot inside.

Living on the outskirts of the District borders was a blessing, really. Feyre couldn’t imagine having to sneak past the centre’s Peacekeepers with a bow in hand and arrows on her back—not if she wanted to make it out alive, or with fifteen lashes taking her quiver’s place at the very least.

She had already learned her lesson once, though, with five long scars creasing her back if she ever dared forget it. She wouldn’t—that one time was enough to make her cautious. On busier days, she’d leave her hunting gear in the small hollow of the oak tree five minutes north of the electric fence. If any of the Peacekeepers confiscated her bow, it would be over. She could sell everything she owned, and she still most likely wouldn’t have been able to afford one. Bows, after all, were illegal to civilians, and the black market prices had been absurd these days.

And so, the only thing carried by Feyre today was the dead, bloodied turkey, her bag heavy with its stench. It was worse than she thought, it seemed, judging by the sickly green hue of Elain’s skin as she handed her the bird.

“Feyre,” her name came with a sigh of relief. “You’re home early.”

“Still nothing?” Nesta cut in, rising from the chair at the kitchen table.

Feyre’s lips formed a thin line. “This was the best I could do.”

Silence fell over the room, filled only by the distant sounds of scratchy caws—ravens, Feyre realised, picking whatever lunch they could find off the streets.

Elain, thankfully, was the one to break it. “I laid out some clean clothes for you on the bed.” The one bed they all shared all winter, keeping each other warm. “So that you can look nice at the…later today.”

Elain wiped her hands on the apron nervously, trying to mask the way they shook as she almost said the word that made her skin crawl and the blood drain from her face. The Reaping.

Her throat tight, Feyre forced her eyes back to her sister’s face. “Thank you.”

Elain nodded, still trembling slightly as she placed the turkey on the red-stained cutting board. Feyre’s heart clenched at the sight, her own dread forgotten in light of Elain’s, who’d been enduring this for far too long. Who, year after year, had watched her neighbours, her friends, leave and never return. Slaughtered on a tiny screen the Capitol had forced into their house, their anguished screams the only goodbye they could offer. Elain, for whom this Reaping could only mean one thing—death or freedom, a permanent release from Panem’s blood debt.

At twenty-one, this year marked the last time Elain could be drafted as District Twelve’s female tribute. It also marked her name being added to the pool for the tenth time. Tenth.

They all knew what it meant.

“You’re not going to be chosen,” Feyre said, her voice cutting through the dismal silence. “There are so many people your age in our District. They’re going to draw someone else’s name, and you’re going to go about your day like you do each year,” she dragged the words out, her eyes never leaving her sister’s. She could only hope they carried as much confidence as her tone did. “And then, you’ll finally be free. Like Nesta,” Feyre looked to her eldest sister, who nodded in affirmation. “And like so many others in Twelve. Okay?”

Elain loosed a shaky breath. “Okay,” she said, and took Feyre’s hands in hers. “We both will. You only have two years left, and then everything is going to be fine. Better.”

It was true—she did have two years left, but it seemed as though each year, there were less and less of District Twelve’s kids left. At the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, her name would be in the pool eight times.

Nesta’s name had never been drawn, and neither would Elain’s. Perhaps fate would be merciful to the Archeron sisters—perhaps it would see the life they led each day and decide it was punishment enough.

Feyre squeezed her sister’s hands back, forcing a smile onto her lips. “Of course.”

At last, her sister smiled, then let go, her hands moving to smooth out her apron yet again. “I’ll draw you a bath. You stink, you know.”

Feyre laughed at that. “I know.”

With a small shake of her head, Elain disappeared into the adjacent room, the door clicking lightly behind her.

“They probably wouldn’t mind seeing you with blood on your hands,” Nesta’s voice sounded behind her. “It’s how they like us best.”

Feyre turned to meet the icy blue of her stare. “A little help would have been appreciated.”

Nesta waved a hand. “You and I both know she won’t stop fidgeting until it’s all over.”

With a sigh, Feyre dropped to the wooden seat, her forehead resting against the roughened table’s surface. A wave of tiredness crashed into her all of a sudden, washing over every aching limb until she wanted nothing but to fall asleep right where she was sat. “I suppose you’re right.”

A loud creak of the chair moving beside her signalled Nesta taking her seat.

“Was there truly nothing in the woods?” her sister finally asked.

That woke Feyre right back up. “You think I lied before?”

“Of course not,” Nesta said calmly, crossing her arms on the table. “I just think you should take a break for a day or two. You might even find more of those birds if you’re well-rested.”

Teeth digging into the inside of her cheek, Feyre accused, “You’re making fun of me.”

“I really am not,” Nesta sighed, two slender fingers moving to rub her temple. “But Feyre, this turkey you caught will last us three days at best. What then?”

Anger began to boil in the pit of her stomach, rising steadily with each word. “Nesta, I already told you I’m doing the best I can.”

Another sigh. “I know, Feyre, I only mean that…”

“If you’re so dissatisfied with my hunting, maybe you should try it out yourself.”

