#like silent wings beneath the moon { aesthetics. }

[caelumaviis]

Tag Dump

Nocturnal interactions { ic. }

Owls sleep during the day { ooc. }

I do not deliver the mail { ask. }

Friend or foe? { anon. }

The wandervogel { herself. }

Ready for take off { devil fruit. }

Like silent wings beneath the moon { aesthetics. }

Birds of a feather { relationships. }  

And here they built their nest { origin. }  

Mapping the skies { headcanons. }

So beautiful the moon shone brighter that day { savings. }

Beyond the shiny plumage { wardrobe. }

And the stars spilled from her lips { musings. }

Strumming her guitar to the beat { muse songs. }

Your day is my night { queue. }

Let us sing until dawn { promo. }

Do you have a cracker? { crack. }

[twothumbsandnostakeincanon]

My brain apparently really likes the idea of wing!whump. How about: After the Nogitsune spits him out, Stiles' wings are wrong. He does his best to hide it, and them, but someone is going to notice sooner or later. Cue Peter being both more intrusive and more empathetic than expected (only one of those is actually a surprise).

Okay. Okay. Fuck, I love this. This is so good.

When the nogitsune split from Stiles, it took the original body and shoved Stiles into the new one. The new one was identical to the old one, down to the last mole, except for one thing: instead of dusty brown feathers, he had black. So black that they seem to suck in light, making it hard to distinguish individual feathers. The flat effect was so uncanny that some of the sillier students at the high school started a rumor that Stiles had his feather wings surgically replaced with bat wings. 

That was ridiculous, of course, and most of the student body and townsfolk just assumed he was using powders or dyes. It’s his teenage right to have a goth phase, so no one looked twice after they’d taken in the new look. The pack looked even less, thinking that they already knew the secret of Stiles’ changed wings. 

But Peter watched Stiles. He’s always watched Stiles, from the beginning, before he could even fully grasp why he was doing it. Because he watched, he’s the only one that noticed how Stiles’ wings do catch the light- but only sometimes. Only in spots, but never the same spot twice. 

It happened at random times as well; after a day long research binge on the town’s latest irritant. During an argumentative pack meeting. Peter even saw it by happenstance at the grocery store. It tugged at Peter’s curiosity. 

It couldn’t be a cosmetic product, or the effect would be more uniform. It might be magical in origin, but Stiles’s magic put off a specific scent since the nogitsune- not an unpleasant one, but consistently noticeable just the same. 

He found the answer thanks to the manticore and his own violent streak. 

Peter had been ready for a tussle- the unsolved mystery of Stiles’ wings left a simmering frustration on the back of his tongue, and he was fully prepared for a cathartic evening with his claws. 

Scott, of course, had wanted to sedate the beast. Peter was even gracious enough to allow him to try all four vials of ketamine before flicking him out of the way and attacking. He deftly dodged the wings, spinning beneath the beasts claws before burying his own in its neck, ripping out its throat and sending arterial spray across the clearing. 

A part of him reveled in the violence of the mess- the evidence of his abilities, the satisfaction of his base instincts. 

The rest of him, however, had an aesthetic to maintain. 

He took his handkerchief out and began to carefully wipe down his wings, ignoring the disgusted complaints of the rest of the pack. Well, the complaints of everyone but Stiles, who was too busy harvesting the spines from the manticore’s tail. Peter looked at him appraisingly, noticing that he hadn’t missed the spray of blood, but was simply more invested in taking advantage of the situation. He’d wiped his face clean, but still had blood spattered across his neck and shoulders, and presumably across his wings, although it was impossible to tell with how dark the feathers were. 

Except. 

Except, they caught the light. In exactly the way that baffled Peter so, in random spots. Spots briefly reflecting the moon. 

Spots that were covered in blood. 

Stiles finished gathering the spines, and did his part in calling up the earth to bury the animal. Everyone parted ways immediately afterward, eager to find the closest bath. 

Peter, however, followed Stiles home. 

He knew he was being allowed to; there was no way Stiles was unaware that he was being followed, and if he truly didn’t want Peter there then he had enough wards to keep him out. 

Instead, Peter found himself easily allowed into Stiles’ room as he was putting away his new bounty. 

“What do you want, Creeperwolf?” Stiles asked, looking up at Peter curiously. Peter shrugged casually. 

“I made a bit of a mess back there-”

Stiles snorts, repeating “a bit” sarcastically under his breath.

“-so I thought it polite to help you groom your feathers.” 

It was fascinating, to see the slight shifts in Stiles’ expression. The ones that mean nothing on his face was real. The ones that mean everyone else has been shut out. 

“No thanks, Uncle Bad Touch-” Stiles said caustically, but Peter interrupted him. 

“They’re quite a mess,” he said lightly, eyeing the wings critically. It’s not really true, the feathers he can see are mostly straight even after their busy night. But it does get the mask on Stiles’ face to drop slightly. 

