#i have no idea how to draw ice either- and mountains

[conflictedemma]

Henry The Kipper Express

[sunnynwanda]

Hi! Ive been following you for a long while and I love your writing so much!

If you feel like it, could you write a hero x villain, one of which is the type to get touchy and playful when drunk and accidentally confesses to the other like that? With the other being surprised

Ofc you can take it in whatever way you want! :D

Do Your Worst

Warnings: intoxication, slightly suggestive (i guess?), bad flirting xD

Villain was stoic. Cold as ice, unmoving as a mountain. They never flinched, never winced, never recoiled. No matter how strong the blow was, no matter how bad it hurt. No muscle dared to twitch on their carved face, not one sound escaped their pale lips.

They were made of stone - Hero was sure of it. 

Here remembered their first battle with Villain, the power of their blows unmatched, rumbling in the emptiness of the building, concrete crushing under their fists as they chased Villain relentlessly. In retrospect, Hero knows they must have broken at least five ribs, if not more. Yet, the only reaction they got from Villain was a quirked eyebrow - a mocking challenge. A dare to keep going, to give more. Bring it on.

Do your worst. 

Hero hated those words despite having heard them a thousand times before. A spark ignited deep within, turning into lightning, rushing through their veins like a wave. Passion and power. Hero had no idea where to draw the line. Villain was insatiable in their hunger, unstoppable in their pursuit of a thrill. Yet there was no satiating Hero's thirst either - they wanted more. More fire, more freedom. More of Villain.

But Villain was the epitome of indomitable. Impassive. Equable.

All the more surprising was the state they found Villain in today. No, surprising was not the word for what they were feeling. They were struck dumb, astonished, speechless. Anything but surprised as they take in the look of Villain swaying on their feet and coming to a halt in front of them with the sweetest pout on their soft lips. 

"Baby-y," they exclaim, excitement colouring their voice in a way Hero has never heard before. "What are you doing here?" 

Hero staggers back, their eyes blown wide. Villain attempts a smile, their lips curling up to reveal the dimples on their cheeks. Hero feels their heart skip a beat at the sight.  

"Villain, are you alright?" They start cautiously, part of them suspecting that their nemesis has been drugged. 

Villain nods, failing to form a stern expression and setting on an adorable frown. "Mhm. Missed you. So much." Their words come out slurred but manage to send Hero's eyebrows up into their goddamn hairline. 

"You... what?" Hero mumbles out, breath hitching in their throat as they process the words. They are quick to react when Villain stumbles forward, gripping Hero's outstretched arms for stability. 

Except, they don't stop at that. Once Hero steadies them and lets go of their hands, Villain doesn't step back. Instead, they wrap their arms around Hero's waist and rest their chin on Hero's chest as they tilt their head up. 

"Hi, baby," they muse, their pupils dilated from intoxication. Hero's throat goes dry at the sight, their hands twitching to touch Villain's flushed cheekbones, brush their fingers over the sensitive skin, ignite them the same way Villain's words have them on fire. 

"Hi," Hero breathes out, their mind spinning. "You're drunk." They state the obvious, earning a deep rumble of a chuckle from Villain. 

"Mhm," Villain hums, leaning closer, their chest flush against Hero's. "And you're pretty." 

"I- w-what?" Hero stutters out, their brain short-circuiting when Villain's hand slides up their chest to their neck, their fingers brushing the side of Hero's neck. "What are you doing?"

"Hm?" Villain looks up at them, blinking innocently and sending a shiver down Hero's spine. Holy mother of god. 

Hero wants to remove Villain's hands from their body, they really do. But, the moment they actually try, Villain gives them the most adorably heart-shattering pout they have ever seen, and who the hell is Hero to refuse them? 

They sigh heavily, cupping Villain's jaw, their thumb rubbing soft circles into their cheek. "Shh, let me get you home, okay?" They ask, gazing intently into Villain's heavy-lidded eyes. Villain nods, leaning into their touch with unexpected desperation, their lips parted in strained pants.

Hero draws them closer, holding them upright, but almost drops them when their apathetic nemesis yelps. Hero stares at their enemy cradled in their arms when Villain does the unthinkable. They giggle. The sound rings through the air, and Hero all but dies on the spot, their mouth hanging agape for a moment too long, drawing another soft laugh out of Villain, who must have decided to break Hero's mind because they wrap their arm around Hero's shoulders, nuzzling into their neck. 

"I've wanted to do this for so long," they mutter against Hero's skin, sending a flood of lava down their throat. Hero lets out a guttural groan, barely restraining themself from lifting Villain's head from their shoulder and devouring them on the spot. 

"Villain, please," Hero whispers, unsure of what they are pleading for - for Villain to stop or to keep going. Keep ruining me.

Villain shakes their head, their lips brushing against the side of Hero's neck when they speak again. "I won't have the guts to say this when I'm sober," they confess, and Hero freezes, too stunned to move, speak or even breathe.

They can't remember what they need the air for when Villain's cold fingers trace the outline of their lips. They feel intoxicated, Villain's drunken state influencing them in the strangest way possible, making them feel lightheaded like no alcohol ever could. 

"Villain," Hero warns through gritted teeth, struggling desperately to maintain control and composure when Villain stands on their tiptoes, leaning on Hero's chest for stability. "One more word from you, and I won't be responsible for my actions."

They press their forehead to Villain's, their eyes meeting with scorching intensity, Hero's gaze glowing with insanity and desire.

Villain might be made of stone, but Hero isn't. 

Hero is on the verge of falling apart, crumbling under Villain's smouldering hands like they are made of clay. 

"Do your worst," Villain whispers against their lips, and Hero loses it, capturing Villain's mouth, crushing into them with a groan rambling in the back of their throat. 

No, Hero is not made of stone. And neither is Villain.

A/N: Hi, sweetheart! Oh my, thank you so much :) You have no idea what this means to me and how good it makes me feel to receive requests and notes like this! Love you with all my heart <3 xo Sunny

Masterlist

Taglist: @marvellousdaisy @alltimelowing@lateuplight @surplus-of-sarcasm@betwist@excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @enemies-to-idiots-to-lovers@miaowmelodie @thatonerandomauthor @hhabaddon@burningoutlikeicarus @daemonvatis @weepingcowboywolfbat @thelazywitchphotographer @kaiwewi @soul-of-a-local-bard @pigeonwhumps @aflyingsheepnamedrose @thatneptune @ohwellthatslifesstuff @worldsfromhoney@thiefofthecrowns @crow-with-a-typewriter @qualityrabbitsoup @stargeode@villain-life @villainsblood @whumpifi @glassthedumbass @silviathebard @misskowe @ayeshaturnedtoashes4444

[twstfanblog]

You know, the more I think about, the less surprising it is that "7-8 students overbloted" and more "How has NRC gone decades without an overblot?"

From my understanding, blot is a measure of magic mixing emotional pressure. And overbloting is basically bottled-up emotions finally exploding, yes? Between: - NRC is a prestigious magical academy, therefore drawing lots of magical talent - the students having such big egos it's pulling teeth to get them to willingly together - various past/present traumas, pressures, stress, etc - NRC is a boarding school, so this likely the first time most students have lived away from home How is overblot so rare? Judging from what we've seen, one would think a kid would snap and overblot once every 5 years or something, bare minimum

Anyway, what do you think?

Okay, this is gonna actually be a decently long ramble. Buckle end

So...We got two choices. Either Overblots ARE super rare, which story-wise I'm not entirely sure about either since there are seemingly 10,000 phantoms on ice in STYX. If all of those containment boxes have a phantom in them then that is a FUCK TON of overblots happening around the world at a pretty decent pace.

OR

Overblots AREN'T super rare and plenty of mini-overblots happen that only have the phantoms being taken away with or without casualties.

It's kinda just storywise of the Twist boys just being very powerful teen mages who seem to have the most tragic backstories ever seen in the world and THAT'S why only now they're over-blotting. But even then, 7-8 seriously intense overblots like months apart on the same campus is still fucking weird...

But within my own canon (That I will really deep dive into in my Main story rewrite fic), is that the Overblots are being TRIGGERED BY CROWLEY.

We are a non-magical being, brought to NRC against our will with no idea how we actually got there or how to get home. Once we were rejected by the Dark Mirror and Crowley learns we're potentially not from this world at all, instead of like...handing us over to some type of authorities or even STYX...Crowley puts us in an abandoned, isolated building and tries to make us what is basically an indentured servant???

You can mainly just chalk that up to Crowley being an asshole. And you can even use that logic for the prologue and Book 1. But within my canon, Crowley is the mastermind triggering all these overblots for an end goal. Those were TESTS, to make sure that we can actually survive an overblot fight, and to make sure the chosen target can survive an overblot because OVERBLOTS ARE SUPPOSE TO BE FATAL.

Because from that point on, Crowley is the one throwing us at every issue that leads to an overblot. He puts us on the case for the Spelldrive accidents, he tells us to figure something out with Azul, (kind of a stretch) He has us feed the fire fairies in the cafeteria to be in Jamil's crosshairs, He just DECIDES we need to host the VDC team when literally anywhere else is better than Ramshackle (WE CANONICALLY DON'T HAVE RUNNING WATER AT THIS POINT????).

Book 6 didn't have much Crowley pushing us, but he was busy getting grilled by actual officials on WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING AT THIS SCHOOL????

Book 7...after literally having...no talk since the start of book 4 about us finding a way home...just comes out and says that he might of found us a way home??? Very...convenient since Malleus was on the verge of an emotional breakdown.

Plus just...how did Grim get into the school? Like Grim is a monster, that's a fact. NRC is on the top of an evil ass mountain, there's SOMETHING outside those gates and the school has some type of spell to keep whatever it is outside. But Grim manages to break in like twice? "Undetected?"

Even in the prologue, he had a mage stone collar PREPARED to accept Grim into the school as a student. He's like...weirdly prepared with a lot of shit.

Crowley is sus as fuck and he is the one causing all of these overblots

[quibbs126]

I know you've done this before but can you please maybe make a darkwhip kid, but with the basis that Whipped comes from the Millenial Tree family?

I finally finished her, this lady is Whipped Ganache Cookie

Fun fact, Whipped Ganache was one of the first fankid names I came up with when I first made my list, which was a little before I opened up requests, I just didn’t get requests for darkwhip nor did I have ideas like I did for pureraisin and darklico, but then I finally ended up getting this request, so I could use it

So basically ganache is like this chocolate sauce or icing or filling, it has a lot of uses, and whipped ganache is this whipped version with more cream than chocolate. I picked it because it seemed like whipped cream but chocolate, perfect for darkwhip

The thought occurs to me that maybe chocolate mousse could have worked too (mainly due to my roommate saying whipped ganache reminded her of it), but I like Whipped Ganache. And I can save it for later (but not the other darkwhip kid, and I don’t need a third one)

Whipped ganache:

So this is technically my second time drawing her, with my first attempt only getting as far as the hair sketch. I couldn’t figure out what to do for her outfit, so I just left her for some months until yesterday

But I had a good idea of what to do for the hair (even if I changed it somewhat)

But let’s get to the outfit. Yet again, I didn’t really know what to give her, other than she probably wears dresses. I put her in a hanbok since I was like “I dunno, that’s an outfit she could wear”. And sure it looks fine, but I wasn’t really sure it fit her, specifically with the request of her having some relation to Millennial Tree Cookie, but you know, no one gave me a goddamn answer when I asked (well other than my friend who said keep the hanbok, but she also said she was biased so) so I just had to stick with the hanbok. I’m still not sure it works to be honest. I mean, if she’s going for a formal event/festival in the Dark Cacao Kingdom, sure, but I’m not sure it works as her default. Maybe if I can come up with something better I can make a new design with that, but for now, this is what I have

I’m also not sure about her outfit colors to be honest. I wanted her to have pinks, but I also wanted her to have browns (and also that purple I got that looked neat), and I’m not sure I found the best balance in the end. But I asked my friend and she said “look good” so I kept it

I like the mountain pattern on her hanbok, I got that straight from Dark Choco’s costume

Sorry, I don’t have much to say. I came up with the hair months ago and don’t really remember all the logic other than it being long sort of like Millie and having pearls because Whipped Cream, and I have more complaints about the outfit because I don’t think it fits. But I like everything else about her aside from her outfit

Anyways, character time

So I think I came up with some ideas for her back in July when we were coming back from England, though I soon went on to work on Vanilla Lily/Witch Hazel (and fun fact, I haven’t looked back at those notes until right now as I’m writing this)

So first thing about Whipped Ganache (that I probably should have mentioned in the design section), she is very tall. She isn’t necessarily wide, but she is tall, taller than either of her parents. I just wanted to mention that

But anyways one of her main things is that she has healing magic, which is what she’s supposed to be doing with the flower in the sketch (wasn’t sure how to give off the glowing effect though). But also, while her magic is healing, it’s deadly towards things of dark magic, like what healing magic does to undead things in old games (actually as far as I’m aware that’s only FF7)

I’m remembering now, I think one thing I envisioned with her is her summoning a giant ass laser like what Millennial Tree does in his Skill, and when she fires it, her allies caught in it would be healed while her enemies (presumably made of dark magic) would be harmed

Whipped Ganache is generally a very serene and kind person, has the patience of a saint. I’m not sure she has a breaking point, she probably does but I haven’t thought much on it. She’s very attuned to nature as well, maybe not to the point of being a tree hugger, but enough that she doesn’t like blatant exploitation of it. Also she’d survive very easily by herself in the wild

Another thing about her is that she plays a harp. Not a lyre like what Carol or Lilybell uses, but a full giant harp. I got that from listening to Millennial Tree Cookie’s theme

Anyways, I think that’s about it for her. But also just a note, she’s not the only darkwhip kid I plan to make, it’s just that she doesn’t necessarily follow the same rule of being related to Millennial Tree. I mean she and Whipped Ganache live in the same timeline, they’re sisters, but she doesn’t have much that makes that trait noticeable, so she’ll get her own thing

But yeah, I hope you enjoyed Whipped Ganache

[tanadrin]

Sogant Raha is gorgeous. Do you have any recommended resources for worldbuilders who might want to do something similar?

no, because i did sogant raha all wrong.

it started as a Generic (albeit extremely low-magic) Fantasyland setting for a conlang when I was a teenager, which gradually accreted details at the edges until it was a whole world. but i didn't know what i was doing when it came to conlanging or worldbuilding, and as i got older and read more about historical linguistics, and history in general, i became dissatisfied with it and rebuilt it from the ground up a few times.

sometimes when you build a setting from the bottom up like that you miss the consequences of major decisions. when i started trying to map the whole planet for the first time, years ago, i realized i had put the Lende Empire on the wrong coast--for it to have a big forest to the east rather than be a massive desert, it needed to be upwind of the mountains, i.e., on their eastern side. so i had to either flip all the maps, on paper and in my head, or make the rotation of the planet retrograde. i opted for the second one, because reorienting my mental map of the Lende Empire would have been terribly confusing.