Nesta straightened in her seat. “That is not what I meant.”

Her hands curled into fists. “No, I think that’s precisely what you meant.” She met Nesta’s gaze and her eyes narrowed. “Winter or not, I hunt every single day. What do you do to help us survive?”

Flames rose in Nesta's cold, hardened stare, her jaw clenching tight as she measured Feyre’s form beside her. “You have no idea,” she said, her tone practically seething, “You have no idea what I’ve done to help this family. What I’ve been doing ever since Father gave up on us, then died like the coward he was. What I’ll continue to do,” she added, her voice breaking slightly, “until both you and Elain no longer need me.”

Feyre opened her mouth, but it was Elain’s words that sounded beside her. “We’ll always need you, Nesta.”

Feyre turned to face her, and Elain reached for both her sisters’ hands, her doe-like eyes shining with concern. “We’ll always need each other.”

Neither of them said anything, and Elain released them with a sigh. “Your bath is ready, Feyre.”

Feyre rose from the table, stepping towards the bathroom before turning to face Nesta one last time. “Will you skin the turkey while I’m gone?”

With a small nod, Nesta stood as well. “Of course."

***

Elain had chosen a pretty dress, long and made of blue linen, though Feyre still thought she looked ridiculous. It didn’t help that her sister decided a braid would be most suitable for such an outfit, golden-brown and thrown over the side of Feyre’s shoulder. She wouldn’t be surprised if she got thrown in with the fourteen year olds.

When the alarm sounded, all thoughts of the dress and her hair evaporated from Feyre’s head.

“It’s time,” Nesta told them, already at the door.

Feyre took Elain’s hand and squeezed it once. Her sister did not answer.

They walked with the crowd, large and beige and never-ending. At least the spring breeze accompanied them, and, not for the first time in her life, Feyre was grateful Twelve rarely suffered a scorching sun.

Families moved slowly around them, an aura of whispers and murmurs hanging in the air as parents assured their kids that it would all turn out okay. Feyre had never wanted nothing more than to believe them.

“Feyre,�� Elain said quietly, her jaw tight enough for Feyre to notice how hard she fought to keep it from trembling.

She squeezed her hand once more. “I’ll tell you what, Elain,” she said. “When we get back, we’ll each have another, small serving of the turkey. Okay?” she asked, and Elain nodded. “Good. It will give you something to look forward to. For the entirety of this Reaping, I want you to think of nothing but how good the food is going to be.”

“It was really nice,” Elain admitted.

Feyre smiled. “Exactly.”

“Peacekeepers,” Nesta warned beside them. They were getting close, the massive sign in the distance signalling they have reached the Hall of Justice.

“Wait, Nesta—” Elain began.

Nesta looked firmly into her eyes. “I’ll see you soon. Do not make a scene.”

With a hard swallow, Elain nodded.

And with that, Nesta moved aside to join the audience of grieving parents, siblings and friends.

“Elain,” Feyre told her one last time. “It’s going to be okay. Just breathe.”

Elain exclaimed in shock as a white-dressed, masked man grabbed her arm, pulling them apart. She thrashed for only a second before realising she was being held by a Peacekeeper.

“Registration,” the man barked.

Elain nodded frantically, and Feyre dared one last look at her sister before joining her queue.

Moments later, she was greeted by a stern-looking woman whose expression reminded her of Nesta.

“Name.”

“Feyre Archeron,” she breathed.

It would be okay. She’d done this millions of times.

Without another word, the woman reached for her hand, pulling it toward her violently before pricking her finger to draw blood. Feyre hissed as she pressed the fresh cut to a piece of paper, right beneath an awfully bad photo of her, dark circles under her eyes and her cheeks more hollow than the deepest of Twelve’s mines.

Some things never change, Feyre thought bitterly.

With that, she joined her sector, taking her place somewhere in the middle—close enough to see the large, white screen set beside the stage, but far enough to not be able to make out the faces of the Hall’s officials, standing straight and dressed in grey.

The queues behind her shortened within minutes, and when the last child took their place in the audience, the screen lit up without warning.

“War,” a voice rumbled over the crowds, old and wise and with a hint of grandfatherly authority that she’d gotten to know so well over the years. “Terrible war.

“Such a vile, cruel act,” President Hybern’s words continued to sound over the speakers, with images of smoke and fire flaring up the screen one by one. “An act that pushed our country into its greatest trial.”

Another bomb set off with an amplified thud.

“Seventy-four years ago, the thirteen Districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Their malevolence spreading nothing but hate and destruction over Panem.” Now, the screen showed the Districts—Seven and Ten, from what little Feyre could make out—with their Halls of Justice on fire, their buildings nothing more than gravel on the streets. Another image showed a woman holding a small child, crying out in agony over its lifeless body. “Widows, orphans, a motherless child. This,” the President emphasised over a clip of children weeping, “was the uprising that rocked our land until nothing remained.”