“My wings are fine. Did you honestly come here to act like a bitchier, cut-rate version of Jonathan Van Ness?”

“I’m not a bitchier cut-rate version of Jonathan Van Ness, Jonathan Van Ness is a less bitchy cut-rate version of me, and how would you even know if they’re a mess? You can’t see.”

Stiles opened his mouth to argue, but Peter was too fast. Too quick, and too determined. 

He slid behind Stiles, ignoring the immediate buffeting of his wings, and peered closely at the coverts. More blood was obvious now that he was looking closely, but it was buried beneath the thick layers of matte black feathers, close to the skin. He carefully moved the top ones aside, stopping when Stiles let out a pained hiss and froze. 

There was blood everywhere. 

Broken pin feathers scattered his skin, the collection of calami much denser than normal. Bent rachis and torn vanes could be seen all over the place, once again hidden beneath the thick layer of top feathers. 

A memory of burnt wings, and the pain that came from deformed feathers constantly breaking made him shudder.

“Christ,” he breathed out. 

Stiles hunched a little, clearly bracing for more pain, babbling. 

“I can’t- they just grow that way now. They’re so thick, there isn’t enough space for the new feathers to come in. They’re constantly breaking. Even if I had time to groom for hours every day-” 

“This happened after the nogitsune?” Peter interrupted. 

Stiles nodded, and then carefully pulled away, turning to look at Peter, who finally dropped his hands. 

“Something about the- the way the nogitsune made this body… I heal faster now. I don’t need as much sleep.” He scoffed out a tiny laugh and looked away before turning his dry gaze back to Peter. “My hair is thicker too.” He sighed. “It’s not like it’s a real problem-”

“The blood on your feathers is evidence to the contrary,” Peter interrupted again, voice tight.

Stiles went silent.

“Let me help you with your wings,” Peter said. Insisted, really, even if Stiles’ didn’t know that yet. 

“Peter-” Stiles sighed. “It’s not just that I don’t have time. It- it really fucking hurts, okay?” He grit his teeth. “The amount of time it would take to straighten everything out daily… I’d rather just bear the pain of some feathers breaking than spending hours trying not to scream.” He jut out his jaw, as if daring Peter to mock him for wanting to avoid the hurt. 

As if there was anyone who understood the bearing and avoidance of pain more than Peter.

Instead, Peter lightly said, “If only you had someone offering to groom you who is also capable of taking away your pain.” 

Stiles’ mouth fell open. He clearly hadn’t considered that.

“Lay down,” Peter demanded, only a little surprised when Stiles actually did so. He placed one hand on the small of Stiles’ back between his wings, rubbing his thumb back and forth as he began to drain the pain of the broken feathers. 

It was difficult to stay calm in the face of evidence that Stiles had been bearing this much pain since the nogitsune without anyone in the pack noticing. 

With his other hand, he began to clean and straighten feathers. 

Stiles fell asleep almost immediately, as surprising as not beneath Peter’s hands, given the situation and their night. Peter continued to work for hours. He groomed as best he could under the onslaught of sharp quills and thick down, considering the various medical and magical options available that might help the problem. 

By the time he finished, his own hands were beginning to ache. Stiles stirred just as he opened the window to leave. 

“Peter?” he asked, voice rough, not quite fully awake. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Peter assured him. “I’ll groom you again and we can talk about how to fix the problem.” 

Stiles stared at him for a moment, sleep rumpled and more relaxed than Peter had seen in months. Then he collapsed back down to his pillow. 

“You’re weird,” he muttered, and then-

“Thank you, Creeperwolf.” 

Peter smirked, and shut the window behind him. 

[fvaleraye]

Ashes and Dust

Heyyyyyy, would you look at that... another Scintillam chapter. Ngl, I hit a creative block super hard for a while. I had several WIPs that I wanted to do, but... like, once I started them, I didn’t really feel it, y’know? So, I decided to start fresh, and just. Work on something chill. So I did! This is gonna be another Charthos chapter, I’ll probably swap back to the gals pov soon, but I’m just feeling my old cranky pyromancer man rn Also, I would like to give a big shoutout to @artnerd1123 for proofreading the chapter for me, and helping fix some stuff that i missed/didn’t think about. Tyvm, Belle... I appreciate you... Anyway, I hope y’all enjoy reading...