another example: i didn't realize how dramatic the consequences for the climate for having a low axial tilt would be until roughly, uh, yesterday. i just wanted to rough out some climate details and maybe calculate day lengths at different latitudes and seasons, and it wasn't until i started googling around to find formulas for average daily and annual insolation at different points on Earth that i realized low axial tilt produces a markedly different polar environment than what we're used to. the result is certainly more interesting, but it means there's some notes i have that are now just, well, wrong.

if you are starting a project like this as a big worldbuilding project, and you know a little bit about climate and astronomy and stuff, i think working top-down can save you from a lot of errors like this. damon wayans' worlds on Planetocopia are like this: but then, he seems to typically start with one High-Concept Worldbuilding Idea, and then see what the results are. i just had stories i wanted to write, that turned out to be connected, and gradually built the world up from them.

in some respects, this means as a world, Sogant Raha is not particularly exotic. the stories i wanted to tell are stories about humans, in societies not too dissimilar from ours, so the world is not too dissimilar. if i had known at 15 or w/e everything i know now (and had access to similar resources), i might have intentionally complicated certain parameters more, so that i could play with the results. but the stories are what has kept me coming back to this world year after year--and while an ice planet of methane breathers would be more interesting from a high-level view, i don't know what being a methane-breathing being on an ice plant is like, and i don't think it would have had the same perennial narrative appeal that has kept me interested all these years.

i guess my actual advice would be some or all of the following: be omnivorous in your interests. the fun thing about conworlding is that literally every domain of human knowledge is relevant to it. be willing to make weird choices, and equally willing to force yourself to justify them. sometimes you make an artistic choice, and you come back to it a little while later and go "what the fuck was i thinking?" you're tempted to erase it. but figuring out how to make that choice work often produces a much more interesting result. pay attention to what projection you're drawing your map in. try not to think in standard fantasy archetypes. no matter how original your spin on the ISO Standard Fantasy Races, they're still ISO Standard Fantasy Races. full blown conlangs are optional, but constructing even simple naming languages can make worlds feel much richer. don't use apostrophes in the names of things unless that apostrophe actually has a phonetic effect on the pronunciation. read a lot of history. real-world history is bigger and weirder and more interesting than you can possibly imagine. it's good fodder for worldbuilding.

[teejaystumbles]

WIP game

tagged by @landwriter , thanks!! <3

rules: list your WIPs and describe them

Flatter the Mountain Tops - my beloved dragon AU! It started as a wild idea on the Discord friend server where dragons were trending LOL and when I started writing it it turned into something at least twice as long as originally intended (like my fics often do because I have a wild idea and run with it and then... I start to want to get things right, background, landmarks and maps in my head, possible historical or canon references, fucking medieval music and swear words, DRAGON SEX ANATOMY and... STUFF O.O - and sooner than later I am in long-fic hell. Again.) It's about finding - and accepting - love and finding the heart to accept the other's differences, also learning to accept your own faults and overcoming them without losing yourself. I've never had therapy but I'm kinda trying to treat myself here LOL. If it's no good in the eyes of a therapist, well. I write it for myself first and foremost. I have a clear outline and even chapter number already figured out, now writing the second half of it is the only thing that remains. @amielot has been a blessing with their art for my dragons and I couldn't hope for a better incentive. <3

A Friendly Heart - my Last Unicorn AU that is on ice at the moment because I'm writing the dragons. I am a bit stuck in the depth of describing detailed events in this, and while I know where it's supposed to go, I haven't figured out all the details in the middle yet. I hope to return to it once the dragons are done. :)

Go Forth - This is just a collection of ideas I am assembling at the moment. It may never be a written fic, I want to draw a lot for this, so maybe it'll only ever be a handful of illustrations, but in my mind they are connected by the following idea: Dream is stuck in the depths of the Dreaming, either self-inflicted or through some event I haven't decided on, and Hob tries to find and help him. He has to traverse the Dreaming or rather, the dreamscapes Dream is hiding in, which turn out to be fairytales, mostly. Cast in a role, he has to figure out how to carry on through the story, find Dream and hope to wake him. It doesn't work well the first times and Hob is lost in the narrative that Dream unconsciously controls. With time he begins to realize what Dream is actually looking or hoping for in these stories... I'll share a few WIP drawings with you, as a treat! :3

I could also call this one a part of it, I'll probably use it for something or other where Hob gets the princess role LOL

I'm not tagging anyone because I can't keep track of who has already done this (multiple times like me), any of my mutuals who haven't done this in a while, feel free to share some stuff about your WIPs!!

[shiningdesignersreflections]

Chapter 4: Summer's Arrival

Narrated by Yexiao.

Narrator: Summer's coming.

Narrator: Lush green flora and fauna have taken over the mountains and meadows.

Narrator: Insects are buzzing loudly in the woods.

Narrator: Sunshine penetrates the leaves, scattering small splotches of light on the dirt path.

Narrator: The breeze carries over the humid air from far away. A loud boom of thunder tears through the silent night.

Narrator: The day dawns sunny after a downpour. The morning dew on a lotus leaf wakes a pondering dragonfly.

Narrator: The flowers are all gone.

Narrator: I start sorting out my previous sketches.

Narrator: Sketches of falling petals in the air. Different positions, different paths, different destinations.

Narrator: The loquats from the tree in the old lady's yard are ripe. The old lady brings me a whole basket.

Narrator: The loquats are very sweet. I give her the eggs my chickens laid in return.

Narrator: In early summer afternoons, my cat loves snoozing on the old lady's lap. I start working on the final version of my designs.

Narrator: I add falling petal motifs on the cape, skirt hem, and sleeves.

Narrator: The lively petals seem to billow on the wind. Worn on a windy day, the dress would look like it was trailing petals.

Choose either "Did you get inspiration from the falling flowers?" or "Were you inspired to observe the falling flowers?"

If "did you get," ...

You: Did the petals inspire you to make this design?

Narrator: I like searching for inspiration in nature.

If "were you inspired," ...

You: Did you start observing the petals because of this design?

Narrator: I only had a vague idea for this design in the beginning, and the observations helped me figure it out.

--

Narrator: The inspiration didn't come in an instant. The petal, too, didn't reach its destination in an instant either.

Narrator: It's getting hotter. Lotus flowers are blooming amid the round leaves floating in the pond.

Narrator: My chickens are early risers. I've added more corn to the chicken feed, and they seem appreciative.

Yexiao: How are you liking the taste today?

Baby Chick: Cluck cluck cluck...

Yexiao: G' morning, granny!

Old Lady: Good morning to you, too.

Yexiao: I'm heading into town later. Do you need anything?

Old Lady: Please bring me some flour and honey, love.

Narrator: The town is buzzing with life and interesting characters.

Narrator: But I can't stay long, gotta head home soon for the day's sketching session.

Narrator: What should I draw today?

Choose either "The summer clouds are interesting," "Kitten claws are interesting," or "Popsicles of different flavors are interesting."

If "clouds," ...

You: The summer clouds should be a fun subject.

Narrator: Summer clouds? Hmm... the clouds do change with the seasons indeed.

If "claws," ...

You: The cat's paws should be a fun subject.

Narrator: I need the cat's permission first, though.

If "popsicles," ...

You: Different ice cream flavors should be a fun subject.

Narrator: You're just craving ice cream, I bet.

--

Narrator: I'd love to draw the eggs my chickens laid, the cicadas singing in the thicket, the sunshine seeping through the leaves...

Narrator: So many interesting subjects, so little time. I guess I should take it easy, one after another.

Narrator: A very busy life.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

[20k-leagues-speedrun]

CHAPTER XVII FROM CAPE HORN TO THE AMAZON

How I got on to the platform, I have no idea; perhaps the Canadian had carried me there. But I breathed, I inhaled the vivifying sea-air. My two companions were getting drunk with the fresh particles. The other unhappy men had been so long without food, that they could not with impunity indulge in the simplest aliments that were given them. We, on the contrary, had no end to restrain ourselves; we could draw this air freely into our lungs, and it was the breeze, the breeze alone, that filled us with this keen enjoyment.

“Ah!” said Conseil, “how delightful this oxygen is! Master need not fear to breathe it. There is enough for everybody.”

Ned Land did not speak, but he opened his jaws wide enough to frighten a shark. Our strength soon returned, and, when I looked round me, I saw we were alone on the platform. The foreign seamen in the Nautilus were contented with the air that circulated in the interior; none of them had come to drink in the open air.

The first words I spoke were words of gratitude and thankfulness to my two companions. Ned and Conseil had prolonged my life during the last hours of this long agony. All my gratitude could not repay such devotion.

“My friends,” said I, “we are bound one to the other for ever, and I am under infinite obligations to you.”

“Which I shall take advantage of,” exclaimed the Canadian.

“What do you mean?” said Conseil.

“I mean that I shall take you with me when I leave this infernal Nautilus.”

“Well,” said Conseil, “after all this, are we going right?”

“Yes,” I replied, “for we are going the way of the sun, and here the sun is in the north.”

“No doubt,” said Ned Land; “but it remains to be seen whether he will bring the ship into the Pacific or the Atlantic Ocean, that is, into frequented or deserted seas.”

I could not answer that question, and I feared that Captain Nemo would rather take us to the vast ocean that touches the coasts of Asia and America at the same time. He would thus complete the tour round the submarine world, and return to those waters in which the Nautilus could sail freely. We ought, before long, to settle this important point. The Nautilus went at a rapid pace. The polar circle was soon passed, and the course shaped for Cape Horn. We were off the American point, March 31st, at seven o’clock in the evening. Then all our past sufferings were forgotten. The remembrance of that imprisonment in the ice was effaced from our minds. We only thought of the future. Captain Nemo did not appear again either in the drawing-room or on the platform. The point shown each day on the planisphere, and, marked by the lieutenant, showed me the exact direction of the Nautilus. Now, on that evening, it was evident, to, my great satisfaction, that we were going back to the North by the Atlantic. The next day, April 1st, when the Nautilus ascended to the surface some minutes before noon, we sighted land to the west. It was Terra del Fuego, which the first navigators named thus from seeing the quantity of smoke that rose from the natives’ huts. The coast seemed low to me, but in the distance rose high mountains. I even thought I had a glimpse of Mount Sarmiento, that rises 2,070 yards above the level of the sea, with a very pointed summit, which, according as it is misty or clear, is a sign of fine or of wet weather. At this moment the peak was clearly defined against the sky. The Nautilus, diving again under the water, approached the coast, which was only some few miles off. From the glass windows in the drawing-room, I saw long seaweeds and gigantic fuci and varech, of which the open polar sea contains so many specimens, with their sharp polished filaments; they measured about 300 yards in length—real cables, thicker than one’s thumb; and, having great tenacity, they are often used as ropes for vessels. Another weed known as velp, with leaves four feet long, buried in the coral concretions, hung at the bottom. It served as nest and food for myriads of crustacea and molluscs, crabs, and cuttlefish. There seals and otters had splendid repasts, eating the flesh of fish with sea-vegetables, according to the English fashion. Over this fertile and luxuriant ground the Nautilus passed with great rapidity. Towards evening it approached the Falkland group, the rough summits of which I recognised the following day. The depth of the sea was moderate. On the shores our nets brought in beautiful specimens of sea weed, and particularly a certain fucus, the roots of which were filled with the best mussels in the world. Geese and ducks fell by dozens on the platform, and soon took their places in the pantry on board.

When the last heights of the Falklands had disappeared from the horizon, the Nautilus sank to between twenty and twenty-five yards, and followed the American coast. Captain Nemo did not show himself. Until the 3rd of April we did not quit the shores of Patagonia, sometimes under the ocean, sometimes at the surface. The Nautilus passed beyond the large estuary formed by the Uraguay. Its direction was northwards, and followed the long windings of the coast of South America. We had then made 1,600 miles since our embarkation in the seas of Japan. About eleven o’clock in the morning the Tropic of Capricorn was crossed on the thirty-seventh meridian, and we passed Cape Frio standing out to sea. Captain Nemo, to Ned Land’s great displeasure, did not like the neighbourhood of the inhabited coasts of Brazil, for we went at a giddy speed. Not a fish, not a bird of the swiftest kind could follow us, and the natural curiosities of these seas escaped all observation.

This speed was kept up for several days, and in the evening of the 9th of April we sighted the most westerly point of South America that forms Cape San Roque. But then the Nautilus swerved again, and sought the lowest depth of a submarine valley which is between this Cape and Sierra Leone on the African coast. This valley bifurcates to the parallel of the Antilles, and terminates at the mouth by the enormous depression of 9,000 yards. In this place, the geological basin of the ocean forms, as far as the Lesser Antilles, a cliff to three and a half miles perpendicular in height, and, at the parallel of the Cape Verde Islands, an other wall not less considerable, that encloses thus all the sunk continent of the Atlantic. The bottom of this immense valley is dotted with some mountains, that give to these submarine places a picturesque aspect. I speak, moreover, from the manuscript charts that were in the library of the Nautilus—charts evidently due to Captain Nemo’s hand, and made after his personal observations. For two days the desert and deep waters were visited by means of the inclined planes. The Nautilus was furnished with long diagonal broadsides which carried it to all elevations. But on the 11th of April it rose suddenly, and land appeared at the mouth of the Amazon River, a vast estuary, the embouchure of which is so considerable that it freshens the sea-water for the distance of several leagues.

The equator was crossed. Twenty miles to the west were the Guianas, a French territory, on which we could have found an easy refuge; but a stiff breeze was blowing, and the furious waves would not have allowed a single boat to face them. Ned Land understood that, no doubt, for he spoke not a word about it. For my part, I made no allusion to his schemes of flight, for I would not urge him to make an attempt that must inevitably fail. I made the time pass pleasantly by interesting studies. During the days of April 11th and 12th, the Nautilus did not leave the surface of the sea, and the net brought in a marvellous haul of Zoophytes, fish and reptiles. Some zoophytes had been fished up by the chain of the nets; they were for the most part beautiful phyctallines, belonging to the actinidian family, and among other species the phyctalis protexta, peculiar to that part of the ocean, with a little cylindrical trunk, ornamented With vertical lines, speckled with red dots, crowning a marvellous blossoming of tentacles. As to the molluscs, they consisted of some I had already observed—turritellas, olive porphyras, with regular lines intercrossed, with red spots standing out plainly against the flesh; odd pteroceras, like petrified scorpions; translucid hyaleas, argonauts, cuttle-fish (excellent eating), and certain species of calmars that naturalists of antiquity have classed amongst the flying-fish, and that serve principally for bait for cod-fishing. I had now an opportunity of studying several species of fish on these shores. Amongst the cartilaginous ones, petromyzons-pricka, a sort of eel, fifteen inches long, with a greenish head, violet fins, grey-blue back, brown belly, silvered and sown with bright spots, the pupil of the eye encircled with gold—a curious animal, that the current of the Amazon had drawn to the sea, for they inhabit fresh waters—tuberculated streaks, with pointed snouts, and a long loose tail, armed with a long jagged sting; little sharks, a yard long, grey and whitish skin, and several rows of teeth, bent back, that are generally known by the name of pantouffles; vespertilios, a kind of red isosceles triangle, half a yard long, to which pectorals are attached by fleshy prolongations that make them look like bats, but that their horny appendage, situated near the nostrils, has given them the name of sea-unicorns; lastly, some species of balistae, the curassavian, whose spots were of a brilliant gold colour, and the capriscus of clear violet, and with varying shades like a pigeon’s throat.