A girl standing beside Feyre sucked in a breath.

“And then came the peace,” the President’s voice was now calm, serene, as the screen displayed Eleven’s wheat fields, floating atop the wind’s gentle breeze. “A Capitol rose up from the ashes and created a new era of prosperity. Of love. Of family.” A child ran up to their mother, launching into her arms, both of them laughing in happiness.

“But peace comes at a cost,” Hybern warned. “Together as a nation, we swore we would never know such destruction again. Would never know such treason again.”

Feyre almost rolled her eyes, bracing herself for what was coming.

“And so it was decreed,” President Hybern announced proudly, “that each year, the Districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman, to fight to the death in a pageant of honour, courage and sacrifice.” A young man on the screen stood on a podium topless, his muscles glistening in the sun, as he threw up his hands in victory. “The lone victor,” the President continued, “bathed in riches, would serve as a reminder of the Capitol’s generosity and forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future. This is how we stand together. As a family, as a nation. As Panem.”

With that, the video cut off.

Feyre had never heard the District’s centre be so silent.

And then, the door flung open, and a woman stepped in, her hands joined in a loud applause.

“Wasn’t this just beautiful?” she asked into the microphone at the stage’s centre, her voice dripping with syrup.

Feyre hadn’t seen her before—the Capitol must’ve sent someone new.

She was beautiful, to be sure—everyone in the Capitol was, or so the Districts were told, at least. Her face was covered with a thick layer of foundation so white she would have merged into the Hall’s wall behind her had it not been for her hair—crimson red, and long, falling in waves to her back and crowned with large black flowers Feyre had never seen in her life.

Feyre could just barely make out her face—nothing special, she decided. Dark eyes, straight nose. Pretty, she supposed, though she might have not been the best person to consult on such matters. Coal, on the other hand…

She didn’t even realise she’d snorted at her inner dialogue until the girl beside her elbowed her straight in the guts. She muttered a low “Ow!” before the girl’s glare told her all she needed to know.

Diverting her attention back to the crimson woman, Feyre listened again. “Now,” she crooned. “The time has come for us to select our courageous Tributes!” she clapped her hands again, and Feyre thought she had never seen a more idiotic spectacle in her life.

The woman winked, red-painted lips twisting in a smile. “If you were paying attention to the lovely video, you know we’re going to choose one lovely man and woman for the absolute honour of representing District Twelve!”

For a woman like her, Feyre supposed, everything must have been lovely. Even the imminent deaths of the two children she was about to hand-pick from her ridiculous crystal bowl.

“As always,” she winked again. “Ladies first.”

With a loud click of her heels on the wooden stage, she made way towards the bowl on Feyre’s right, a perfectly manicured hand dipping inside.

Feyre’s heard stopped. This was the time.

A few more seconds, and it will all be over.

Breathe.

Elain, I’ll let you have my extra serving, she swore in her head. Just let it all be over.

In the few seconds that seemed like an eternity, Feyre wondered if the bowl was made from real crystal, and if yes, if it had been her father’s dead hands that mined it.

And then, the crimson woman pulled out two cards.

She weighed them down in each hand, making a show of choosing before settling on the card on her left, the right card dropping back into the bowl.

Torturously slowly, she stepped back to the microphone and opened the card, her delighted smile now clear on the screen at the stage.

“The female tribute from District Twelve is…” She looked to the crowd, her eyebrows rising in feigned suspense. “Elain Archeron.”

No.

No no no no no no

“Elain Archeron?”

Please.

The ringing in her head was deafening.

“Where is the lovely Elain?”

Please.

Someone pushed Elain out of the crowd, her usually beautiful face now white as death.

Feyre’s whole body burned as she watched Elain move toward the stage on shaky legs.

“There you are! Oh, you’re gorgeous!” the crimson woman praised. “Come closer, dear, let us all have a look at you!”

A Peacekeeper pushed her closer, and Elain stumbled over a step.

Not Elain.

It couldn’t have been Elain.

It shouldn’t have been Elain.

No.

“No,” Feyre said out loud, her legs moving on their own accord. “No!” She shouted, pushing her way out of the crowd. “ELAIN!”

Elain’s head whipped back, and those doe eyes have never held such fear.

Two Peacekeepers reached her in seconds, holding Feyre back and into the crowd again. “No! LET ME GO!” Feyre trashed, kicking one of them in the shin.

She forced herself free.

“I VOLUNTEER!” Feyre shrieked with a strength her lungs had never known before.

Her entire body stilled, as if she’d surprised it just as much as the crowd around her.

“I volunteer as Tribute.”

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

“My, my!” the presenter wondered. “I believe we have a volunteer!”

The crowd began to murmur.

“Come on up, my dear.”

It had only been by Feyre’s sheer will that her feet carried her forward. She didn’t stop until she reached Elain, still frozen in place.

“Feyre,” Elain breathed, tears falling freely down her face.

“It’s okay,” Feyre whispered. “You’re okay.”