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The month of the Blazing Moon meant long days, and short nights. A dreadful heat washed over most of the land, as the name implied, save for the ever-chilled northern mountains, of course. The farmers across the land harvested their summer crops and prepared for the coming of fall. Though travel wasn't exactly booming in the suffocating summer heat- unless the travel led to a coast or someplace cooler- there were many who were unbothered by the temperature. The lizardfolk especially thrived during these times. On the other hand, pyromancers considered the Blazing Moon to be a holy month, if for no other reason than the fact that it preceded the coming of the Embered Moon, when the Rite of Embers would take place. To see a pyromancer out of their lands during these months was a rarity, but one could be seen walking the roads. An old, tired pyromancer. Charthos had been travelling for weeks. Magna Terra was not small, but the place he searched for was. Just a modest little hamlet in the middle of nowhere. In the Great Plains, no less- one of the biggest open spaces of absolutely nothing on the whole continent. It was easier to navigate than the Ashen Plains. No waist-high ash to trudge through. Roads were still sparse, though. And every direction looked equally identical. At least the sun was visible, that helped. And he had a passable sense of direction. And he remembered the little town from many, many years ago. It had something resembling sentimental significance for him. Something like that. Still wasn't easy to find. There weren't exactly towers scraping the clouds to tell him when he was getting close. If he was visiting one of the cities, this wouldn't be nearly as difficult. He huffed, embers and sparks leaving his old, splintered body. He watched the little sparks of life fall to the earth. At least this grass isn't dry yet. He mused. That would cause issues for the Uncharred 'round here, huh... He let out a quiet little chuckle. For a people who didn't use fire for much more than lighting the dark or warming things up, they sure did live in some flammable areas. A few suns pass, more of the same. Eventually, hints of brown wood, stone foundations, and gray smoke from chimneys started to peak over the horizon. Thank the fucking Traveller, I'm finally here. Or, well, close enough.

Another few minutes of trudging slowly on the path lead the pyromancer to the town square. It was a quiet town. Or, at least, it was supposed to be. There was a decent crowd gathered in the middle of the square, seemed like the whole town, or near enough. They were gathered around a woman in strange garb standing on a small makeshift stage. She was not a short woman- even if she was level with the crowd she would probably still peek over their heads- but she was still clearly human. At least, from what one could tell. She wore a pale dress with no sleeves, and ribbons circled her arms. Her face was covered but a wooden mask, the face of it painted with a fierce, purple visage, with horns protruding from the sides, her brown hair braided underneath it. Around her on the stage were a few other similarly dressed individuals, though, unlike her,  they were silent. The woman was yelling and gesturing with all the fervor and energy of a young, opinionated priest. But she wasn't a priestess. At least, not like one he had seen. He stepped closer to the edge of the crowd to better hear what had the strange woman up in arms.

"-nd one day, they will return! The great, scaled beasts of time immemorial!" She cried. "The dragons will return, and the skies shall darken beneath their great wings, as they take back what was once, what has always been, theirs, and destroy those who presume to own their lands, their world!" She began pointing to various members of the crowd. "All of you, all of us, will be wiped from this world, like footprints washed away in a rainstorm, as the fury of nature itself descends on us, and we will all be but ashes and dust! Unless we supplicate the great scaled ones as we once did! Mayhaps, they will even see fit to elevate us to their greatness! You need only-!"

Charthos began to walk away after realizing that the one he was looking for wasn't among the crowd, as well as getting tired of the woman's screeching, and the looks from the crowd. Doomsayers. Dime a dozen nowadays... He thought, given an exasperated sigh. He stepped away from the main square, and began making his way towards the residential area of the little town. He glanced over each home as he walked, looking for one in particular. They were all very similar; wooden walls and roof, at least two windows, chimney, stone foundation raising it above the dirt... the differences were aesthetic. Some had nice curtains. Others had cleanly painted roofs, or walls. A few had flowers, whether gardens of them, or simply a few on the window sill. It was downright pleasant. What I wouldn't give to live like this again. Even if only for a time. He brushed off the sentimental thoughts as he turned to one house, practically near the end of the edge of town. It was simple, like all the others. It had purple curtains, and rather... exotic looking plants growing in a side garden. He walked up the steps, and gave the door a small knock. There was some silence, and then he knocked again, this time louder. Footsteps started approaching the door, the sounds of several locks being undone sounded past the wooden surface. After a moment, a pair of gray eyes peeked past a crack in the door. They looked over the demon-infested, wooden man, and closed the door to undo another lock. The door creaked open, revealing a tired looking woman in patchy clothes. "May I come in?" Charthos asked, hesitantly. The woman just motioned him inside, and locked the door before turning to face him.

"What do you want, old man?" She asked tersely, leaning on the doorway of the dimly lit, but still rather charming abode.

"Hello to you too, Penelope." He replied, his tone jabbing at her.

"If you're going to be like that, get out." She spit, her tired voice laced with venom.

"Aw, I feel so welcomed. Every grandfather's dream." He sighed, crouching down in front of the fireplace. "I need a favor from you, dear."

"Of course you do." She let out a spiteful laugh, still leaning on the doorway. "You never write, let alone visit, unless you need something from me."

Uncomfortable silence settled over the room, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. The man simply stared into the roaring flame in the stone fireplace, lost in his own head for a moment that felt like eternity. He didn't want to reply. He couldn't reply. Not with anything she would want to hear. Nothing he could say would make up for anything. Even if he wasn't facing her, he could feel her gaze piercing through him, bright and furious, like a bolt of lightning.