I end here this catalogue, which is somewhat dry perhaps, but very exact, with a series of bony fish that I observed in passing belonging to the apteronotes, and whose snout is white as snow, the body of a beautiful black, marked with a very long loose fleshy strip; odontognathes, armed with spikes; sardines nine inches long, glittering with a bright silver light; a species of mackerel provided with two anal fins; centronotes of a blackish tint, that are fished for with torches, long fish, two yards in length, with fat flesh, white and firm, which, when they arc fresh, taste like eel, and when dry, like smoked salmon; labres, half red, covered with scales only at the bottom of the dorsal and anal fins; chrysoptera, on which gold and silver blend their brightness with that of the ruby and topaz; golden-tailed spares, the flesh of which is extremely delicate, and whose phosphorescent properties betray them in the midst of the waters; orange-coloured spares with long tongues; maigres, with gold caudal fins, dark thorn-tails, anableps of Surinam, etc.

Notwithstanding this “et cetera,” I must not omit to mention fish that Conseil will long remember, and with good reason. One of our nets had hauled up a sort of very flat ray fish, which, with the tail cut off, formed a perfect disc, and weighed twenty ounces. It was white underneath, red above, with large round spots of dark blue encircled with black, very glossy skin, terminating in a bilobed fin. Laid out on the platform, it struggled, tried to turn itself by convulsive movements, and made so many efforts, that one last turn had nearly sent it into the sea. But Conseil, not wishing to let the fish go, rushed to it, and, before I could prevent him, had seized it with both hands. In a moment he was overthrown, his legs in the air, and half his body paralysed, crying—

“Oh! master, master! help me!”

It was the first time the poor boy had spoken to me so familiarly. The Canadian and I took him up, and rubbed his contracted arms till he became sensible. The unfortunate Conseil had attacked a cramp-fish of the most dangerous kind, the cumana. This odd animal, in a medium conductor like water, strikes fish at several yards’ distance, so great is the power of its electric organ, the two principal surfaces of which do not measure less than twenty-seven square feet. The next day, April 12th, the Nautilus approached the Dutch coast, near the mouth of the Maroni. There several groups of sea-cows herded together; they were manatees, that, like the dugong and the stellera, belong to the skenian order. These beautiful animals, peaceable and inoffensive, from eighteen to twenty-one feet in length, weigh at least sixteen hundredweight. I told Ned Land and Conseil that provident nature had assigned an important role to these mammalia. Indeed, they, like the seals, are designed to graze on the submarine prairies, and thus destroy the accumulation of weed that obstructs the tropical rivers.

“And do you know,” I added, “what has been the result since men have almost entirely annihilated this useful race? That the putrefied weeds have poisoned the air, and the poisoned air causes the yellow fever, that desolates these beautiful countries. Enormous vegetations are multiplied under the torrid seas, and the evil is irresistibly developed from the mouth of the Rio de la Plata to Florida. If we are to believe Toussenel, this plague is nothing to what it would be if the seas were cleaned of whales and seals. Then, infested with poulps, medusæ, and cuttle-fish, they would become immense centres of infection, since their waves would not possess ‘these vast stomachs that God had charged to infest the surface of the seas.’”

[agentrouka-blog]

"That was the night I stole up to his bed to give him comfort. I bled, but it was the sweetest hurt."- Sansa(ASOS VII). "I think Brandon liked the sight as well. A bloody sword is a beautiful thing, yes. It hurt, but it was a sweet pain."- Turncloak(ADWD). Both Lysa and Barbrey recalling about how they have sex with LF and Brandon to Sansa and Theon. Though LF love Cat and Brandon was engaged to her. Barbrey was again slighted when Ned, with who her father wanted to marry, choose Cat.

Hi there! :)

I wouldn't narrow it down to these two characters and their relation to Catelyn, exactly. The idea of "sweet pain" is one that connects many characters, sometimes in good and sometimes in bad ways. Sometimes sexual, sometimes otherwise.

I think, it ultimately comes down to GRRM wanting to emphasize the blurred lines when it comes to life. Not all pain is sweet, but not all pain is bad, either, and it's not always easy to tell the difference.

Melisandre invokes a false constant duality, an in escapable constancy of war.

"The way the world is made. The truth is all around you, plain to behold. The night is dark and full of terrors, the day bright and beautiful and full of hope. One is black, the other white. There is ice and there is fire. Hate and love. Bitter and sweet. Male and female. Pain and pleasure. Winter and summer. Evil and good." She took a step toward him. "Death and life. Everywhere, opposites. Everywhere, the war." (ASOS, Davos III)

But Meera Reed and Jojen insist differently:

"Oh, I do. My lord father told me about mountains, but I never saw one till now. I love them more than I can say."

Bran made a face at her. "But you just said you hated them."

"Why can't it be both?" Meera reached up to pinch his nose.

"Because they're different," he insisted. "Like night and day, or ice and fire."

"If ice can burn," said Jojen in his solemn voice, "then love and hate can mate. Mountain or marsh, it makes no matter. The land is one."

"One," his sister agreed, "but over wrinkled." (ASOS, Bran II)

If hate and love can coexist, contradicting and not contradicting each other, so can pain and pleasure, sorrow and joy, bitterness and sweetness. Not war but a mere multiplicity. Life is not that simply, not that black and white.

The Mystery Knight adds a similar example:

"This is the proper way to fill a pie," Ser Kyle sniffed, cleaning off his tunic. "The pie is meant to be the marriage, and a true marriage has in it many sorts of things—joy and grief, pain and pleasure, love and lust and loyalty. So it is fitting that there be birds of many sorts. No man ever truly knows what a new wife will bring him." 

The sentiment is all over the books, in good and bad ways. Often involving sex, but also in other moments that draw a special emphasis on life itself. The pain of breathing in icy air, but breathing nonetheless. The ache of straining muscles. Some pleasures come hand in hand with some pain. But also the pleasure that can mask harm and abuse. 

Marillion’s voice becomes even sweeter when mixed with pain and fear and sorrow in his imprisonment - a sweet voice in a bad man in a horrible situation. How can beauty thrive in this, born from this man? Well, it simply does.

Victarion claims this:

"Always." Life is pain, you fool. There is no joy but in the Drowned God's watery halls. "Do it." (ADWD, The Iron Suitor)

But Jon and Sansa, respectively, claim this:

It was so sweet and silly that Sansa had to laugh, despite everything. Afterward she was absurdly grateful. Somehow the laughter made her hopeful again, if only for a little while. Smiling, she let the music take her, losing herself in the steps, in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the drum . . . and from time to time in Ser Garlan's arms, when the dance brought them together. (ASOS, Sansa III)

Jon had to laugh. Even now, even here. Ygritte had been fond of Longspear Ryk. He hoped he found some joy with Tormund's Munda. Someone needed to find some joy somewhere. (ASOS, Jon X)

And I think you can tell with whom the author agrees.

[ba-matorangirl]

Bionicle Folktales I’ll Possibly Do

Hey, to any Bionicle fans out there, I’ve been having an odd idea lately. It’s not exactly a fanfiction, but I have thoughts about making six or so different little folk tales/fairy tales of the Bionicles, being a Matoran, Toa, or Turaga, encounters different types of fairies/ mythical creatures, depending on their respective element or region. I don’t mean the little people with wings, either; I mean the older kind, otherworldly, scary humanoid beings from old European folklore who you don’t want to upset or mess with.

It’s a blurry idea in my head, but an idea that’s stuck in my mind for some time.

My first idea that came to mind was the Onu-Matorans. Being that they live underground, under mountains, in caves, and their village is under a mountain, easily what came to mind are the underground folk of Scandendavia. This includes dwarves, dark elves, the huldra/skogsra, the nisse, trolls, and the tusser. But the one I think of most is the gnome. Not like the nisse or garden gnome, but an elemental, spirits of the earth, an ugly little humanoid creature who can walk through earth and rock as if they were air, is rarely seen by humans, and is said to be deceptive, cunning, and evil. It makes me wonder how long an Onu-Matoran like Onepu, Taipu, or Nepuru, or Onua or Whenua would encounter such a being. Maybe Onepu or Taipu could be digging in a particularly or unusually deep part of the mines of Onu-Koro or exploring a remoter part of the caves, when suddenly, out of the earth walks the ugliest little thing they’d ever seen, and certainly not a Rahi. And then the gnome may do something bad to the Matoran/Toa/Turaga.

My second idea involves the Ga-Matorans, which has some easiness since all the Ga-Matoran who ever were are all female, and there are so many water spirits and mermaids, most of whom are female. This includes mermaids, like the melusine and the merrow, but also mermaids that aren’t really mermaids like the rusalka and the siren, freshwater spirits like camenae, and water nymphs, such as the Naiad and Nereid, the elemantal and spirit of water like the undine, and a special group of seal mermaids called selkies. I’ve even thought of drawing Gali come across the Sea Mither. But then I thought about the Nixie, a type of freshwater mermaid who have fish tails, but can change into human legs at will, and in form with legs, they have slanted ears and their skirt or the hem or their clothes are wet. I think there’s a Ga-Matoran called Nixie. I haven’t seen her in the story yet, but maybe the folktale could be that she’s away from Ga-Koro, wondering the lakes and rivers, when she comes across the Nixie. Maybe the Nixie will me unfriendly malignant, maybe it’ll be unharmful and nice.

As for the others, all I can think of are what fairies they’ll encounter, but picking one out isn’t so easy, especially for the fire, ice, and stone Matorans. For the Le-Matoran, I’ve either thought of harpies, dryads, huldra/skogsra, or the elemental and spirit of air, being sylphs. Then there’s the Ta-Matoran, my top three pics being either the samodiva, a lampad, or the salamanders, the elemental and spirit of fire. As for the Ko-Matoran, I’ve thought a lot about the Yuki-onna, even if she’s from Japanese folklore rather than Europe. I’ve also thought about the jotuns and the barbegazi for the ice people. Po-Matoran are the hardest, because earth and stone are... pretty much the same, although one lives underground and digs while the other lives overground and carves. If I can’t do gnomes or trolls, then I guess the basilisk would be fine since it lives in the desert. Maybe I should try golems.

But it’s just a blurry, yet common thought. And hey, “Bionicle” is part fantasy.

Update, 6/23/2022:                                                                                                                My idea for the Ta-Matoran and the fire fairy may have expanded a bit. It’s with the samodiva. It’s a forest spirit/nymph, but it also has quite an affinity with fire. She can fly with her magic flowing gown of white feathers, has long loose (usually blond) hair, pale glowing skin, and fiery eyes. She’s often hostile and dangerous to humans, whether she seduces them and drains them of their life energy and then torture them by exhausting them to death for trespassing in her forest, or she turns to a fire throwing monstrous bird at her enemies, or the mere sound of her voice driving one crazy. As for her fire powers, she can burn crops, bring droughts, and make cattle die of high fever. Most of her power comes from her hair; if it’s damaged in any way, she’ll either disappear entirely, or lose her powers and beauty entirely.

This made me think of that forest right next to Ta-Koro. Perhaps Kapura could be... practicing in the charred forest when he comes across a samodiva, and something bad happens. Or maybe Matoran are mysteriously vanishing in the forest, or are instead found gone insane. Perhaps it was Jaller’s gaurds that were sent to that forest for patrol or something and never came back, or driven mad, and then he, Kapura, or Tahu fight the samodiva and wind up defeateing her by damaging her hair, or even kill her by having her land in a bush of thorns, making her evaporate. If only the forest wasn’t charred... Had it still been green, the samodiva would’ve been perfect.

Again, I may or may not do this Bionicle folk tale thing, but this was just another possible story idea if I indeed do.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Loved your latest chapter and Im so excited to see what happens under the mountain!

I was wondering if I could request a one-shot?(up to you how long and you can do it in your own time)something along the lines of:

Feyre( from either ACOWAR, ACOFAS or ACOSF) time travels back to ACOTAR, but instead of finding herself back in her human body i the spring court, she's still in her fae body and ends up trapped in velaris, having to explain to the rest of IC who she is and why she cant go free their highlord(add some mistrust from the IC)

🙈🙈Id its very similar to what youre doing rn with your other fic but, if you find the inspiration sometime could you please do this? Ive wanted to read a fic for ages were feyre rime travels and meets pre-acomaf inner circle who dont know/trust her, but Ive never found a fic like that

Thank youuu

Hi lovely anon! It makes me so happy you enjoyed my latest chapter! I’m supposed to be working on a project for uni, but I couldn’t resist gratifying my lovely friends (because you're anon and won't be notified I was getting sad at the idea of you checking my blog and not seeing me respond) <3 I’ll admit I’m a bit scatterbrained at the moment, so I hope it’s okay!

I was having trouble brainstorming a reason for Feyre getting sent back in time because I didn't want to borrow the reasoning from ACoFD. So I was vague and twisted the pre-existing rules around the Ouroboros, and ended up getting quite carried away with the story since I don’t like not giving things a happy ending (even though it’s a little cheesy, sorry)

Anyway, I hope this is what you were looking for! I know you wanted the angst of not being able to save Rhys but... I couldn't just leave my poor bat-boy behind, you know? ;)

Also if this didn't quite scratch that itch, I'm always happy to take more requests

Word count: 4,446

The Ouroboros.

It was a massive, round disc—as tall as Feyre was. Taller. And the metal around it had been fashioned after a massive serpent, the mirror held within its coils as it devoured its own tail.

Ending and beginning.

From across the room, Feyre could not see it. What lay within.

She forced herself to take a step forward. Another.

The mirror itself was black as night—yet… wholly clear.

She watched herself approach. Watched the arm she had upraised against the wind and snow, the pinched expression on her face. The exhaustion.

She stopped three feet away. She did not dare touch it.

It only showed Feyre herself. Nothing.

Feyre scanned the mirror for any signs of… something to push or touch with her magic. But there was only the devouring head of the serpent, its maw open wide, frost sparkling on its fangs.