She didn’t know how she managed her way through the stairs and onto the stage, but within the next few moments, Feyre stood beside the crimson woman, her appearance even more ghastly up close.

“What is your name, my dear?” she asked.

Feyre looked over the crowd, her head still spinning.

Someone subtly cleared their throat beside her.

“What?” she turned toward the sound.

“I asked about your name, dear.”

“Feyre,” her voice was hoarse, and she swallowed hard. “Feyre Archeron.”

“Ah,” the woman acknowledged with a motherly nod. “And am I right in assuming that was your sister whose place you have just taken?”

Feyre nodded, her eyes still searching the crowd. “Yes.” Was Elain safe? Was Nesta? “Yes.”

“Well, Feyre Archeron, you are District Twelve’s first volunteer!” she turned to the microphone, addressing the crowd. “Such bravery. Such heart. Congratulations, lovely Feyre.”

Congratulations?

The woman clasped her hands together. “And now for the gentlemen!” she said happily, making her way to the other bowl.

Feyre’s heart sank as she realised her sisters were no longer in the crowd, and neither was Isaac. What happened to them? Where did they take them?

Oh, Isaac, Feyre thought. We should have ran away.

“The male Tribute from District Twelve,” the woman’s voice sounded loudly beside her again, shaking Feyre out of her daze, “is Tamlin Rosethorn.”

The florist’s son.

He stepped out of the crowd, pale yet standing tall and strong. His muscles reflected through his white shirt as he stepped onto the stage.

“Go on,” the woman encouraged with a smile. “Shake hands.”

Tamlin locked her hand in a tight grip, and as Feyre met his emerald gaze, she wondered if he would kill her first.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Tributes from District Twelve!” she exclaimed for the final time to no applause but the sound of Panem’s anthem playing over the speakers. “Thank you, and may the odds be ever in your favour!”

“Come now,” she now addressed the two of them directly. “Inside.”

Feyre did not know how she got pushed into one of the Hall’s rooms and sat on a chair, the door locking her inside. “Wait here,” a muffled voice told her.

So Feyre waited.

An eternity, or maybe a second, had passed when the door opened again, two figures launching themselves in.

Feyre shot up from her seat.

“One minute,” the muffled voice told them.

Elain was sobbing as she threw her arms around Feyre’s neck. “Feyre. My beautiful Feyre.”

“Everything will be okay,” Feyre told her, forcing strength into her voice.

For Elain.

“You shouldn’t have done that, Feyre. I would’ve—”

“It’s done now,” Feyre said, pulling away to meet her sister’s gaze. “Listen, I don’t have much time.”

“Promise you will make it out,” Elain begged.

“I promise,” Feyre lied.

Her head now turned to Nesta, who began, “Feyre—”

“I need you to listen to me carefully,” Feyre cut her off. “My bow and arrows are hidden in the tallest oak tree in the forest, five minutes north of the fence by the house. Talk to Isaac. He will teach you how to shoot.” Nesta nodded, and for the first time, Feyre saw silver lining her sister’s eyes. “Take care of her.”

Nesta nodded again. “I always have.”

Feyre loosed a breath of relief. “I know,” she said, then pulled Nesta into their embrace.

“Time’s up,” someone said behind them, and Feyre took a step back.

“Try to win. Please,” Nesta told her.

There was nothing else to say, so Feyre said nothing. Soon, her sisters were escorted out.

“You only have thirty seconds,” a Peacekeeper told her, and another visitor appeared in the doorway.

“Isaac,” Feyre breathed, but he stopped her before she could waste their time with nothing but empty goodbyes.

“You can hunt,” he said, his eyes cleared and more determined than ever. “Use it.”

Feyre shook her head. “We both know I’m already dead, Isaac.”

He opened his mouth, but Feyre stopped him. “Take care of them. Please, promise that whatever you do, you won’t let them starve.”

At that, Isaac wrapped his arms around her. “I will,” he whispered into her ear. “I promise.”

They looked at each other one last time, and Feyre said, “We should’ve run away, like I told you.”

He offered her a sad smile. “You’d never leave your sisters, Feyre. Only death could ever stand between you.”

“Yes,” Feyre said, her eyes dropping to the floor. “I know.”

With that, Isaac left, and as the door closed quietly behind him, Feyre stepped into her new reality.

She was truly alone.

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @fieldofdaisiies @vulpes-fennec @houseofhurricane @reverie-tales @kingofsummer93 @melting-houses-of-gold @labellefleur-sauvage @shadowriel @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @headcanonheadcase

[pedrospatch]

WIP Title Game

thank you for the tag my darling @planet-marz1 🤍

RULES: post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

so i have way too many WIPS so i’ll be doing this only for the ones i am actively working on to post within the next few weeks or so.