"Are you going to say anything?" She said, her frustrated tone slicing through the silence like a dagger.

"What do you want me to say?" He spat back, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm sorry? I've said that. I've said it so many times to so many people it's lost its meaning. Want me to say I was wrong? Well I was. Too late to change anything. What can I say that'll make you happy?"

Silence settled again. No answer came. She couldn't think of one. She just gave a long, tired sigh.

"Yeah, that's what I thought." He mumbled, turning back to the fire. "What are you cooking in here?"

She raised a brow at the question. "Excuse me?"

"What are you cooking in this fire?" He gestured to what was seemingly open air above the fire. "You're not warmin' up. Not in the middle of bleedin' summer. What are you cooking?"

After a brief moment of indignant hesitation, Penelope stepped away from the doorway, and waved a hand at the fire. The once orange and yellow flames turned black and purple, and all light they once produced vanished. In the center was a now visible deer's skull, being slowly and unnaturally devoured by the flames. Black magic. The pyromancer gave a small chuckle. "You really are like your mum." He said, tilting his head at it. "... how's she doin', by the by?"

"She's fine." The witch replied, tersely.

"... I'll take your word for it." He sighed. "How's your deadbeat pop?"

She returned with a sigh of her own, before giving an answer. "Hell if I know."

"I figured as much."

The two continued to stare at the dark flame in silence, as it casted dark and unnatural shadows over the room. The shifting shapes whispered indecipherably, in dead languages. Neither were very perturbed by it, but the girl was the only one really listening. That's why it was there, after all. After about half an hour of silence, the deer skull was gone, completely devoured by the flames, and with that, the black flames were gone near instantly, as well as the shapes, and their whispering. Light returned to the room, but silence was still dominant. Eventually, it was broken by another long sigh from the young witch. "I'll say it again. What do you want, old man?" He stared quietly at the open space where there was once fire. There were no embers. No smoke. It was as if it wasn't even there. An absolute void of space within the stone fireplace. Pristine. As if it had never been used once. He took a long, deep breath. He wanted to berate her. Tell her to maybe not make dealings with these things, but it would fall on deaf ears. Same as her mother. And besides. He wasn't one to talk, really.

"I need a coal." He said, finally. His request stilled the air in the wooden home.

After a moment of silence, the witch simply leaned over, reaching a hand into the fireplace, as a dark, viscous substance started to bleed from the stone. It wormed and writhed to the space where her hand rested, and formed into a small stone-like object. Darker than black, it seemed to suck the light out of the area around it. She handed it to him wordlessly, and he took it, stuffing it into a bag at his hip. With that now in his possession, he stood up, and looked to her. "Thank you, dear." He whispered, stepping towards the door. "I'll be going now. I know when I'm not wanted." He stepped out the door, and it was shut behind him. No goodbyes were exchanged, nothing more was said. Nothing more needed to be said. As he stepped down from the porch of the humble little house and back onto the dirt, he glanced back over his shoulder. "... I love you, dear." He said, wistfully. "You and your mum. I always did. The only flesh and blood I got left." He looked to the ground, his branches swaying a bit in the wind. "... and you." He added, seemingly to no-one in particular. Seemingly. "If any harm comes to her on account of you, I will know. And I will find you." With those final, ominous words, he started his trip out back out of town, a shape slipping out of his shadow as he left, to his next stop on this little journey of his.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Soft Little Secret

Was in a spring mood today. 

June finds Azula in a garden, covered in butterflies. 

Until therapy sessions, Azula wasn’t much of a garden person. The fragrances were nice enough. They made the palace look appropriately extravagant. But she’d never appreciated them in full. Not until one of her therapists had the sense to suggest that they try a different approach with her. An approach that offered more freedom. An approach that involved simply sitting outside for a while taking in the fresh air.

It had been nice to feel sunshine again and nicer still to be outside. Not that she wasn’t antsy and itching for something of substance to do.

But the garden was soothing. She had come to like it out there. She had come to enjoy the bird calls and the various insects buzzes--so long as they didn’t get too near. When offered time in the garden, Azula mostly liked to just lie there with the breeze rustling her cloths.

It was a habit she had carried into her daily life after her release. A thing to calm her after the stresses of readjusting to the palace and her duties as an advisor. On some days she could swear that Zuko was practically handing the crown over to her out of frustration.

Most of the time she kept to the serene privacy of the palace garden. Her favorite place to rest was beneath the red dragon maple with its carpet of firelily.

But soon she began seeking out a change of scenery. A venture that brought her to a place just outside of the capital. The garden was surprisingly much larger than the palace’s own. It was a host to a variety of flower types; the familiar fire lily mixed with panda lily and moon flower imported from the Earth Kingdom. There was a sprinkle of white lotus and jasmine and a dabble of deep orange dragon blossom and vibrant red rose. Spanish moss twisted with wisteria and hanging vines--twisted in some places, by human hand, to form arches. Some bowing low enough to tickle Azula’s head as she walked under. There were groves of familiar dragon maple and banyan mixed with thickets of bamboo. And near the groves grew clusters of purple berry and ash banana.