Feyre stared and stared, but all she saw was herself. There was nothing else. Then—

Feyre woke with a gasp, sitting up in bed to shake away the cobwebs of sleep and the strange, foreboding feeling that felt draped around her shoulders like a weighted cape, pulling her down. It hadn’t been a particularly horrifying nightmare. In fact, it was perhaps of the tamer dreams she’d had in the last year.

Yet something about it clung to her, perhaps a lingering agitation that she’d yet to retrieve the mirror the Bone Carver had requested. That must be it.

The bed space beside her was cold. The sun peaking through the window was not high, it couldn’t be long past dawn. However worrisome her own dream, her mate’s must have been worse to draw him from sleep so early. Worse still for him to sneak away.

Feyre rose from the bed, reaching absently for Rhysand’s dressing robe to wrap around herself. She always loved to steal her mate’s clothes, to be wrapped in his scent.

With gentle steps, she made her way to the study, where she could only assume Rhys had sequestered himself in the lone hours of the night. She’d noticed the weary draw to his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. This war was weighing on him heavily, and he was nervous. Feyre wished he didn’t insist on shouldering the burden alone.

“Rhys?” Feyre called softly as she got to the study, knocking on the door before she cracked it open.

Peeking her head around the door, she was met with the sight of Rhysand’s abandoned study. The scattered papers and war maps that had become characteristic of his desk space were surprisingly missing. In fact, the whole space had been cleared away and there was a thick layer of dust on every surface as if no one had been in here in years.

Feyre frowned at the sight, and how different it had been just the day before. Where had all the dust come from? And more importantly, where was Rhys? Perhaps he’d taken a morning flight to clear his head.

Where are you, love? She called to him through the mating bond, but was met with silence.

“Who are you?”

The voice was cold and venomous. Feyre turned, coming face to face with Mor, whose face was twisted into a threatening scowl.

“Mor?” Feyre asked, confused by her friend’s cold demeanor. “What do you mean? Have you seen Rhys?”

Mor’s face turned deadly, a look Feyre had only ever seen from Mor in the Court of Nightmares. “Is that some kind of joke?” she snarled.

Then, before Feyre could process what was happening, Mor had gripped onto Feyre’s wrist and they were enveloped in darkness. They stepped into the House of Wind, into the dining room where Cassian and Azriel abruptly stood up.

“Mor?” Feyre questioned when the blonde didn’t release her steel grip. She looked to Cassian and Azriel quizzically. “Guys? What’s going on?”

Cassian crossed his arms, assessing Feyre with a hostility that put her on edge. “Who’s this, Mor?” he asked gruffly.

Feyre frowned as she watched Azriel reach for Truth-Teller.

“Is this a joke?” she asked, flitting her eyes to each of her friends. Where she sought that friendly warmth in each of their gazes she was met with hard stares, filled with distrust, ready for a brawl. She couldn’t make sense of it. Was this an act Rhys had put them up to?

“I found her in the townhouse,” Mor said. “I don’t know how she got in there. She was in Rhysand’s study.”

“And she’s wearing his dressing gown,” Azriel noted dryly. Cassian did a double glance, his eyes going wide, then narrowing with a rage Feyre had never seen from the male. Certainly never directed at her.

There was a whisper of shadow, then suddenly Azriel was behind her, Truth-Teller poised at her throat.

Feyre startled. “Azriel!” she said sharply. Even if it was a joke, Feyre couldn’t imagine Rhysand would sanction this kind of threat. And the energy in the room was off, the tension too thick. “Stand down.”

“And who are you,” he breathed in her ear, his voice coated in shadow and nightmare, “to command the Shadowsinger of the Night Court?”

“I’m your High Lady,” Feyre answered steadily, not letting Azriel’s shadows, nor cunning voice, shake her resolve. “Now, I don’t know what is going on with the three of you, or what strange joke you’re trying to pull, but you will listen to what I say. Put. Your. Knife. Down.”

“High Lady?” Cassian repeated with a snort of disbelief. “You’ve got balls, little girl.”

Truth-Teller danced across the skin of her neck, pressing lightly enough to intimidate without breaking skin. “Do you even know to whom you speak? You should be bowing before the acting Queen of the Night Court.”

Too stunned to properly resist, Azriel kicked his feet out to knock Feyre to her knees in front of Mor. His fingers slid into her hair, gripping it tightly to pull her head back as Truth-Teller resumed its threatening position at her throat.

“Breaking into the High Lord’s personal residence, impersonating a high position within the Night Court, lying to the Morrigan’s face,” Azriel listed, increasing the pressure of the blade with each transgression. “You throw our High Lord’s generosity and protection in his face, something we as his acting Court do not take lightly.”

“Acting court? Acting Queen?” Feyre repeated, feeling as if she’d woken to a different reality. “What are you talking about? Where’s Rhysand!?”

“We’re the ones asking the questions here,” Cassian growled.

Feyre looked to each of her friends, studying their faces. Beyond their militant expression, she could see their grief. Could smell it. She repeated, “where is Rhysand?”

She felt the snarl that rumbled through Azriel’s chest behind her, vibrating against her back. When the question was once again unanswered, Feyre abandoned all sense of patience.

Darkness exploded through the room. She heard Mor gasp as the walls of the House shook from the might of her power. Feyre folded into the shadows, winnowing out of Azriel’s grasp so she stood in the center of the three of them.

“Az, Cass, Mor, you are my friends and I do not want to hurt you. But I am also your High Lady and you will answer me this instant, where is Rhys? Where is my mate!?”

Siphons gleamed red and blue through the thick tendrils of night, illuminating the Illyrian males’ faces. Cassian’s jaw had fallen open, while Azriel was studying her through narrowed eyes, wisps of shadow surrounding him. Feyre wondered what they were whispering to him.

“Mate?” Cassian echoed, the first to break the heavy silence.

Mor took a cautious step forward, her countenance completely changed. Her pupils were blown wide, twin brown depths churning with sorrow and gentle astonishment. Azriel went rigid at Mor’s approach, but no one moved to stop her as she came face to face with Feyre.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered, taking Feyre’s left hand, eye fixed on her mating band. On the sapphire-star ring that once belonged to Rhysand’s mother.

All eyes befell the subject of Mor’s attention. Cassian swore softly in recognition.

“It’s my mating band,” Feyre answered measuredly, still puzzled that the inner circle, her family, didn’t seem to have any memory of it. Nor of her. “I won it from the Weaver, as was the task set by Rhysand’s mother. But you were all there for that. I don’t understand what’s going on. Where. Is. Rhys?”

“Under the Mountain,” Mor whispered, her voice soft and pained.

The darkness ebbed away like a receding tide. Feyre felt her heart sink as she tried to process this information. “He—What?”

“He’s been Under the Mountain for the last 50 years,” Mor said, firmer this time. “And if you were his so-called mate, you would know that.”

“No,” Feyre said, shaking her head vehemently. “No, that’s impossible. We got out. We—”

This was a nightmare. It had to be a nightmare, and she just hadn’t woken up from it.

“Amarantha’s dead,” Feyre insisted, mostly in an attempt to console the unparalleled grief and panic that were raging inside her. “She’s dead, and Rhys and I got out.”

The grim faces of her friends said otherwise. They stared at her, in unbearable mixtures of pity and horror.

“I think she’s having a mental break,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “Should we get a healer?”

“Let me show you,” Feyre said meekly, casting her magic out to tap on their mental shields.

They all tensed, clearly not aware they’d been in the presence of a daemati. Trained well by Rhys, they all cracked their shields just enough for Feyre to send her conjured memories through. She showed them going Under the Mountain as a human, winning the trials and being resurrected, falling in love with Rhys, and eventually becoming High Lady of the Night Court. In turn, the three of them pushed back their own memories, of the current state of the world. Of Rhysand sacrificing himself so that his Court and Velaris would be safe.

A sob broke out of Feyre. “How is this possible? How am I here?”

It was Azriel who immediately went for the jugular. “More importantly, if you’re here as a High Fae, how is Rhys going to get out? How do we stop Amarantha?”

Feyre fell to her knees, grief-stricken by this realization. She was no longer human. She couldn’t stride in as Tamlin’s human lover and undergo the trials. Feyre had her powers, but they were untested. Would she be able to take on the whole of Amarantha’s court?

“What do I do? How do I save him?” she whimpered, staring in mute horror at her mating band.

Mor tentatively reached forward, laying a comforting hand on Feyre’s shoulder. “Rhys sacrificed himself to keep the people he loves safe. He wouldn’t want you getting yourself killed trying to save him.”

“I have to try,” Feyre answered desperately. “Amarantha she’s…” Feyre couldn’t bring herself to say the word, rape. Not to his family, who wear his sacrifice for them like an open wound. “She’s doing unspeakable things to him. He’s suffering so much. I can’t leave him to that fate. I have to try.”

With renewed conviction, Feyre accepted Mor’s outstretched hand and picked herself to her feet. “Rhys said it himself once. Amarantha’s biggest weapon is that she keeps the High Lord’s power contained. She can’t access them herself. But I… I have access to all the High Lords’ powers. And that bitch has my mate. My wrath will be plenty to take her down.” She faced her friends, who watched her warily. “You have my word as your High Lady,” she swore to them. “The High Queen of Prythian is going to fall by the night’s end.”

⟡⟡⟡

Winter had not yet fallen in the Mortal Lands. Feyre wondered if across the world, there was a version of herself curled in a bed with her sisters, clinging to any shred of warmth and survival.

That version of Feyre was very different from the version who strode up the sloping hills of the Spring Court with Azriel by her side. Rhys would be furious that Feyre had allowed him to accompany her. Should anything go wrong, it would destroy her mate to know his family had been put in harm's way after everything he’d done to protect them. Which was why it was only Azriel who came with, the only compromise she could reach with his Inner Circle, who insisted on coming with.

Who better to sneak into the Mountain with than the very soldier who taught Feyre the art of stealth. He was the obvious choice, since Mor needed to stay to rule the Night Court and Cassian was too heavy-handed to handle such a delicate task.

Their footfall was silent. Feyre wrapped them in the shadow of Night as they winnowed through the cave network. Her heart hammered in her chest, panicked to be back in the source of so many nightmares.

But Rhysand was more important than her fear. For him, she would not falter.

With the Shadowsinger by her side, Feyre snuck through the winding tunnels until she came to a familiar passageway. They slid into a massive, dark bedroom, lit only by a few candles.

To attack Amarantha in the throne room would be too messy. Too many variables to contend with, should Amarantha have enough wit about her to use any faeries as a shield. Especially Rhysand.

After several hours of waiting, the lock on the door clicked and swung open. Darkness swirled around the room as Rhysand took in the sight of Feyre and Azriel on the bed.

Immediately, the door slammed shut.

“No,” he whispered, voice dripping with horror. “No.”

“Rhys—” Feyre started, but her mate wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was looking at Azriel as if his whole world had shattered.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cold and commanding. This was no happy reunion between brothers. This was Rhysand’s worst nightmare. “Leave this instant, you stupid fool. That is, if you’re lucky enough to have avoided detection when you passed under her wards.”

“I took down the wards,” Feyre said. They weren’t particularly strong, either. Amarantha had gotten lazy, perhaps thinking herself secure with the only spell-cleaver under her control. Or so she believed.

Rhys turned that quiet fury towards her. “And who are you?”

“Your mate,” Feyre answered steadily, tipping her chin up.

Rhysand laughed. A desperate, humorless sound. “Then you are just as foolish as my idiot brother. And you have both sealed your deaths by being here. Do you understand that?”

Feyre scratched along those familiar adamantite shields. Rhys’s eyes flickered in surprise, but otherwise he looked unruffled as he cracked a sliver open for her.

It would be unwise to underestimate me, mate.

I wouldn’t be going around boasting about such a thing, if what you claim is even true, came his icy response. And I wouldn’t count on a few party tricks to save you, either.

And what if I told you, she purred, that I possess the power of all seven High Lords?

That, at least, garnered a reaction from the stoic male. He narrowed his eyes in disbelief, studying Feyre carefully. His gaze caught on her hands, at the lace tattoos that flowed to her fingers. And the mating band she still wore.

Feyre watched those violet eyes go wide, the silver constellations dancing in astonishment at the sight of his mother’s ring.

Where did you get that?

It’s a long story, love, but you’re going to have to trust me. She lowered her mental shields completely. Have a look for yourself. I’m telling you no lies. I am your High Lady, and I am here to free my husband.

She felt those familiar talons wrap around her mind. A foolish thing to do, to give a daemati unrestricted access to her mind. And if it were anyone but Rhys, it would have been. But his touch was gentle, and he took only the information he needed.

“I don’t understand how this is possible,” he whispered, breaking the silence of the room. Azriel had been waiting patiently, but looked relieved to be included in the conversation once more. “And I hate that you’ve put yourselves in danger for this, but it could work.”

Rhys considered for a long moment, then he looked between Feyre and Azriel and said, “do it when she’s sleeping. That bitch has been playing dirty for 50 years, you might as well level the playing field to give yourselves the best chance. Let’s do it tonight. I’ll leave the door unlocked, wear her out, and signal you once she’s asleep. Her spell prevents me from harming her, but I’ll make sure she’s restrained. All you have to do is drive the ash dagger through her heart, but have your magic ready for damage control.”

⟡⟡⟡

Feyre and Azriel waited in Rhysand’s bedchambers for his signal. There was a revelry tonight, as there was every night Under the Mountain, and Rhys was expected to be in attendance. Afterwards, he’d join Amarantha in her bed and make sure she was, in his words, “thoroughly exhausted”.

It was torturous for Feyre. To know exactly what the implication in those words were, to have to use her mate’s body in such a way. She wanted to roar at the Mountain, at the Cauldron, at anything that would listen, but instead she was next to the quiet, brooding Shadowsinger, and lamented in silence.

She’d begged Rhys to reconsider, to perhaps help them stage a more physical encounter that didn’t rely on his own suffering. But he’d denied any plan but the one he’d proposed, insisting it would cause him more anguish to but Feyre and Azriel in harm's way.

So they waited the long, agonizing hours until she felt a delicate pull at her chest. She’s asleep, Rhys called. Be on your guard.

He sent her directions to Amarantha’s bedchambers. There were guards outside, but Feyre and Azriel winnowed past them, cloaked in night and shadow.

Amarantha’s bedchambers were huge. Feyre had never been inside them before, but she was unsurprised to see they provided any luxury a High Queen could wish for.

Atop a large bed of red, silken sheets, lay her mate and Amarantha, both stark naked. The smell of sex clung to the air, Rhysand and Amarantha’s scents intertwined. Feyre thought she might be sick.

Even more sickening was the sight before her, of Amarantha’s arms restrained to the headboard in cloth. A clever way for Rhys to restrain her under the guise of sex, but horrifying nonetheless, to see the proof of what they’d been up to. The female was fast asleep, so convinced of her authority that she could fall asleep tied-up and not feel vulnerable doing so. How satisfying, Feyre thought, that such arrogance would be her downfall.