- put on a show (dbf!joel x reader)

- frosting (daddy dom!joel x sub reader)

- wreck my plans, that’s my man (dbf!joel x reader)

- softness (post outbreak!joel x reader)

- you and me, forevermore (dbf!joel x reader)

- A Safe Haven Chapter 10 (post outbreak!joel x reader)

np tags! 🤍 @cupofjoel @cavillscurls @macfrog @sweetercalypso @mrsmando @janaispunk @ilovepedro @tieronecrush @missredherring @morning-star-joy @mandoisapunk @undrthelights @chronically-ghosted

[sercphs]

@astrxlfinale has entered a duel of fates

⠀⠀⠀⠀There is a focused gaze on Caelus, watching as his mind races through and realizes - watching as he arrives at the conclusion, the understanding as to what it was that he was now faced with. The trial before him, the unparalleled peril that vocalized a single statement. A warning just as much as a verdict, and issuance of a challenge that could not be refused, even if the opposing party had wanted to.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Contrasting the wreathing power of the Trailblazer, the nameless man approaches with a frigid calm, like a cold front descending uncaringly upon a hot summer day. Even now, without so much as a weapon - the presence of one man carries a weight that scant few could rival. A weight that, perhaps, only once so far had rivaled.

"You do not carry a name."

⠀⠀⠀⠀Ah, a rushing approach befitting of the weapon of legends in his hands. A lance gazed upon by the Amber Lord themselves, was it? So it is that an answer is delivered in kind, that frigid cold soon proving to be much much more than just an air about the man.

⠀⠀⠀⠀His hand raises, and no weapon is drawn in to existence - but nearly instantly there is a massive formation of ice that trails from the motion, meeting the initial rush with a cascade of bone-chilling cold and an ice that even the great heat can't seem to penetrate though. All in the same motion, the man's other hand raises to meet the following strike head-on, consuming the very flames unleashed upon him.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Letting that flame of the Amber Lord be trapped forevermore.

"Until the day you are in control, you will not own the name you use."

⠀⠀⠀⠀In that motion, he turns to Caelus's attack, lifting his hand to grab the very weapon swung at him like a club, the very channel through which the Amber Lord's power was funneled, giving the Calamity a power not belonging to it... Very well then.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Let the icy cold, the deepest of frosts, consume your power - let it bring even the hottest of days to an end with a blizzard... Let your great lance be consumed by the ice that devours flames.

"Endure."

⠀⠀⠀⠀A command given more than advice provided as the man draws his own blade at last, the gleaming heat of it as it is pulled into existence from his back and takes shape, the very presence of it alone a threat in and of itself...

⠀⠀⠀⠀...Yet still overshadowed by the weight of the man who wields it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The Shuhadaku of Uriel. Finality given form.

[sculptorofcrimson]

Pavilion of Golden Flowers

A Warhammer retelling of the Drunken Concubine.