Days later she ventured further and ran into chili pepper plants and the less pleasant looking fly trap. Further still, and she came to find a circle of butterfly bush. That, she decided, was her favorite part of the garden. It had such an elegant perfume and an aesthetically pleasing blend of blues and purples, some to the likeness of her fire. She liked those the best.

And if she sat long enough and still enough a pastel swarm of butterflies would make their ways away from the bushes they gave name to and come to rest upon her arms and in her hair.

It was a look more suited to TyLee; a state in which she would rather not be spied by a familiar face.

It was the unfamiliar face that had taken her off guard.

The woman had found her sitting cross-legged with her arms outstretched, willfully trying to attracted the butterflies for once.

She could swear that they were growing accustomed to her presences as they seemed to cluster on her arm with little hesitation. She thought that she could even recognize some; namely a particularly vibrant teal-winged one with three dark blue spots on each.

That one made its way from her arm to the tip of her nose.

That was how the woman had found her.

Azula was ready to holler at the woman for scaring the butterflies away. But the other woman stood silent, watching dozens of wings twitch until they one-by-one glided away. Soon only the vibrant blue one remained. Carefully Azula picked it off of her nose and held it on her pointer.

“My favorite is the deep purple one.” The woman commented. “The one with the black squiggles.”

Azula hadn’t expected the woman to make conversation. She hadn’t expected to be spotted at all. When Azula didn’t reply the woman spoke again. “You’re the princess, right?”

The remark brought a delicate pink to her cheeks. Even less, she expected to be recognized.

“I might be.” She watched the butterfly drift back to its flowers.

“I’ve heard stories.” She looked the other way. “You never struck me as a garden person.”

“You don’t strike me as one.” Azula returned, referring mostly to her appearance. But, based upon the tattoo, she had a sneaking suspicion that this was the bounty hunter Zuko made mention of. The woman who supposedly beat men with muscles thrice the size of her own in arm wrestling contests. The woman who could supposedly chug a large mug of Earth Kingdom beer. The butterfly swarm was just as ill suited to her as it was to Azula, maybe even more so.

She gave a half laugh. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“Sometimes I need a break from sweaty burly men.”

Azula wrinkled her nose.

“What about you?”

Azula shrugged.

“I answered you…”

“You didn’t have to.” Azula replied.

“I can let everyone know that princess Azula has a girlish thing for butterflies and flowers.”

Azula narrowed her eyes. Sly woman. “It’s…” she thought for a moment. “Therapeutic. Better than straitjackets and medication.” She supposed that her snap was more or less common knowledge at that point.

“Right.” June agreed. “Yeah, it’s relaxing.” She gestured to the spot next to Azula, “can I?”

Azula shrugged. She supposed that she could use a new friend. A companion with a common interest and no poor history. “There’s plenty of room.”

June took a seat beside her and stared at the butterfly bush. “How do you get them to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Land on your arms and stuff.” June asked.

“I just sit still and wait.” Azula replied.

“No wonder they never come by me. Sitting still is not my strong suit.”

“Perhaps if you tried harder…” Azula trailed off. One by one, the butterflies were coming back, floating lazily towards Azula. Mostly, they landed upon the princess’ shoulders and in her hair. She held her hand out to June, their fingers brushing. “Hold still.”

“I’ll try.” She held herself rather rigid and waited. Just as she was retracting her arm, one of the butterflies crawled towards it. Inching steadily until it rested on the back of her hand. “Finally.” She huffed.

Clearly June wasn’t the serene sort. No less, she was gathering her own swarm of the insects. How long she would be able to keep them, Azula couldn’t say. She gently stroked the wings of her favorite blue butterfly. Briefly, she thought of taking it home with her. But she supposed that it would be better off left with its own. Agni forbid, she accidentally kill it.

A breeze fluttered the bush, sending a puff of petals into the air. A few butterflies took to the air with them. Azula looked over at June; she wore a half smile, one that turned more or less full when she caught Azula’s gaze. The princess thought fleetingly of averting her stare, but doing so wouldn’t take back having been caught.

She supposed that it was nice to have some company. She was almost certain that the intrusion would leave her feeling aggravated and that June would scare the swarm off. It would seem that things would go smoothly after all. Perhaps next time, she would bring food and drink for them.

With any luck, no one else would find them.

The image of a stoic war-bred princess and a heavily tatted pub frequenter covered in dainty and gossamer butterflies--perhaps with a flower tucked behind her ear--would probably earn a good stare. It was such a delicate and innocent image. Azula didn’t want to have to explain the sight.

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” June remarked after some time.