Feyre warded the room, putting up a shield of darkness so that no sound would break through to alert the guards. Rhys watched their approach warily from where he perched beside Amarantha, so still Feyre was convinced he held his breath.

He wouldn’t risk moving to wake her up, which terrified Feyre. Should something go wrong, her mate would be susceptible to Amarantha’s wrath. Naked, vulnerable, and completely under her control. It was such a dangerous game they were playing.

The room was as quiet and still as the bewitching hours of the night, their footsteps silent as they picked across the room. Azriel held the ash dagger. If Rhys could not kill Amarantha, his brother wanted to do it on his behalf. Meanwhile, Feyre summoned tendrils of night that carefully wrapped around Amarantha’s legs, slithering up her body like a snake, ready to constrict and restrain.

The female stirred in her sleep, perhaps feeling the ghostlike touch of Feyre’s magic. But she did not wake. Not as Azriel raised the dagger over her chest, and not as he plunged it down.

Amarantha’s eyes shot open as the dagger pierced her chest. She let out a shriek of agony and ire, moving to claw at her attacker. She raged against the restraints, spewing obscenities until they died at her lips as the blade sunk into her heart.

Rhysand’s chest was heaving as he watched the female still, then slump. He looked from her dead body, to Azriel and Feyre.

Feyre’s heart sank as she watched her mate process that it was truly over. There wasn’t a trace of elation in his eyes at being liberated, but she understood why. Rhys would finally be returning home, but as a much different man than the one he had been. He’d survived, but not unscathed, and he’d need time to process this.

Feyre came to him, reached towards her mate with the hand that bore his mother’s ring. Rhys looked to it, then up to her. His eyes were clouded with sorrow, with a melancholy she could only hope to chip away at in time. But she could see stirring beneath it was a breath of hope, perhaps the first he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Let’s go home, Rhys,” she said gently.

Slowly, Rhysand nodded, moving to grasp her hand. She felt him jolt at the touch and, as she glanced at him questioningly, she saw his lips part in wonder.

I suppose you weren’t lying about being my mate, he whispered, the words a sensual brush in her mind. Thank you for coming to rescue me, High Lady.

Feyre grasped onto Azriel, and together the three of them stepped into darkness.

Then, they were above the House of Wind, tumbling through the night sky. Feyre unfurled her wings before Rhys could move to catch them, worried that her mate would struggle after 50 years without flight.

Both males stared in astonishment at the sight. Rhysand’s eyes danced in awe as Feyre, albeit clumsily, carried them to the training ring on the roof.

Rhys snapped his own wings open as they landed. Feyre watched him tilt his head back in rapture as he felt the wind against his wings for the first time in decades. Then he opened his eyes, his expression shifting to reverence as he beheld the night sky.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see it again,” he whispered, his voice a heartbreaking blend of exaltation and disbelief. “And for this gift… for my salvation to be courtesy of my mate and of my brother… I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admitted sheepishly.

Feyre hesitated. If this was the Rhysand from before, the one to which she was mated and married, she would come to comfort him. But this version of Rhys had only just been freed from enslavement, and she didn’t know what he needed.

As though sensing her hesitation, Rhys cast his eyes back to the sky. “I know they’re all waiting for me downstairs, but I’d like a little bit of time with the stars. Will you let them know, Az?”

Azriel nodded, though he seemed conflicted. His reunion with his brother was perhaps not as merry as the male had expected. But right now, she knew the Inner Circle would hardly deny Rhys anything. Perhaps for a long while yet. So Azriel headed downstairs to inform their friends, who were sure to be anxiously awaiting their arrival.

Rhysand regarded Feyre carefully once the two of them were alone. “Mate and High Lady,” he mused. “You seem to wear many hats.”

“You forgot ‘wife’,” Feyre said lightly.

“Yes, and ‘Salvation’, ‘Queen Killer’, ‘Most Beautiful Female in Prythian’, it seems there’s many things I could call you. Could we start with your name, perchance?”

Feyre was shocked. She’d assumed he’d taken such information out of her mind earlier, but it seems he’d been even more respectful than she’d expected.

“Feyre,” she answered. “My name is Feyre.”

He looked wonderstruck. “Feyre,” he repeated, testing the name on his lips. A gentle smile curled at the corners of his mouth, the first she’d seen from him yet. He extended his hand towards her. “Would you like to watch the stars with me, Feyre?”

It was an offer she couldn’t refuse. Her hand found his with all the casual grace of a dancer, as if it were a routine they’d been perfecting their whole lives. Their fingers interlocked and as one, they stared up at the dazzling night sky.

This reality wasn’t perfect, Feyre thought. This Rhys was different from her own, and he still had a lot of healing to do. But if she could be there for him, to help him in a ways she hadn’t before, then she would be grateful to the strange eddies of the Cauldron for bringing her here. For allowing her to end his torment early. For giving them this extra time.

She watched a shooting star dart across the sky and smiled as it passed. There was nothing she could wish for except that her mate find peace in all that he’d endured the last half century.

His deep, velvety voice cut through the silence. “Do you often wish on stars, Feyre?”

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He was watching her with a heart-wrenching wistfulness.

“Only when I have a wish worthy of the stars.”

“And do you?”

Feyre looked to the northernmost star, which shined brightest in the sky. “I wished for a light in the darkness,” she told him. “I don’t think the stars would ever begrudge such a wish.”

Rhysand nodded solemnly. “It’s true that they would be begrudging themselves in doing so. But I see no need for you to wish for such a thing.”

Feyre looked to him. He was still watching her, but something in him had shifted. He was smiling at her gently, that lingering sadness already receding. “Why’s that?” she asked cautiously.

That gentle smile widened, showing off his brilliant teeth. “Why, Feyre, to find such a thing, all you’d need to do is look in a mirror.”

[modx-reborn]

Dream Brainrot

Green teletubbie lives rent free in here.

Implied Smut, Minors DNI

“What I want is simple…”

You.

I was expecting as such, the look on his face mixed with the need to be completely alone for this confrontation had already told me what he would have wanted from me. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything and yet I cannot find any that would ease the tension.

Words have left me. I stared into those bright green eyes burning with something I would rather not address at this moment, and my heart fell silent. “Answer me, my dear,” a whisper tinged with a familiar smell of mint.

But I can’t will my lips to move.

As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he moved, smooth hands against the chilled skin of my cheek.

“My patience is running thin,” yet my mind was blank and my eyes wide as I stared at him.

I can feel the fear in my chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wants to protect me, but there really is too much hanging on this one decision. It sits there like an angry ball propelling me towards anxiety I just don’t need. The air is dense, the ground chilling, and I can hear water dripping in the distance.

“It’s just one word…”

The warmth of Dream standing so close should have felt soothing through my shirt and yet akin to the heating vent embedded above us none of the heat met my skin. With dream caging me into this chair and with no room to maneuver my way out, I find myself admitting defeat and whispering a ‘yes’.

So softly I had hoped he would have missed it.

He did not.

I had thought with how he had pressed that his need for 'companionship’ would have been what followed an admittedly reluctant acceptance, yet after I had agreed, I was dismissed. A nod is all I got from him as he pulled away, no words or grasping hands, no small pulls or pushes towards or away from anything just that smiling mask watching me go.

I will admit that I took every chance I could to avoid dream and his attentions, I even made a move into technos mountains after a month of avoiding the main SMP like the plague, but it has been a time and a half since that day, and still, he has made no apparent move towards demanding anything from me. Well until today that is, it was winter’s last gasp, the first week of spring when the wind bites the hardest and the cold stings everyone’s cheeks.

'A rather cold night to spend alone…’

Making my way back to my old home near the SMP, after his short call over the com’s, and so here I stand before my own door hand lifted to knock. Breath held with the hope that he might not be inside. But hopes and wishes often don’t come true and today was no different I knocked, and he answered the same smiling mask he wears on his face as he looks down at me.

With that damn mask still on, I can’t tell if he is scowling or has taken to a smug smile, “So finally you’ve come home, who knew all I had to do was tempt you with some warmth against the cold.”

“You know damn well that not why I am here. What do you want?”

The movement is sharp and quick, lean strength against chilled nerves? I had no chance of avoiding his grasp, I am finally able to see his expression as he pushes his mask aside. If looks could drip from one’s face this room would flood.

But with what emotion, I am not sure.

“I could kill you right here and now. So, I would be softer with my words hmm?,” my wrist is dropped, but not before I feel the slight drag of a finger against the veins, two steps and I am left by the door “I would suggest being a little more co-operative little bird-”

“Little Bird?”

“-Yes little Bird, you flee like one. Now,” The steps taken from me are retracted, and I am pressed to the wall by the door, “Do you regret agreeing to me? Does it echo in your mind when you sit alone? Trying to hide away in the snow with Techno….” the drag of callused skin against my cheek draws my attention for a moment before the press of a belt, and something just as hard beneath, is felt through my clothes, an arm looped around my waist keeps me in place.

“Tell me to do you dream of me?”

I know I’m anxious when I feel the stillness of the room more keenly in my eyes; it’s that tearless stage when the eyes take on a sheen. My fingers wrap around Dream’s hand, feeling how cold his fingers are compared to the warmth of his chest pressed to mine.

Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground, yet one whisper brings shivers like bare feet on ice. “Do you think the taste of my skin will haunt you?” A kiss that could only be tempered with shameful enjoyment. Shifting sideways, I know what is coming and look away his hand reaches, thumb caressing my cheek, leeching warmth from me.

His lips brush mine. Not innocently, a tease, yet demanding. His lips are chapped, and I can taste the sharp tang of mint, as he pulls away I can feel more than hear the growl that follows.

“Will I be a nightmare to plague you or will this just keep dragging you back to me?”

Dream pushed himself away, empty air filling the space between us followed by the thump as my back hits the door. A moment to gather himself or a moment for me to escape? I have little idea, but before I could make a move, either way, a hand snags my wrist dragging me forward and further up an into my old home.

Pushed and pulled upstairs and into a darkened room as the hardwood and metal of the door is replaced with odd bumps and crinkling paper as I am corralled towards my old desk.

His arms caged around me, pressing against the cold desk, stacks of paper falling over and empty pens rolling to the floor, clattering in the silent air of the room. The heat from his chest burned my skin, so close I couldn’t tell if he was touching me or not. Was he gonna kiss me? What is going on in his head? His eyes are dark with lust and something else that lurks just behind that.

He shoves himself back looming rather than pressed close. “So cute-” his hand brushes gentle against my cheek “-I am going to enjoy watching you cry as I ram my cock down your throat.”

The scene of my lips wrapped around tan skin, nose buried in wry hair, eyes watering with the effort to take it all. It’s the sharp vision of white teeth and the rumble of a deep laugh that had me lost, I blink and moments pass by.

Dream’s hand had slid under my shirt and dragged away the loose fabric, a hand smoothly flowed up and fell to my chest. Somewhere between the thoughts of wrapping my lips around him and the press of his body to mine, I had lost whatever was screaming for me to not do this for now all that I could hear was the shaking of my breath and the pounding of my heart in places it is not.

Heat exploded up my neck. My body slumped against him, drinking in the smooth slide of his skin on mine. Nipples hardened in the chill of the room, and his thumb flicked, scratching the sensitive tip and sending a quiver down my spine.

Lips parted, and a moan caught in my throat.

“What a sight little Bird, barely touched you, and yet you are choking back sounds,” a growled remark from a man that should not make me shiver as I did. My eyes had fallen closed when he began, breathing short and sharp the sound harsh in my ears I had gotten too carried away, too lost in the moment that such little touch had gotten me so worked up. But it is the sudden press of warm skin to my chilling flesh and the sudden tilting of the world as I am dragged from the desktop to wrap my leg around dream’s waist.

A wall presses cold against my back, unforgiving wood behind me and a relentless man keeping me pinned to it.

I feel hot breath on my neck, then the brush of lips burning as they make contact. A hand runs through my hair, as the kisses become harder and more urgent his other hand slides around my waist and pulls me close to him. His kisses are now along my shoulders and trailing downwards, I’m trying to be indifferent.

It doesn’t do to let someone with an ego like his know how much power he has.

[alderaani]

more than gold

summary:  A lost Jedi Temple, a riddle, some literature, and feelings that Cody isn't ready to speak out loud. | AO3

note: written for @codywanweek and the alt day 5 prompt Sith/Jedi Artefact Shenanigans! sliding in on the last day with one more thing written than expected, so i’m happy with that! i’m pretty ill today so i hope it actually makes some coherent sense 😂 also if the riddle was super obvious, soz, never written one before and turns out it’s really hard.

-

“You know, I could have sworn I told you not to touch that,” Cody says conversationally, from where he’s splayed out on his back.

“Really? I’m sure I didn’t hear you,” Obi-Wan says, cheerful despite being crumpled in a heap. His elbow is in Cody’s gut. Cody glares at him.

The room they’re lying in is circular, stone, carved out of some Forced-damned mountain and according to Obi-wan, practically thrumming with power. The ceiling is high and vaulted, letting in slivers of light where intricate mirror systems catch the sunlight of double suns and project it deep underground. It takes on a slightly blue cast, reflecting off the huge pool of water they were lucky to not fall into. Four walkways at each cardinal point lead to a central platform, and interspersed between them are four waterfalls.

It should be serene. Except now the waterfalls are travelling backwards, and all the doors, including the one they came in by, are blocked. Cody scrambles up onto his elbows, dislodging Obi-Wan with a grunt.

“What did you do?”

Obi-Wan follows his gaze and gasps, delighted. “Now, will you look at that?”

Cody is looking. Frankly, he doesn’t trust this place enough to not keep his eye on it at all times. Obi-Wan keeps saying that this temple was built long ago, by ancient, peaceful Jedi as a place of learning, and that it won’t hurt them. After they got cut off from the rest of their men at the entrance, however, Cody thinks he could be forgiven for having his doubts.

As Obi-Wan himself proves, peace-keeping hardly rules out danger.

“Amazing,” Obi-Wan breathes, hoisting himself to his feet without a second glance, to walk back up to the plinth and stalk round it, examining the incomprehensible runes engraved there.

Cody is left to peel himself off the floor, and instead goes to prod at the barriers now sealing the exits with the end of his blaster. He tries not to look too much at Obi-Wan, at the soft sweep of his hair and the span of his shoulders. Being on their own like this is something he’s avoided, of late - not because he doesn’t enjoy it, but because he’s starting to enjoy it all too much.

He doesn’t trust the way his heart leaps when Obi-Wan smiles, when he asks him to call him ‘Obi-Wan’, when the cycle draws on and they’re up late again, companionably finishing reports and debating strategy. Or, as they had been doing until Cody got cold feet and started finding excuses, debating novels, which Obi-Wan checked out of the Temple archives and read aloud, one chapter at a time, before they turned in for the night.