Synopsis: Valdor waits for his master

“Love and hate breeds a trice

Couple like the moon with sun

Love and hate are vast

Ask, do kings love?” - Drunken Concubine

~~~

Terra no longer snowed. The white flakes that once cascaded and tumbled before Terra’s slow ruin, the pale frost that had blanketed the Himalayas and chilled golden armor to divine bone, had departed for scorching spring, never to arise once more. There was no more water to freeze, not a single drop of natural moisture upon Terra to fall from its plump heavy clouds. No more bitter frost to wrap the world underneath its wintery embrace. Even the Imperial Palace’s pools and lascivious decor held no natural born water of Terra’s oceans, not eden wealth could restore the lost, for Poseidon had long since abandoned humanity to its fate. 

The skies no longer wept in sorrow. They had no more tears to shed. It would be winter, if not for the fact Terra’s climate was nearly as dead as its oceans, and the Imperial Palace was insulated against such natural wonders. There would be no natural ice upon Terra’s surface, for now and forevermore. The only weak flicker of nature’s dying grasp was the slowly spreading moonlight, hovering with marked fickleness as an icy moon rose above the palace. Before it’s single-eyed gaze, the world sharpened and illuminated itself, the ghostly light painting it silver in all its ancient splendor.

It was through this nostalgic haze did the concubine toss back another cup, wineglass crinkling underneath gene-enhanced fingers that could have crushed a man’s throat. The hulking behemoth of a man would have looked intimidating under any other circumstance, even when draped in nothing but silken regalia and stripped of his weapons and armor. Not so long ago, his stern features had been set in an unsmiling glower as the serfs had massaged and groomed and dressed him for his lord, the Emperor's favorite concubine barely resisting as they draped him in silk and threaded scarves around his muscled frame. He hadn’t struggled when they had pulled on jewelry pretentious enough to bankrupt an entire star sector and veiled him in such golden extravagance it was nearly ostentatious. He would have protested against such attire(it was not practical, it was not even easy to move around in, how was he supposed to defend his lord in such ridiculousness?), but the serfs were already tugging the much larger Custodian towards his appointment. Their movements had been harried in their scampering as they had ushered him before a feast fit for an emperor, the Custodian now perfectly prepared to magnificence as if he had been any other item now artfully arranged for their Emperor’s amusement.

Yet still as majestic as ever even when draped in silks instead of auramite, Constantin Valdor was as resplendent as ever as he helped himself to another drink, the liquid searing his throat as his Custodian biology attempted to make sense of what he was drinking. His gene-enhanced form shuddered slightly as the liquid seared his insides, flesh and cells unable to comprehend what foreign substance could be strong enough to bypass his innate resilience.  

Such indulgence would out of character for the Captain-General, but the hour of restraint had long since passed, such reservations simply ceased to matter when the clock ticked on and on and on yet, whereas the hands turned and the sand slipped through the hourglass, his lord and master had never even appeared. It was possible that such a thing had simply slipped His mind, however impervious as it was, and left Valdor sitting there, alone, half-slumped over his...seventeenth? Eighteenth? bottle of the finest wine within the Imperium. 

At this point, they might as well give him the entire Imperial Palace's cellar. 

The serfs and servants and servitors still scurried for the aborted appointment, and the Captain-General watched them with the dull impartiality of cold detachment, the alcohol wrought haze having thankfully having numbed the cold humiliation of the Emperor’s abandonment to muteness. 

Still holding the wineglass in a crushing grip, Valdor idly wondered who could sharing the Emperor’s bed as of this moment. Who had been the lucky concubine chosen instead of him? Ra, for his humanity? Kadai? Saturnalia? Perhaps even Diocletian, as feisty as he was? Perhaps tonight the Emperor wanted a challenge instead of Valdor’s mute obedience. 

The Captain-General let his gaze linger upon the wineglass, now slowly being refilled by the hand of a Lucifer Black. Briefly, their eyes met, and the guardsman flinched when he noted Valdor’s piercing glare upon his, however dulled by wine that gaze was. The Lucifer Black dropped his eyes, and his hands shook, spilling a neat drop of red liquid along the side of the glass. Neither of them comments. Valdor only made a noncommittal noise as he dismissed the guardsman, gaze travelling onto the serfs still hurriedly running through their preparations as if they truly expected the Emperor to ever arrive. Valdor took a sip of the wine. And then another. Because why not? He long since knew the bitter truth the servants didn’t. 

The Emperor would not arrive today. Valdor knew that even as he accompanied them and waited for a master that would never return. The Emperor would never be here now, not in one hour, not in two, not when He had already chosen another concubine over him. 

Such indulgence would be impossible to fathom under other circumstances. Yet Valdor found no reason to refuse as he beckoned for the guardsman to approach again, waiting for a refill with endless patience and a serenity that tasted bitter.

The Emperor had taken the emotions of jealousy and envy and carved them out of his chest years ago. In fact, He had even taken the memories of desire itself and torn them out of His perfect creation, had drained away as much of his humanity and conscience as He pleased. Even now, lost in drunken reflection, Valdor found it impossible to even feel a twinge of loss or sympathy for his condition, had found it so unspeakably strange and incomprehensible. Such programming was wired into his literal bones, singed into the very fabric of his soul and shackled into the chains of his mind. There was no greater pleasure than serving his master, if only because he could feel nothing else otherwise. Of course, when pain and absence of pain were all you could feel, you too would gravitate against feeling nothing at all. 

The Lucifer Black seemed no longer frightened of Valdor’s presence, although the short glances he gave the Custodian were now full of wariness and guarded observation. Valdor ignored him, more out of the fact he knew the guardsman wanted to talk to him no more than he desired to initiate a conversation. Instead, they both watched the wine refill in a wineglass that would soon crack from Valdor’s grip upon it, and when it was full, the Lucifer Black stepped back without a word. 

The wine was supposed to be the finest in the Imperium, yet acting as a connoisseur of wine was the last thing upon his half-dazed mind as Valdor mused upon the hollow ache upon his chest, the strange withdrawal he felt upon his master’s abandonment. It was the unpleasant sensation of betrayal, a deep-seated ache in the absence of his normally iron-clad duty. The liquid was searing as he downed another cup of the Imperium’s finest spirits. 

His master wasn’t here. And the Emperor most likely would not appear tonight, or even tomorrow. Right as of this moment, He was most likely enjoying His time with another Custodian, perhaps humoring Ra, perhaps listening to Diocletian, perhaps even doing both in their company.

The thought was no consolation. The fact that his brothers were accompanying the Emperor while Valdor tried not to rip the sheer silken attire surrounding his muscled form did nothing to aid the Captain-General. While Valdor was no longer capable of jealousy, he was not yet quite ready to let go of the closest thing he had for pain in the face of this coldly blunt rejection. He was not yet ready to… forgive? Forgive, perhaps? Was that the word? Was he still capable of such an action, stripped of humanity as he was?No, Valdor believed not. To forgive would be to imply the Emperor had done wrong. To forgive would be to imply that there was a sin that needed forgiving. And the Custodian found himself unable to hold the Emperor to His sins, to His great mistakes and misconceptions. It was simply beyond him, quite literally unable to summon the hatred required for even such a small action. 