“I wasn’t planning on it, believe me.” Azula agreed.

It would be their little soft little secret.

[forever-halone]

How he always looked forward to returning home.

In the tall woodlands of Dimworld and beyond, a figure ambles between the imposing, spread out roots of the Percipient One. Though the forgiving shade of the night covered much of his shaking features, it was still clear as day that he was worse for wear.

Shambles of clothing covered much of his sun-kissed skin, wearing dark leathers and cloth of earthly colors in an unconscious decision to blend in with his new environment. Unconscious more was the nearly stomach-churning stench that he carried after him, having been far too invested in keeping himself out of sight to even consider a wash in an open river.

With a palm of grease and dirt, the Hyuran pushes his hair back from dangling over the front of his face as he continues further beneath the One’s lifted trunk, an enigma of nature that had formed a small dome that the nameless traveler had found shelter in. As he begins to fade entirely out of sight under It’s dusky shade, the crunching sound of his footsteps against the dry grass seems to grow louder as he grows more eager to settle down for the night.

Now with the twitching figure out of sight and out of sound, a raven that had found it’s perch over the thick array of branches above the One emits out a low, tired croak. The proud creature, unsettlingly large and shaped in beautiful, void black feathers that ruffled at its chest, hunched itself forward in a vain effort to try and spot the dirt-ridden man one last time. It croaks once more before abruptly jumping away from the branch, taking flight in the still air as it left the refuge of the great Percipient One.

The dark fowl soars with experienced ease over the woods, skirting amongst the bare, broken branches as it searched for a better perch. A low, bellow of a cry left its hoarse throat as it draws closer to a tall tree to the north, it’s trunk thick and outstretched overgrowth similar that to the grand tree it had left just moments prior.

But unlike to the tree it had just visited, a soft chorus of voices playing amongst one another sounded from the center of the ancient tree. As the raven grew closer, it could spot the familiar sight of four figures: two cloaked in black and leather settled over the center of the trunk, and the others each seated over their own branches just above. Judging by the passionate color of their converse, it must have been a heated discussion.

The raven didn’t care much for it, however, and continued its way toward them. Giving two strong final beats of its wings, it hovered over to the cloaked figure seated over one of the branches above, landing fluidly onto the woman’s shoulder. Greeting their companion with a low croak, the bird sunk its talons into the poacher’s leather harness to find itself comfortable by her side.

The other poacher in the bluntest of all their blacks, wearing grand, lush furs that crowned her collar and brushed the tips of her chin spins herself around the top of the wide trunk in an uneasy fidget around her brother. Her ears, colored in a pleasant cobalt blue hue, flutter endlessly in a dance of irritation. While she is the only one of the four that bears her wooden hunter’s mask among her colleges, annoyance is fresh in her animated limbs.

“Bloody ludicrous. Th’target is literally under our noses, an th’lot of you want t’go and finish it later like some fucking leftovers.” Idi turns to glare at the sister that bears the raven over her shoulder, who remained the prominent contender to her ideals.

She who challenged her merely remained comfortable and still over her own perch on the branch, focusing her minor movements in brushing the side of her fingers against the feathers of her returned companion. Without a mask to hide her, a long, stern smirk is presented unapologetically over her ashy, painted face.

“It ain’t so stupid to be prepared, innit? Poor bloke still hasn’t noticed us sniffin’ around, so time’s still on our side.” Jhutii crones, lifting her chin as she turned to look at her beloved, blinking slow.

“Should make use o’it when we ‘ave it for once. We can jus’ come back t’morrow better equipped n’shit.” Their brother agrees, earning a betrayed snarl from his impatient sibling. While his oaken mask was with him, it remains clasped between his hands, unconsciously tapping his index fingers against the forehead of the facepiece. His eyes, stark and an unnerving white that illuminated in the dark, wonder up toward the second sister perched amongst the dense branches.

Fayre’a finds his youngest sister, settled only a branch and a half away from Jhutii, hunched over with each of her cloaked legs saddling the perch. Her head is wrapped around and across her lower face with a neutral brown headdress, spotted in a calming red.

Her hands were raised before her slitted eyes, seemingly infatuated with the bizarre collection of rings over each of her fingers, not leaving her thumb to be an exception of her overt glamour. She begins to spin the gold ring of ruby and sapphire embedding at the end of her index finger, tapping gently against the silver, peridot coil that vaguely resembled a family heirloom—which proceeded to knock against the simple copper ring just above it. Her collection did not seem to be a sensible, or aesthetically pleasing pattern.

After adjusting at least a dozen of the rings adorning her fingers, the Seeker sister gradually turns her gaze toward the cobalt-colored hunter, who had begun to glare up at her from below. Dalu merely shrugs at the wordless request and returns her attention toward the ornaments in front of her with a half-lidded gaze.

Thought Idi had grown used to her overly decorated sister’s preference to silence, it still did not settle the fury in her breast. She sounds a growl from within her throat, whipping her masked face toward Jhutii again.