He doesn’t trust himself not to ruin this by overstepping. There’s something about his general that makes him lose all control of his tongue, and puts him in danger of voicing thoughts that really he should not be having at all.

It’s agony. It’s bliss. It’s stretching him to breaking point, and this is possibly the worst situation they could have ended up in, really.

“These are made out of water,” he says over his shoulder, grunting as he tries to push his blaster through. He is, of course, unsuccessful.

“Ingenious,” Obi-Wan says. “How did they manage that, I wonder?”

Cody cuts a glance back at him, and grins, despite his exasperation.

“You’re not more worried about how we’re going to get out?”

Obi-Wan waves a hand. “I’m sure the path will reveal itself, in time. Oh, look - Cody, I think this is a puzzle!”

Cody bites back a groan. They do not have time for this. They never really had time for it, but Obi-Wan promised it would be a brief detour on their way to the capital for hyperspace lane access negotiations. He’d looked so excited by recon reports of a lost temple that Cody just hadn’t been able to say no. He’s never able to say no to Obi-Wan, even when he isn’t following orders. It’s probably his fatal flaw.

“I don’t suppose there’s an off switch? A back button?” He asks hopelessly. The Force, at least the Jedi sort, very rarely seems to work that way. Obi-Wan is always talking about moving through problems, about seeking balance and adapting to what’s around you, rather than manipulating it. It’s not Cody’s favoured approach; he was trained to leverage his environment to its maximum advantage, and finds he has little patience for anything else.

Obi-Wan snorts. “This is a defensive mechanism, I’m afraid. Judging by the architecture this was built at the height of the Sith Wars. This artefact is designed to trap us here until we understand the mechanism and progress, or until, back when the temple was occupied, someone would come and deal with the intruder.”

“That doesn’t sound very peaceful,” Cody says.

Obi-Wan shoots him an amused look, the warm, soft kind that makes heat rise from the pit of Cody’s belly right up to his ears.

“Even a pacifist may defend himself,” he says, then leans over the pedestal. “Now, how about you stop grousing and come help me with this?”

Cody rolls his eyes, but goes, slinging his blaster across his back and crossing his arms.

“And stop looming,” Obi-Wan laughs, catching one of Cody’s gloved hands and pulling it down to rest at his side. The simple touch makes Cody’s cheeks burn.

“Don’t see what help I can give you, Sir,” he says, frowning down at the characters surrounding the bright blue artefact. “I was never any good at Ithorian.”

Obi-Wan pauses, then tilts his head up. “Ah. Is that what it is?”

“I - I think so?” Cody was never any good at his language flashtraining; he never had the proper patience for it, but he can usually figure out the basics.

“No, no,” Obi-Wan muses, stroking at his beard with his free hand. “You’re quite right. Goodness me, it's been a long time since I last saw this dialect. Let’s see now…”

Cody steps back and waits, keeping his attention firmly split between their blocked exit points while Obi-Wan ponders. The slow upward movement of the waterfalls is eerie - it still makes noise, but none of it is right. Instead of the gentle patter he expects of water joining a larger pool, there’s a faint gurgling as they move further into each grate, travelling somewhere he cannot see.

Obi-Wan finishes his fifth circle round the platform, and the hand at his chin goes still. Cody stands at attention, expectant.

“It’s a riddle,” Obi-Wan says, and if possible, his delight grows. “Yes - the language is coming back to me now. Do you know, I haven’t looked at Ithorian in maybe 12 years?”

“Sir?” Cody says, tilting his head to look at the characters more closely. He doesn’t have even a passing proficiency at modern Ithorian, and presumably it’s changed a bit over the millennia. His training was focused on the basics, and only the useful bits, at that. He thinks he can make out the words for ‘ water ’, and ‘ enemy’ , both of which are either unhelpfully descriptive or frankly discouraging, but that’s about the extent of it.

“My old master - he loved prophecies. When I was a teenager I could never see the point of it, but it meant I spent a lot of time learning the old Ithorian dialects. They’re known as the most peaceful species, did you know?” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “They’ll exile anyone violent, it’s quite remarkable, really. I suppose in some sort of idealistic emulation, a lot of the early Jedi texts are written in their dialect.”

His blue eyes are keen, his laser sharp focus firmly on the podium. It gives Cody a moment to observe his clever fingers, the long line of his neck, the open delight with which he tackles this new problem. It’s a rare thing, to see him so relaxed, and Cody can’t help the fond smile that creeps up on him despite the circumstances. This almost makes it worth it, and on reflection, he’d rather an ancient temple than the last thing that had made Obi-Wan so happy; a wretched, bioluminescent fungus, which had infected half the battalion and given them hives. Their general had studied it for weeks.

Obi-Wan’s lips quirk up. Cody barely trusts himself to speak.

“I didn’t know, Sir,” Cody croaks, then pauses, fishing for something normal to say. “Didn’t we have to defend the governor’s daughter from an Ithorian bounty hunter on Ganaris-IV?”

“Well,” Obi-Wan grins. “Those exiles have to go somewhere, don’t they?”

Cody huffs a laugh and reaches up to scratch his neck at the seam of his bucket.

“Let’s just hope they didn’t all come here. What’s this riddle, then?”

Obi-Wan shifts to the side, then points at a spot on the podium. “As I said, it’s been a long time, but I think it starts here, and goes something like:

A thing to be forged, where water is thicker,

Worth more than gold, unless it’s pyrite that glitters.

An enemy of my enemy, or in hard times, in need,

Sometimes fair-weather, or in high places indeed.

What are you, traveller? ”

All of Cody’s hopes that it would be something nice and obvious, like “lightsaber” or, given what’s going on around them, “gravity”, escape from him like smoke. Jedi and their metaphors. It’s not just a quirk of Obi-Wan’s, clearly.

“Does that mean anything to you, Sir?” he asks, turning the words over in his head once, twice, then frowning when nothing comes immediately.

Obi-Wan’s brow is also furrowed, but in a leisurely, meditative manner.

“...I have some ideas, I think,” he says. “How about you, my friend?”

What does he think? He thinks that there are other sorts of puzzles he is much better suited to. Word play and idioms...what does a clone have to offer that?

Still, Obi-Wan is watching him, expectant and gentle, and he sifts back through the lines, a little more seriously this time.

“Ice, maybe?”

Obi-Wan nods, slowly. “Perhaps. Walk me through it.”

Cody swallows. “Ice is something that can be made, right? It’s not exactly forged, but…”

He trails off in uncertainty.

“Go on,” Obi-Wan says with another one of those soft, devastating smiles. It fractures all the thoughts in Cody’s head, and he has to stop, clear his throat and gather up all the pieces.

“I suppose...it’s just thicker water, isn’t it? On warm planets it’s a valuable commodity, it’s found in high places, and I suppose if you wanted snow, a freeze would be fair weather.”

Obi-Wan is rubbing his beard again, and he’s still smiling. “Fascinating. I would never have thought of that...only, I don’t think it’s quite there. That mention of pyrite is troublesome, and the ‘enemy of my enemy’, where does that fit in?”

Cody shrugs his shoulders, frustrated, and feels a hot flush creep up his neck. “Don’t know why you’re asking me, to be honest, Sir. Kamino hardly covered poetry.”

There’s a slight pause, then Obi-Wan’s hand is on his again, tugging it slowly down from where he’s crossed his arms.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he says, soft.

“Do what?” Cody’s voice is gruff.

“Dismiss yourself. You do it sometimes when we’re reading together. There is often no right and wrong answer to these things, no secret. There is only perspective, and you see things I never would, if only you would trust yourself.”

Cody looks down and away, back towards the waterfalls and their slow, glacial climb. He isn’t sure that’s true. He enjoys what Obi-Wan shares with him, what other lives he gets to touch in their books, but more than anything they convince him that, beyond war, he knows very little of anything at all. He would like to, someday.

His eyes land on Obi-Wan’s lips briefly, before he tears them away. Particular experiences he would like to know more than others.

There was one book that Obi-Wan had read early on, back when this infatuation was just setting its first tendrils into him, about a forbidden romance at the heart of the old Mandalorian court. Two heirs of rival clans battling to be together against the good approval of their noble relatives. It had been torrid, ridiculous and entirely unexpected when Obi-Wan had suggested they break up their reports with some literature.

But what it had done was give him the words to express the crawling heat in his stomach, the urge he has to reach out, to touch, to soothe, to care for. He’d known what he wanted before that, of course, in a more rudimentary manner, but it had gifted him the language of yearning.

Suddenly, a particular passage springs into his mind and he straightens.

“You don’t think it could mean ally, do you? In Beneath the Armour, Mata threatens Clan Riza by saying he has ‘allies in high places’.”

Obi-Wan pauses, and then a brilliant smile spreads over his face. “Yes, that’s it! Pyrite - Fool’s Gold; a false friend! Brilliant Cody, whatever made you think of that?”

Cody grins, even though Obi-Wan can’t see it, and doesn’t answer.

“Is that really it?”

“I think you’re very close,” Obi-Wan says. “The characters engraved into the platform...yes! Stand close to me, Commander.”

Cody does, watching curiously as Obi-Wan lifts his hands, shuts his eyes, frowns, and pushes . Six blocks that make up the platform lift, the characters on each glowing bright, lurid blue. Under their feet, something scrapes, shifts and clunks, before the platform lurches upwards, spinning gently.

There’s a thunderous gurgling sound, before all of the pool beneath drains away.

“The answer,” Obi-Wan says, slightly breathless, his hair a little out of place. “Was friend.”

“The doorways are still blocked,” Cody notes drily. The plinth with the blue orb that started this whole mess has also risen, and underneath it are a set of very wet, slimy looking steps. “I don’t suppose it’s as simple as just walking down these and getting in?”

“Likely not,” Obi-Wan agrees, then inexplicably shifts a little closer, so that they are sharing space. Cody’s heart skips a beat. “But it’s like I told you, Cody. You are far greater than what you have been given.”

Cody coughs and looks at his feet, at their boots almost toe to toe, pleasure at the praise singing low through his body.

“Now,” Obi-Wan says, too close and not close enough. “How do you feel about another puzzle?”

Cody groans, laughing, and after a moment, follows his General into the dark.

[lilyharvord]

I saw another anon on king mavens page ask how Cal would react if mare died and they didn’t wanna answer bcuz it’ll make them go into a depressive state. So if u don’t mind how do YOU think Cal would react if Mare died. If u don’t wanna write this u don’t hv too tho

I too saw annie's response, and while it makes me super sad to think about as well.... I've thought about it... I may have started writing a fic about it once (it was like once chapter), and I had an idea. So I'll give you my branched ideas. They're loooong so I have put them under the read more.

idea 1: Mare dies before they are married, before anything.

It's horrific. People are shocked... the little lightning girl? Dead? Impossible. Cal doesn't immediately hear about it, he's so busy he's doesn't know something's happened until he walks into a room and everyone goes quiet and slowly looks at him like he might collapse right then and there. He finds out because Farley pulls him aside. She takes him away from everyone to a quiet little garden with a fountain and tells him what happened. When he hears, he just sort of gives her this confused look, like HE doesn't understand, doesn't believe. Then he sort of sinks down onto one of the benches and just sits there. Doesn't move, doesn't even seem to be breathing. Farley thinks he'll explode in a ball of heat and rage and pain, but instead he just gets really really quiet, and really cold. The air around her gets so cold her breath fogs in front of her. He asks her to leave him alone and she does. He sort of draws into himself after that, doesn't really speak to anyone, spends a lot of time running and sitting at his desk and staring out the window. He attends the funeral but is quiet the whole time, he only speaks to the Barrows and even then, there isn't much to say that wouldn't hurt either party. After that he BURIES himself in his work. He gets so good at it that one day he looks up and ten years have passed. He's still got the stack of letters they wrote to each other, and he even has the letter he had been drafting to send to her on the front where he lost her. It ends with the phrase: I miss you. And god does that ring true. He miss her like a limb he lost. It feels like a part of him was torn away, just like with Maven, just like with his father, just like with Nanabel when she passed a few years back, just like the hole his mother left without him even knowing it was there. He visits her grave that year, just sort of sits under the little tree they planted, looks out at the mountains as the sun sets behind him, and talks to her like he does with Maven, tells her about everything that's happening. After a while, he just falls quiet and sits there, digging his hand into the grass and dirt right above the grave, like he can dig down to her, like it's her skin and he can still feel it's warmth. He swallow really heavily and then says: I never met anyone else that made me feel the way you did... I don't think I ever will. You were it. You were going to be it. And then he gets up and leaves. He runs into Gisa down in the Ascendent, they grab coffee at what was once Mare's favorite coffee shop, now it's Gisa's. They talk about everything, never mentioning Mare. Gisa only asks once if he's seen anyone, and he just shakes his head, and she gives him a tiny smile and says: she wouldn't have minded... well if a random bolt of lightning came from the heaven and struck you, then I guess you would know she minded. They laugh about that, and then he leaves cause he has an early flight home. When he gets back, he puts the letters in a box and then puts that box in a drawer. He never sees anyone else though. Doesn't even really fool around with anyone either. He tries once, and the whole time he just thinks about her, thinks about all the what if's and could be's. He apologizes profusely to the girl and says that it's not going to work. Something in her understands, some weird warmth that she gets that makes her pull him into an extra tight hug before she leaves from his little apartment in Archeon. He doesn't mind being alone as much, he has his friends and a strange little belief/hope that someday, he will see Mare again. And when he does he is going to pull her into the tightest hug and never, ever let go again.

idea 2: Mare dies after they are married and have at least 1 child

This one hurts far more. He knows she's on missions, and they made a pact to never be on missions together so that if the unthinkable happens and one of them does die, Coriane will have the other at least. Its a god awful early hour of the morning when there is knock on the door. Coriane is sleeping in his and Mare's bed, she had a nightmare and immediately came for comforting snuggles. He thinks he's dreaming when the knock comes again, a little more instant this time. He gets up, and Coriane sleepily trails after him, curious as a cat always. When he answers the door, he picks her up and is still sort of half asleep. When he sees the young soldier standing on the porch in uniform and the most pained look on his face, he is suddenly wide awake. The soldier reaches up and removes his hat before pulling out an envelope with the official Montfort seal on it. He holds it out and quietly says, "I'm sorry."