The Emperor had carved out his ability to feel such poisoned luxuries long ago.

And thus, you cannot forgive someone you could not even blame in the first place. 

There was no scapegoat, no one else to blame as Valdor raised the cup to his lips and drank from the finest wines in the Imperium. The Captain-General hung draped in the finest silks of Terra, and lounging within the finest Palace to have ever been graced by Mankind, and yet nursing the dull pain who refused to drown beneath endless drinks and the finest of liquor the Imperium had to offer. The liquid was searing yet numbing upon his tongue, yet he had accustomed himself to its taste with surprising efficiency.

Such human revelations were not supposed to be part of his duty, and would not be part of his duty. He was to serve in all regards, and so be it. So be it if the Emperor has another concubine in His mind, it was not his duty to intervene after all. This had, of course, happened multiple times in the past, and doubtlessly would continue in the future.

But if that was the case, why was he so rankled over his master’s absence? Why would he desire Him so?

Valdor’s grip tightens once more upon the wineglass at the echoing of his own thoughts, unable to completely drown out sorrows long since assumed lost to him. 

Sorrow. What an ugly word. 

Thanks to the Emperor he no longer held the capacity to feel in any defined form anymore, and if he could, it would be better to leave him to the illusion that he couldn’t. The wineglass cracks underneath his force, finally giving away, shards of glass normally unable to pierce Custodian flesh suddenly driven into skin and muscle by the sheer strength of Valdor’s grip. 

The Lucifer Black that had been preparing to refill the glass utters a sharp cry of surprise at the shattering, flinching at the Custodian’s sudden motion.

“And so be it.” Valdor growled aloud, his words surprisingly clear and sharp despite the inebriation that had overtaken him. The guardsman flinched and looked up in surprise, partially due to the fact Valdor had seemed to speak to him, partially due to the fact the Custodian’s piercing gaze was fixated on…something. Something not quite within the room with them right as of this moment, something he himself possibly could not name. Valdor’s cold gaze settles upon him for a moment and the guardsman’s hand trembles slightly upon his pitcher, but does not falter. He only watches the Custodian with a mixture of caution, surprise, and carefully guarded curiosity at the strange, somehow dark expression which briefly flitted across the much larger Custodian's features, before it was gone once more.

Valdor finally drops his gaze as he turned away, expression listless and unreadable, the shards of glass of what had once been a fine wineglass now piercing through his skin and the silken fabric. With surprising calmness, he sets down the broken glass, silently savoring - or as much as a being like him could savor - in few sensations he was yet capable of feeling: the bitter sting of pain, if only for a few moments before it was gone. Almost intangible once more in an eternity of unending invulnerability. Instead, he only draws back in silent almost-disappointment, watching the guardsman move to sweep up the broken pieces, soft footsteps rustling against lavish carpets as the pale-faced Lucifer Black busied himself with the task. When it came to the ranks of the golden, the still-living immortalized dead, silence was a virtue, and it was one they could easily afford.

He does not acknowledge the Lucifer Black, and offered him not even a single word as he turns and strides out of the room, his gait slightly lacking the usual eerie grace with which the Captain-General usually displaced himself with, an uncharacteristic alcohol-bourne clumsiness gracing his every step. The truth of his destination, he was not yet certain of, even though he knew he must find somewhere else to go. Somewhere further away, somewhere where his master wouldn’t be able to look upon him with disappointment and rebuke.

The Lucifer Black only watches him leave, the closest to vulnerable the Custodian would ever be, titanic form casting shadows against the silverware and the shattered glass. It was only when Valdor’s hulking silhouette was gone did the guardsman release a soft, exhausted sigh of worried relief.

Even alone, Valdor could not find it in himself to regret. His steps beat a hollow rhythm, the sound echoing off the walls, a soft, frozen heartbeat of entombed steel. He should have accepted what he had always known. It would be for the best, yes. He was nothing more than a tool of the Emperor’s, His loyal servant and Captain-General, created to please His every whim. Nothing more. Nothing less. Who was he to disagree?

He had no more tears to shed in the face of this, no more sorrow to feel. Such emotions had been ripped from him long ago. He was Valdor, the Captain-General of the Custodes. He was Valdor, the Emperor’s favorite, or he should have been. He was Valdor, and as he spasmodically leaned against a gaping doorway, trying to rationalize how he wasn’t drunk, how he wasn’t actually drunkenly leaning against a frame never meant to support his weight, he coldly explained away how the Emperor’s absence tonight should have been no surprise. He was busy, of course He was. He had other matters greater than a single Custodian to attend to, it would have been thoughtless of him to assume otherwise. And of course, His eye strayed from him to Ra. Or Diocletian. Or Khorarinn. There were ten thousand of them, it would have been arrogance on his part to assume otherwise. How foolish of him.

Shaking his head, hearing the decorative bangles wound into his neural implants jangle, the Captain-General’s gaze aimlessly wandered to the full moon still shining through the gaps of the Imperial Palace’s view. It was a single, baleful eye glaring down upon him, casting its silver gaze upon the emptied floor, upon the pillars and murals half-shrouded in shadows. Its languid light was almost a mockery to the hollow ache in his bones, an empty cry, an emperor’s fickle favor made grand and hollow in the taunting moonlight.

Slumping against the wall when he heard the door’s hinges begin to creak from his sustained weight, the Custodian’s sharp gaze wanders from the pool of liquid moonlight to the sight of the Palace’s gardens, in full bloom, yet so artificially sickly sweet even the Emperor’s gene-wonders could not have removed their deviance. A stray finger catches onto one of the golden bangles, and Valdor’s cold expression never falters as he grasps onto one of its latches and harshly tugs downwards. His gaze never even flickers in intensity, glaring back at the moon with enough frost to rival even the abyss of space itself as the bangle was forcibly wrenched from delicate neural implants, the sharp sting of pain drowned out without even a flinch. Valdor grasps the removed bangle, the pinpricks of Custodian blood already fading as his regeneration takes hold, the Captain-General quietly glaring back at the soulless moon that would never offer solace. The way it came to him, bubbling out just from under the surface like some entombed corpse from beneath the grave, the revelation itself was almost cruel. And made all the more taunting by the fickle light of a hollow night. Yet, it was not particularly surprising. No, not at all.

What is the meaning of glory, what is the purpose of prosperity? What of pride, what of greatness, what of even loyalty itself, when he could not even fathom betrayal itself? His hand tenses and relaxes as if in sync with his rapid thoughts, crushing the gold of the bangle now and imprinting the soft metal with his clawed grip.

It was hard to imagine a time before then, a time before when he still felt memories of avarice, of greed, of loathing, of joy itself, reduced to half-snuffed candles flickering in a dream.

The bangle snaps under the force of his grip. Uncaringly, he tosses it aside. It clatters as it falls.

Of course, His eye had strayed from him to Ra.

Of course.

Transfixed, utterly inebriated, and watching the stars that were never truly humanity’s birthright, the first Custodian tried to pretend that his Emperor’s cold dismissal wasn’t so terrible, so visceral, that even immortals knew pain.