“Why are you so damn lenient all of a sudden, Jhutii? You’re usually th’first t’fly out during times like these.”

“Hah! Not true.” She chuckles, not bothering to tear her gaze away from the raven shifting around on her harness.

Joining in Idi’s doubtful stare, both Fayre’a and Dalu turn to look at their sister with blank looks. Soon enough, she turns away from her feathered friend to offer the others the start of a worried look.

“…yo, c’mon, it ain’t true—”

All three continue their silent judgment as if the quiet was a wordless show of their doubt. While their stances on their situation may have differed, each of the poachers was curious to know the truth of Jhutii’s sudden laidback nature.

“…I mean, it’s unrelated to all of this, but,” She rolls back her perched shoulder, sore from being burdening from the weight of her bird companion. “I got a date in the mornin’.”

Their cobalt-eyed sister shows fury. “You fucking litt—”

“Is it with the blonde Seeker from last moon?” Dalu interrupts, a smooth monotone coating her soft voice. “I liked her.”

“Nah, they dumped me for some farmboy…”

“Aw.” Dalu and Fayre’a both hum in unison, sympathetic. They both knew that was a rough one.

Meanwhile, Idi could only stand frustrated as their pity only solidified her challenger. And eventually, her frustrations came to fruition as the ring-bearing sister shrugged her shoulders.

“I wanna go later.” She decides; immediately earning a groan from Idi and a whine of relief from Jhutii.

“Thanks, bud! I’ll introdu—”

“Shut up! If we lose th’target, I’m killing and blaming all of you.”

“Y’should blame us before y’kill us, sis.” The brother drawls.

“Shuuut up! If we’re going back, we need to send out a message to th’… er, uh, client. I want tha’ asshole t’be here sooner rather than later. I don’t like playing jailmaster—”

“I do!” Jhutii puts it out there but is interrupted with a croak of her raven and a snap of her sister.

“Shut th’fuck up, Jhutii.”

As a tune of smug victory plays in her throat, the raven-bearing sister begins to shuffle through her belongings. The contents were organized; hunting, carrier, and daily items tucked neatly into their own sections and pouches within her long satchel.

With ease, Jhutii plucks a rolled carrier scroll and a thin strip of charcoal from her person and holds it out for Dalu to take—but the sister’s golden, hooded gaze looks through her. It was something they all knew well, unfortunately for them. 

After a still pause, she lifts her hand from her lap, emitting a gentle clunk of her jewelry as she pointed out toward Jhutii’s right ear, where she had adorned herself with a silver droplet earring. Though the sister sighs, she goes to unhook the ornament from her ear, Lon clamping its beak at the tips of her bangs all the while.

Without a tick of what could have been consideration, Dalu turns her body to point toward the brother below and his left, unbrushed ear where a wolf fang dangled from the tip.

“Dalu, y’gave this t’—”

“Gimme.”

And with that, the exchanges were made with a toss of their previously adored adornments toward their gem-greedy sister, who was already stuffing her new (and old) earrings into the clutter of her purse where an endless collection of gems and other jewelry awaited.

Jhutii holds out the parchment and charcoal stick again, grateful when her sister took it from her this time around. After a thoughtful pause, Dalu unfolds the scroll over the surface of the bark and gets to work as her siblings try to hover over and beside her.

She begins her depiction of the dim forest they currently resided in, swiftly sketching out what seemed to be a tree with features that seemed to be the great orbs that aligned the strange tree life in a purplish hue. Beneath the tree, the sister begins to draw out a stick figure with long arms and legs, a timid smile, ears and a tail—

“No! Fuck, they’re a Hyur, you fool.” Idi interrupted her in a panic. But her sister, was a resourceful one, for she promptly smudged away the figure’s ears into upright hair and the tail into—

“Ahaaa, it looks like a dick. Nice.”

“S’like a third leg. Must be a blessin’ an’ a curse, man.”

Disregarding her siblings’ clatter, she begins to smooth out the grand, metallic wall of the Castrum beyond the woods, filling in the dark color with a mad scribble. She sketches out the buildings above, and even goes out of her way to try and add in three block-like figures; just barely resembling the Alliance uniforms with their strange choice of hats. Idi interrupts her a second time.

“There are bears around here. Draw a bear. It needs a—”

“Sis’, calm th’fuck down. Y’don’t needa—”

Dalu, almost out of spite, manages to draw in a creature that resembles that of some furry creature. Fayre’a emits an impressed whistle. He couldn’t be prouder unless she had drawn two bears.

Though she had considered herself finished, the Seeker sister took a few moments longer to look over her work with a thoughtful squint. Once she felt self-satisfaction, she dusted her hands off from the charcoal and pulled the paper from the bark, turning it over to put it on full display for her siblings:

“…..”