When Cal takes it, he worries that his hand is shaking, but it is perfectly still, Coriane is falling asleep on his shoulder, not even aware of the ramification of what this little envelope means. And he just sort of looks up at the man and asks, "Do the Barrows know?" The man blinks before saying, "Protocol dictates immediate family are informed first... spouses are immediate family along with children. We leave it to them to inform the rest...I'm sorry again sir." Then he gives a little clean military salute and leaves. Cal stands there for a long time looking at empty space, wondering what comes next, what he is even supposed to do. Coriane answers for him: by lightly tapping his cheek and whispering that she's cold. He closes the door, and sets the letter on the little table by the door. There are already four other letters there. One, an invitation to Farley's wedding to Cordelia at the end of the month, and another is a letter from Julian addressed to all of them, most likely about his trip with Sara to see the land north of Montfort. But there is her name in beautiful script on both envelopes. There is her favorite jacket hanging on the peg she always hangs it on. There is the book she left on the table, chaptered at the exact part she was on. There is her favorite mug in the sink because Coriane asked to drink her milk from it last night. She is everywhere in the house, and yet that letter means she will never be in it again. Those were her things. They not longer are. He carries Coriane up the stairs and puts her back in their his bed and then lays next to her, watching her chest rise and fall as she sleeps, a tiny smile creeping to her lips as she dreams, completely and blissfully unaware of how her life has fundamentally changed now. Then he rolls and stares at the ceiling, but the tears come and they don't stop as they fall silently. He gets up and showers at dawn--he didn't sleep-- and cries a little more there. He has to crouch down under the scalding water and bite down on his knuckle to keep from sobbing out loud and waking Cori. It's pitiful, and he knows it. She would be furious with him for not being honest about how he feels and trying to hide it like its some ugly thing. But it feels ugly, a twisted ugly thing in his chest that is screaming and clawing at his insides. He stands, turns the shower off, steps out, shaves, does his morning routine, and then wakes Coriane and gets her ready. She's still sleepy, doesn't understand, asks him when mommy is coming home, when she will be back so they can go to the market and get ice cream. He says they'll go today, but his voice shakes, even as he tries to hide it. Then he takes her to the Barrows, tells Ruth and Daniel to gather all of them together. When they are all sitting before him in the living room, packing it to the brim, he takes out the letter and reads it. There is a horrible silence when he finishes and folds it before putting it back in the envelope. Ruth slowly pulls Coriane toward her and then lifts her into her lap and hugs her so tightly Cori actually whines about it for a second before she sees the look on Cal's face. They all sit in the kitchen after that and Ruth makes tea and she makes hot chocolate for the kids and gives Coriane an extra 4 marshmallows. The kids leave to go play and the adults sit and discuss the logistics, where is the will, was the a will? Do they have to adhere to anything if there isn't one? Would she want to... to be buried on Tuck with Shade? The will would probably say. Should they do that if there isn't one? Ruth offers to take care of Coriane while Cal deals with everything, settling paperwork, etc. etc. Then everyone kinda starts talking about everything again, and he just sits in silence and stares at this knot on the table that Mare pointed out to him because she said it looked like a turtle on its back. He traces it a few times, just sort of thinking about that moment and all the other times they would be in this kitchen doing dishes after family gatherings etc. Farley watches him from across the table

before getting up and nodding for him to follow her outside. Everyone pretty much doesn't notice them leave, or they pretend not to notice. They sit outside on the back porch in silence, just the two of them. After a little bit, it starts to snow. The first snow of the year. Farley holds her hand out to catch the flakes and says quietly: "I hate that it doesn't rain when these things happen. It always feels like it should be raining." He nods silently in agreement, and then she sets her hand on his shoulder, and he bends forward, letting the weight of it drop his head into his hand. He doesn't cry again, he honestly doesn't understand why he feels nothing now, just emptiness, and numbness from the tips of his fingers all the way to the tips of his toes. Even with Maven he didn't feel this way. He felt something then, something biting and hot like a pan that he touched when it just came off the stove. They sit like that for a long time before Coriane comes outside, and slips underneath his arm to snuggle against him. Farley gets up and leaves then, sensing she's said her peace and he understands she's there if he needs her. He holds Coriane close when the back door closes, and she whispers quietly to him, "Mommy's not coming home, is she?" and he just squeezes her once in answer. She frowns and stares out at the snow for a second and then turns around to face him and cups his cheeks in her little hands like she had seen Mare do a hundred times when Cal was in the middle of an especially hard day. She looks at him with a very serious expression for a child and he can see Mare in her when she does that, in the crease of her brows and the slight squint in her eyes. In the hint of chocolate brown in the curls of her hair. She will be furiously beautiful like her mother, and he had a feeling someday she will break a man's heart like his is breaking now. She looks at him for a good little bit and then says, "don't worry, I will take care of you." And he laughs, knowing that Mare always said the same thing. He pulls her close again and whispers with a thick voice, "it's my job to take care of you. But it's just us now... we have to take care of each other."

The funeral is in the spring. Cal pushed it off. Mare hated the winter. Even though she had happier memories of it now, her childhood and the painful clenching of her empty belly were like a permanent stain on the season. He would not bury her in that time. When the snow thaws and the ground melts, they release her ashes on a hill and leave stone for her on a hill under a tree, with a view of the mountains. There is a long line of epithet underneath her name: beloved daughter, sister, friend, wife, mother. Staring at it, Cal wonders if she knows just how important she had become. If she knew that she wasn't just a captain, or a figurehead that brought a centuries old regime to its knees. Everyone leaves after, the Barrows going last, but Cal and Coriane stay. Cal just sitting in the grass next to the grave, the wind in his hair while he watches the mountains for a little while. Coriane sits on the grave, probably not the nicest thing to do, but she does, and traces Mare's name over and over again on the stone with her little finger. "Mommy had a long name." She says as she traces the four names on the stone. Cal hesitated to put his name on there with hers, but he adopted the Barrow name as much as Mare took the Calore one when they married. And in the very, very short will she had drafted, that he almost didn't read because reading it made everything real, she asked that he put both their names on it (but to put his name before hers and she even made a little quip at him in the will about it which made him laugh, even as it made him cry). He glances at Cori after she says that and nods. She then crawls into his lap and they sit watching the mountains before Coriane says, "Uncle Julian says that when people die, they become the dirt that feeds the trees and the grass... do you think mommy is happy to be tree food?" He laughs and hugs her really close before saying, "She's not tree food. That dust we let go of today was mommy. She's on the winds now, traveling everywhere."

He does not remarry, no matter how many years pass, and how many women try to infer that it might be for the best if Coriane had mother in her life. He thinks its a stupid notion that he can't raise his own child on his own. And its hard, god is it hard. But he does it. He makes Coriane Barrow Calore into a women that Mare Molly Calore Barrow would have been very proud of. And he holds onto the notion that someday, when he dies, and they scatter his ashes, that his will find Mare's and they'll be together again that way.

[muertawrites]

Fireside (Zuko x Reader)

Word Count: 1,775

Author’s Note: I am so deeply sorry this took so long to post. I don’t know what happened but after Thanksgiving the creative part of my brain completely shut down and all I could do was lay in bed and play video games. But it’s back now so 🎉🎉🎉 happy new year to all of us! 

I got this request a WHILE ago and had written something else for it but after reconsidering, I totally hated it, so this is the rewrite for some cozy, wintery goodness. I also love this idea because I’m constantly cold - my feet and hands are always freezing and even in summer I’ll wear sweaters and hoodies because aircon can get pretty chilly when you have the body temp of your average vampire. 

Now for a little update: in the new year, I’ll be focusing more on original works than fanfiction. I’m still going to finish Two Halves, and I’ll still write fanfiction (because it’s still super fun) but I have so many ideas for original works that are taking over my brain that it seems only fitting to shift that direction. If you’re on my subscriber list and would like to only receive alerts for fanfic, let me know and I’ll add you to a separate list. 

I hope you’re all having a wonderful holiday, taking time to relax and spend time with loved ones, and generally just glad to have survived this shithole of a year. Here’s hoping that 2021 goes better - 2020 set the bar pretty low so it shouldn’t be too hard. 🥂

Snow was a rare occurrence in the Fire Nation. Summers typically scorched, followed by peaceful autumns and mild winters; a little rainfall was all one typically expected during the colder months in the Imperial City. 

This year, however, was much different. The mountains that bordered the villages and towns throughout the island were white capped under gray skies; streets were slickened by thick layers of ice that settled between cobblestones and creased the panes of windows; bracing breezes swept through landscapes unaccustomed to such unforgiving weather, carrying flurries of snow that bit at cheeks and cloaked the world in a dull ivory veil. Winter came to the Fire Nation seeking a cruel, unwarranted vengeance.

You woke in the middle of the night to find the fire beside your bed had died, leaving your borrowed room in a state of bitter, slicing cold. It wasn't the first time the Firelord’s palace had left you uncomfortably chilled since your arrival for his New Year’s celebrations, as the building was never meant to withstand this type of climate - sweeping ceilings, open breezeways, and tall windows with thin shutters ensured that the cold had its way. Being from the Northern Earth Kingdom, used to sturdy wooden lodges with massive fire pits that could burn an entire tree trunk with one lighting, this strange change of the typical season made you ache for home. 

Knowing there were no matches beside the hearth (given the sheer amount of fire benders that resided in the palace), you gathered up your courage and begrudgingly rolled from your mattress, taking the blankets with and wrapping them tightly around yourself. The walls around you creaked, shifting under the push of moaning winds, as you slipped into the hallway in search of your host. 

You were thankful that Zuko decided to keep his personal wing of the palace confined to a space that was mostly enclosed; the only breezeways in this part of the sprawling estate surrounded its courtyards and gardens, and were blocked by sets of heavy wood doors that shielded the inner parts of the building from being overcome by the elements. As you walked, traipsing through the corridor under your mound of blankets like some sort of shadowy, death-bringing phantom, you passed one of the windows that overlooked the gardens, and found it frosted under heavy white tufts of snow; puffy, clumped flakes whirled down from the sky, falling haphazardly as they escaped the grip of the whipping wind. Even in the relative warmth of the palace, your body shivered thinking of how frigid the air outside must be. 

Because of the abnormal cold, Zuko moved his mattress out of his bedroom and into his sitting room, where a large, decorative fireplace stood nestled into the far wall. You approached his sleeping form with gentle, quiet steps, being careful not to startle him; you lay a hand on his shoulder and he jolted awake, drawing a sharp breath in as he twisted to face you, blinking blearily to make out your features in the dark. 

“What are you doing?” he muttered. 

“I'm cold,” you whispered in response. “My fire went out.” 

Zuko sighed, fixing you with an irked, exhausted expression. 

“Seriously?” he groaned. “This is the third time this week.” 

“It's not my fault nobody has any friggin matches in this place,” you quipped. “And besides, why bring a servant all the way up here when I have one of the world’s greatest fire benders down the hall?”

Zuko huffed, then rolled back over in an attempt to shove you off. 

“There should be more blankets in your closet,” he grumbled. 

“I'm wearing all of them,” you retorted. 

You stood above him, waiting, but got no response. Shivering, and with an exasperated sigh, you pulled back the blankets around him, shuffling between them and nestling into his back; he snapped his head around once more, eyeing you suspiciously. 

“... Isn’t this a little uncomfortable?” he wondered. 

“Not really,” you replied. “We used to do this all the time when we were teenagers.” 

“We haven't done this since we were teenagers.”

You hummed, recalling your time together during the war. Even on the hottest days, your body was cold, your fingers always reasonably corpselike to anyone who happened to touch them - Zuko was one of those unfortunate people, and the lack of circulation in your limbs came as quite a worry to him. Throughout the day, he would take one of your hands in his, heating his palm until your skin took on a more lively temperature. When he noticed how much you layered at night when the air became cooler, he started sleeping nearer to you, eventually curling up around you to keep you warm. After the war, when he got into the habit of visiting you around the winter holidays, you still found yourself seeking him for warmth, tucking your hands into the sleeves of his robes or curling his palm around your icy fingers, finding sanctuary in the way he heated his skin to appease you. While it was true you hadn't slept together since you were younger, you hadn't ever needed to - desperate times called for desperate measures. 

“I should have remembered that you get so grumpy when you're tired,” you teased him, rubbing your feet against his; he hissed, but didn't pull away. 

“You're freezing,” he commented. “I should have remembered you're dead on the inside.” 

You giggled, sighing happily as the familiar heat of his skin warming like a furnace chased the chill from your toes. You slid your feet up along his ankles, causing him to shiver; his body tensed for a moment, then eased into your touch, quickly finding comfort in its familiarity. 

“Aang used to assume we were a couple because of this,” Zuko mumbled. “He still does.” 

“You're just a good friend,” you replied. You nuzzled your face into the broad, solid expanse of his back, breathing in his scent of scorched wood and sea salt. He felt like home. “Good friends don't let their friends freeze to death.” 

Zuko chuckled, taking hold of your hands that lay on his waist and cupping them within his own; he held your knuckles up to his mouth and huffed warm, smokey air onto them, heating them until they no longer felt cold. He tucked them beneath the fabric of his tunic, keeping them tepid between the fabric of his undershirt. 

“Uncle says the same thing,” he mused. “He says we treat each other like lovers, whether we realize it or not.” 

“My neighbors have asked me what my husband does that takes him away for so long out of the year...” you commented, eliciting another breathy laugh from your companion. “But I think I'd know if you were in love with me.” 

Zuko rolled over, turning to face you; his arm latched at your waist, his chest almost pressed to you and your noses grazing each other in the small space of his mattress. You blushed, the color blending with the soft, balmy glow of the low hearth behind him. 

“What makes you think I'm not in love with you?” he wondered. 

You paused, watching the flames flicker over the angular features of his face. Though he was silhouetted, and so close he seemed to envelop all of you, you could make out a tender gleam in his eye; could feel the flutter in his chest as he split it open, tentatively revealing his heart to you. 

“... I'd like to think you would have mentioned it,” you answered after a moment, “but I know you better than that.” 

Zuko grinned; you watched the curve of his cheek as it swelled with the action. 

“I might have mentioned it,” he murmured, his voice lilting with a gentle mirth. “Just not to you.”

“Of course not,” you teased. You mirrored his smile, easing into him as his foot began to stroke against your ankle once more. “Either way, I know you don't love me.” 

“And why is that?” Zuko whispered. 

“Well… you never write to me about anything exciting,” you replied. “You always seem so content to write to me about your thoughts, or what plays you've seen recently, or your conversations with Iroh. You never tell me about the impressive, world-altering Firelord stuff or your incredible exploits as a warrior.” 

Zuko smirked, raising a hand to brush some hair away from your face. His fingers were calloused and lukewarm, tracing over your temple with consideration and care. 

“Why else?” 

“You've never tried to kiss me,” you noted, “or touch me like a lover. You never try to push our boundaries past anything that's comfortable for us. Even right now - I'm laying in your bed, but you refuse to touch me in a way you're unsure of.” 

“Then you don't love me, either,” Zuko added. His body had gravitated flush to yours, your legs braided together under the pile of blankets you'd buried him in. “You only want to sleep with me when you're cold. You could just as easily call a servant for help.” 

“And you only want to keep me warm out of obligation,” you agreed. “It wouldn’t make you look very good if I died of hypothermia on your watch.” 