~~~

"Love and hate are vast

Ask, will king re-love

Chrysanths Terrace reflects moon

Who knows how lonely my heart

Drunken in king's arms

dreaming of love” - Drunken Concubine

[lolatulips]

I know someone already asked about Crystal’s feelings, but how does Marie feel? 👀

Ah, I see you wish to ask only the richest of questions, don't you? Well, suppose I shall answer as best I can!

Ahem. She doesn't know! Alright see ya credits roll curtain call byeee-

Pfft, for real tho, she feels... a grand and volatile mess of emotions and sentiments towards Crystal. Some that make sense, some that don't, but every single one of them is overly complex. She despises her existence, she can't get enough of her. She wants to know everything she can about her, but she'd just as easily smash a radio to bits if it were discussing a competition Crystal won earlier that week. They had been friends once, they had been much more than that even, but all good things must come crashing down, being left a mangled and completely unrecognizable shell of what it had once been.

Crystal was the first and only person who really knew Marie, for better and for worse. She knows about Marie's little "gift", for example, and all the good and bad that could've come from such a thing. Which might be another aspect to explain how she feels about the woman in question being here at her place of work...

When she first saw Crystal on all the major league stuff, skating for the world to see, being talked about fondly by locals and fans alike, she could decide whether she wanted to throttle the woman or hold her tenderly in her arms one last time. Of course, she figured she'd never have to make a decision like that considering how wildly different their lives had become. Marie had remained in Paris for the majority of her adult life and Crystal was a globetrotter. The likelihood of either one of them ever seeing the other again was astronomically low, if not impossible altogether. Doubly so once she took that job at Middlesea! Now Marie's past couldn't haunt her even if it tried!

... And then it did. And then Crystal Winters appeared, in the flesh, right there in a patient room. The precious, precious little Snow Queen herself. The precious, precious little Princess of Frost. As if to mock her. As if to smile and laugh as she goes back through the unfinished business of dragging Marie down from the golden throne she rebuilt for herself. As if to spread her arms open wide and display all the success and fame she's managed after lovingly stabbing her dearest in the back. And, what's more, she's claiming that she wants to start anew between the two of them, wants to bury the hatchet and see if they can't let bygones be bygones.

How... dare she...

Marie would not be able to understand at all what Crystal's hoping to prove, to trick her with by pretending to care like this. She hates her, doesn't she? Why bother attempting to bring her guard down just to betray her once again? She can't stand it, she can't stand how any of it makes her feel. It makes her want to scream! She'd gladly leave her levels undone forevermore if it means she never has to deal with any of this crap, than you very much!

Thaaaat's about it, I think. At least as much as I'm willing to divulge, hehe. As you can see, the French are endlessly complex in their emotions and their feelings towards one another, almost to the point of a constant breakdown! Well, for one of them at least. Hope thos answers it well! Thank you for the ask!