For a long moment, Zuko gazed at you. You basked in his silence, the easiness of his form so close to yours, the native feeling of his arm around your waist and his breath tickling your cheeks. The fire snapped quietly in its hearth, its flames rising and falling in time with his inhales and exhales. 

“I’ve missed this,” Zuko admitted in a whisper. “Laying with you. I wish we could do it more often.” 

“I’ve missed it, too,” you affirm. “I always used to sleep better with you.” 

“And that’s it?” Zuko teased. 

“That’s it,” you giggled back. 

He chanced a kiss to your forehead, pressing his lips between your brows and letting them linger there, savoring the coolness of your skin. You shut your eyes, giving yourself entirely to his touch. 

“In the new year… do you think we could be lovers?” he asked as he pulled away. 

“... I think your uncle is right,” you murmured. “I think we already are.” 

With a faint, bashful smile, Zuko pulled you closer (if the act were even possible), hugging you tightly to him; you held him close, pressing the whole of your body to his and soaking in his steady, comforting warmth. As the wind howled outside, shaking the flimsy wooden eaves of the feeble shelter around you, you fell asleep in the heat of his fireside, safe in the knowledge that his arms held you. 

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[earthstellar]

TFP Concept Essay: What if the bots had come to Earth and landed in Russia?

Almost a year ago, I posted about a jokey mental image of Ratchet having to wear a giant ushanka if they had landed in Russia because he’s an old bot and would be more prone to cold metal fatigue, but it got me thinking: 

What if the Cybertronians had made contact on Earth in Russia, and not the USA? 

Why Russia? 

Both continents would be appealing from a landing standpoint; The USA and Russia both cover a massive amount of land, so even without knowledge of human national borders, it’s safe to assume that the areas on the globe that would look the most appealing may very well be: 

-North American Continent

-Russia/Eastern Europe

-African Continent 

Now, without knowledge of human national borders, many other parts of Europe, South America, etc. may have also seemed like good options at first, Brazil and Mexico come to mind, but we need to establish what Cybertronians would be looking at in terms of terrain and population risk. 

We can assume that Cybertronians didn’t have prior information on the actual life, society, and general human construction on Earth because the bots (while they have been on Earth long enough to have at least cursory knowledge of humans) still act as though humanity is a bit novel to them.

 A lot of information would not have been available to them outside of Earth’s orbit or atmosphere, and by the time they were in atmosphere, a decision would have to be made quickly based on relative proximity and what data they could scan for within that possibly very limited amount of time.

Nevada, USA likely seemed appealing because it has mountainous and flat terrain in large swathes, with few largely inhabited areas especially near old nuclear testing sites (some radiation may have appeared on any scans they were capable of performing once in-atmosphere and that ambient radiation may have obscured the radiation that they themselves generate as we know sparks emit radioisotopes), making it a good option if they happened to wind up over North America and had to make a quick call. 

(All of this assumes that they had some control over where they landed; It may have been the situation that their ship was damaged enough that they just had to end up wherever they ended up, in which case, they just as easily could have wound up making contact in Russia anyway.) 

This isn’t to ignore the suggestion that Cybertronians had prior, ancient involvement with Earth in some capacity. In fact, that’s a big part of why I think Russia is a reasonable place for them to go. 

-We know Unicron’s energy was deposited into or directly forms the core of Earth. This is explained, albeit quickly, that at some point in Earth’s early history, when Unicron was expelled from Cybertron, his life force ended up on Earth. 

-Would Earth have still been Pangea at that time? What did the continental layout of Earth look like when Unicron’s energy nestled into the planet? 

-Assuming Unicron’s impact with Earth was not the meteor that killed the dinosaurs, which in the TFP universe it may well have been given the timeline of Cybertron relative to Earth, let’s instead assume continental drift had already occurred. 

-Russia is well known for perma-frost and preserved biological life in layers going back centuries. I have a great visual concept of Unicron’s dark energon appearing as purple or black layers of ice, settled unseen and unnoticed under the ground. 

-We also know energon is naturally occuring, in a crystalline, mineral like form. Just like Nevada, USA, many parts of Russia have a similar history of mineral mines and crystal mines, so the actual potential for energon crystals to grow is definitely equal if not arguably better in Russia as there is far more variety of geological conditions across Russia as a nation than there is across Nevada as a state. 

-To better explain the above idea, Czech could also be an energon deposit area, as we know Czech crystal and mineral mines are very successful which is why they are able to produce so much garnet, and even garnet of different varieties. Red garnet and the rarer black garnet. We can assume energon and dark energon would form crystals similar, but not exactly the same, and we know that Central and Eastern Europe have very good geological conditions for this already in real life! 

Compare red garnet with energon, and black garnet with dark energon; Similar structures but very different end results: 

Notice also how energon crystals seem to form in clusters like plain quartz, which is the second most abundant mineral in Earth’s crust: 

We can assume that because the crystal structures of quartz and energon are so similar, that energon may have the geological ability to thrive and be harvested from most areas on Earth in a similar fashion, so this doesn’t necessarily rule out other appealing continents/areas, either! 

But it’s not unreasonable to believe that when coming into atmosphere, the Cybertronian ship tech would likely pick up recognisable energy signatures before managing to process other purely Earth-native data. In doing so, they may notice concentrations of energon and dark energon in Central and Eastern Europe, or perhaps contaminated dark energon from Unicron’s initial contact with Earth within the terrain or perma-frost areas (where applicable), and decide to head towards those regions as fuel will be easier to find and closer to any base they might be able to establish. 

What if Decepticons land first? 

The above section also assumes the Autobots are the first to reach Earth; If the Decepticons were to arrive first, I have no doubt that they would head for any concentrations of dark energon as commanded by Megatron. Countries with larger land mass and older long-lived terrain may have a higher concentration than other areas.

For example, Florida would be a bad place for them to look for energon or dark energon deposits in the USA as the state isn’t that far above seawater and erosion is a huge problem, so there is likely very little dark energon concentrated in the actual land. No significant deposits would be found as there isn’t enough actual ground to contain all that much, compared to other places that may have mountains, hills, ice, valleys, etc. that may accumulate such materials over time significantly better and with higher concentration/overall quantity. This is why other peninsulas, islands, or coastal/water heavy areas like the Mediterranean or Holland may not be as appealing to the Decepticons.

Back to searching for the right spot...

Looking for a place to land, Central Europe, although with good crystal potential, may not look like as good of an option, due to population density that would become evident once better scans were available. Rural areas in a lot of Central European countries are still relatively small in comparison to slightly more north on the map, where rural Russian areas may afford larger spaces to work with, proximity to a wider range of supplies, afford a degree of secrecy, and there may be complexes or materials that could be easily stripped or repurposed that wouldn’t impact on native human life or communities/wouldn’t draw much attention. 

And remember what I said about radiated areas possibly affording cover for their own naturally emitted radioisotopes which may otherwise be detected by human instrumentation; Russia has a similar history of radiological site contamination to that in Nevada, USA-- And not just Chernobyl, which also irradiated Belarus as well as Ukraine, but there’s also Mayak/Kyshtym/Lake Karachay and the surrounding East Urals irradiation, among a few other sites. It might be an appealing factor for them to consider when choosing somewhere to land. 

(I don’t want to skim over the fact that people do live in the these affected areas; I highly suggest you research into this if you’re reading this and have never heard of those sites. There used to be a fundraiser for people living in and around Mayak as well as an awareness effort, but I’m unsure of where that link/website has gone. If I find it again, I will link it. For now, here is a documentary/interview series with local people; Please be aware it may be upsetting, but their voices deserve to be heard if you think you can handle it.) 

Once landed, they could also survey more, and consider their options. Russia has a lot of rural space in some areas, and plenty of very appealing abandoned sites that could possibly be converted into functional bases when supplemented with metal and other materials collected from other similar abandoned industry areas or factories etc., which would spare them the need to actually make their own; They could just re-use the raw material, whatever’s usable, and if necessary look for better cover. 

Russia has tons of biomes/terrain types: 

So they have options. We know in TFP that extreme cold does impact Cybertronians, so tundra and more northern arctic territory would be ruled out, but I can easily see them going for a rural abandoned industrial site in a forested area, which would provide significant visual cover, likely areas already cleared out by previous industry in a given area, and minimal chance of discovery by humans depending on specifically where they end up. 

How would Cybertronian-Human alliances go down? 

A big difference in approach to setting up a base would be the Russian government/forces, and the reaction to the Autobot arrival. 

In TFP, the bots work directly with the USA Air Force/Army, and the base seems to be primarily US Army operated. Their existence and the operations at their base may well be hidden from the wider USA Federal government for the most part at least, possibly using the already secretive clustered Nevada sites as a cover and making the Autobots something of an internal local operation or “quiet site”, which would fit what we see on screen generally speaking. We don’t really get a lot of clarification on this part of things.

But what would the reaction of the Russian government/Army be to discovering the Autobots? 

We know that Russian national forces are very, very capable of defending their air space. It’s unlikely if not impossible that a Cybertronian ship would go undetected or unnoticed, if not immediately then at least within. Seismic data is often monitored and reported as well, so the actual impact of landing may trigger an alert record to be sent to the relevant people, who can escalate those reports. 

Think about Japanese tsunami/earthquakes or West Coast USA earthquakes, and how quickly public alerts and operations are put underway, even before physical effects are felt. Most nations have at least some similar system in place, sometimes to detect earthquakes, others to detect suspected weapons impacts.

We can safely assume that even if they were remote and under as much cover as possible, it wouldn’t be long before Russian forces were involved, and therefore the Russian government. 

I won’t comment on the politics of other nations, although I am very open to hearing from Russian people about their take on this, but it is very possible that the initial engagement would go one of two ways: 

1) Defensive Conflict

2) Attempted Diplomatic Resolution 

I don’t believe conflict would be immediate, because of the sheer physical intimidation and surprise factors. Nobody expects to find giant robot aliens, and there may be immediate challenges surrounding basics like verbal communication (have the Autobots learned human language, in this case Russian, by the time of their discovery?) and so on. This may complicate first contact, as it would anywhere.  

I don’t know if resolution would be reached, as I think it’s likely that the Russian govt would like to weaponize or manipulate the Autobots, use them to intimidate other nations (”look, we have giant robot aliens”), or upon learning of the Russian government or after becoming more aware of the political/social mood amongst Russian citizens if they encounter any communities and perform low key intelligence gathering for a better idea of the local humans, seeing material conditions in some of these more rural areas, after obtaining historical or current socio-political data, etc., Optimus or others may simply decide they don’t wish to work with the government and attempt to peacefully decline, thus issuing diplomatic ultimatums (similar to the back and forth that occurs when trying to establish treaty agreements).

I’d like to note here that I think the Autobots likely had to have a similar discussion with the USA govt, as I think the US Army would have initially had a very similar thought process. I get the feeling Optimus made it clear he wouldn’t be manipulated and wouldn’t be caught up in other conflict(s)/fight human battles.

However, this would be their first experience with human government, as this would be their first contact. They may well assume that this is representative of how things work on Earth until they have the chance to learn otherwise, and in an attempt to be diplomatic, Optimus might cooperate until it becomes clear that it isn’t a good fit, and how the Russian government would handle the subsequent conversation would be anyone’s guess. (Again, Russian people, please tell me what you think!) 

Ultimately, either USA or Russian governments would likely want to at least not ruin diplomatic relations with a space-faring, seemingly extremely powerful alien species. Sometimes that’s what it comes down to, and that would be enough, although conflict could arise here and there, like when we see Agent Fowler have to defend the Autobots to his superiors. 

Episode / Scene Concepts

I have an excellent image of further down the line, however, where things are smoothed over or at least tenuously managed with the Russian govt (perhaps an allotted small autonomous zone for the bots to create their base in with minimal interference, under certain conditions)... There could be so much potential for some great episodes with human interaction with the bots. 

-A great episode of just creating the base, figuring out what’s around, gives us a look at where they are in Russia and who’s nearby, we could see some pretty beautiful shots of abandoned Soviet tech and sites being repurposed and revitalised (with Russian designs remaining evident in the final base construction, just with Cybertronian flair). Maybe within the Autobot Autonomous Zone we would even see locals engaging with the process after the initial shock...

I have an image of Ratchet arguing with an old Russian engineer, and it goes on for a while until the engineer explains to Ratchet that working with scarce resources in less than ideal conditions isn’t exactly new to them, and they might have some valuable tips for working under such conditions. Ratchet comes to respect the engineer after they work together to create a functional power network made from old factory components, a few turbines from an old textile workshop, power generators from abandoned Soviet sites, and power poles made from disused radar systems. 

They relate to each other after they get to talking while cleaning up the rest of the work, and it turns out both of them have similar concerns about the futures of their respective peoples, and have some degree of depression over what they feel they may have lost forever to political games and wars beyond their control, sharing some memories with each other. The engineer is their first local human ally. 

-Russian kids stumbling upon the bots! I’d love to see parallels to the American TFP kids. Miko from Yakutia would be the best, and I believe I talked about that with someone on here months ago. I still love the idea.

-Who would the Agent Fowler character be? He’s listed as being a US Army Ranger, and I’m not sure what the equivalent rank would be in the Russian Army. Google tells me that the equivalent would be a Spetsnaz role, but I am unfamiliar with Russian Army structure, or how personnel might be allocated to the proposed Autobot Autonomous Zone or “secret city” realistically. 

It would be good to get an episode where the Agent or equivalent character first meets the Autobots, and how expectations differ from reality. Maybe over time we see a crisis of conscious with this character, where they initially start out as keeping an eye on things for the government, but slowly become friends with the Autobots and wish to engage more genuinely with them and the other humans who may be involved. 

-An episode where Optimus realises they need to learn more about these humans to work with them more effectively, and sets everyone on tasks related to cultural reconnaissance. 

Optimus studies the literature and history of Russia, and has perhaps some spicy takes. Arcee goes on a drive and has fun going up and down hills in Vladivostok, then races a Trans-Siberian Railway train back and takes note of what the people inside the train are doing. Bulkhead explores cultural identity with Yakutian!Miko. 

Ratchet looks into human medicine and is fascinated by Russian folk medicine and goes on a rant about Soviet spa/sanitorium treatment programs. Ultra Magnus delves into Russian law and almost burns out his processor. Wheeljack explores some industrial sites and studies the detonation techniques of Russian construction workers, comparing their casual conversations to those between him and fellow Wreckers. 

Bumblebee finds an old radio station and uncovers some extremely good bops. Smokescreen discovers Russian dash cam videos and gets pulled over for trying to recreate one. 

Phew! Initial post done! 

There might be more in the future as I love this idea, but I’d equally love to hear from Russian TFP fans: What do you think? What episodes or scenes do you think would be fun or interesting? Is there anything you’d like to add or change? 

Please add whatever you’d like, and if anything I said above comes across as uninformed, I encourage you to correct me or pitch other ideas if you would be so kind as to take the time to do so. :)