They were left speechless for a spell, but of course, Idi was the first to come in with constructive criticism.

“It’s hard to see the arrows pointing at th’big dicked bloke. Do we have any paints…?” She mumbles, uncertainly shining in her exhaled breath.

At that request, the brother immediately turns to look down at himself, rummaging through the satchel clipped at his hip. Another few quiet, breathless moments take the light party until he withdraws a small jar of shady red, showing the paint that was still left inside.

“S’th’traditonal stuff, so it’s poisono—” He tries to warn, but the paint is snatched out of his palm by a ring-adorned hand before he can finish.

She returns to work, unscrewing the jar and tossing the cap over her shoulder to fly to the ground below as soon as she had bested it. The blunt scent of natural, but aging paint begins to take its place in the night air. Scrunching her nose up in distaste, she dabs her finger into the layer of paint, and begins gently poking the spots where the arrows she had drawn in were. After filling each nearly unrecognizable arrow in with a strange red, she proceeds to even color in one of the three uniforms above the wall. Dalu was a woman that paid attention to detail, after all.

Finished with the paint and the foul stench it bought, the sister nonverbally tossed it out the tree. Her brother could only watch and listen in dismay as it shattered atop the roots below, leaving a birthmark of red over its bark. Now completely self-satisfied, she lifts it from the surface of the branch and shows it off a second time:

“…”

Idi opens her mouth first, but thanks to the experience she had given upon the other two, is promptly interrupted.

“I fuckin’ love it, bud!” Jhutii chimes, leaning forward with wide eyes to gain a better look. Her perched companion seems more interested in pecking at her hair.

“Shiiit. Can y’draw me later?” Fayre’a hums lowly, brows raised high in genuine surprise. It had turned out better than he had imagined when they first handed over the stick of charcoal.

Sounding a smug huff, the budding artist rolls up the parchment in a tight scroll and hands it off to Jhutii with a firm nod. Playing an excited tune in her throat, the raven-bearing sister turns toward her beloved and begins to tuck the small scroll into the message container stationed over the creature’s right talons.

“Are you guys serious?!” Idi muttered, bringing a hand over her face—which was in vain, considering she already had a mask to protect her distraught expression. “Brother, tell me you know the client will, uh, will be able to make something of this.”

Fayre’a turns to look toward his upset sister as she calls out to him, parting his lips to answer her question. But words don’t meet his tongue, and his silence answers for him when he turns away with pursed lips.

Before the elder sister could argue her stance further, Jhutii finishes her struggle with securing their message with her great companion, planting a sweet kiss on the feathers of his ruffled chest to bid him farewell. The proud raven stretches his wings wide open and leaves her with a strong jump, spurring the wind beneath him with a flap of wings that brought him into the beyond the scattered branches of the tree and into the night sky.

The sound of siblings picking the argument back up becomes all but a faint memory as the bird soars higher, allowing itself to fall and pick up again as it faced the western sky. With the night as his kind benefactor, Lon sinks against the dark cover of the night and disappears into nothing again.

How he always looked forward to the push of the salt-sweet breeze.

[jilliancares]

Cat and Mouse: Chapter 1

Summary: Dan Howell is the Panther. He's evil, nefarious, ingenious, and good at coming up with adjectives for himself. The Raven is a nuisance, but he's definitely the most fun part when it comes to being a villain. As a child, Dan had been scared of his powers. He'd been weak. He'd become strong, though. Strong enough to torment the city; strong enough to annoy the Raven with every opportunity he got. 

Phil Lester only had one goal these days. To become strong enough to defeat the Panther.

Word Count: 3.4k

TW: there’s a kind of hinting towards depression/suicidal thoughts, v p subtle though

you can also read this on ao3 and wattpad!

next chapter

CHAPTER ONE: 

Dan picked fastidiously at his nail, barely bothering to glance up and survey his surroundings. The waiting part was definitely less entertaining, and he was disappointed to say that this was taking longer than usual. With a sigh, he settled onto the edge of the roof, letting his legs dangle precariously over the edge. He leaned back on one hand, using the other to rub at the skin of his cheek just under his mask—sometimes the fabric scratched his cheeks and left red marks behind, which wasn't really good for helping to keep his identity hidden.

With an annoyed huff, Dan leaned further over the edge of the building, letting his weight carry him further and further, until he was just barely balancing on the edge. He briefly entertained the thought of letting himself fall—and with it, the thought of not activating his gear—but refrained from doing so. He had more entertaining evening plans.

Far below, a man loitered in front of the building, occasionally pacing a few steps in one direction and then another. He tapped his foot, appearing impatient. Dan couldn't help it—sometimes his own emotions interfered. And he did feel impatient; he'd been waiting for almost ten minutes now.

Almost as soon as he thought this, there was a change in the atmosphere. It was subtle, and Dan doubted whether anyone besides himself would've noticed it, but it was definitely there. Dan blinked slowly, his contacts settling easily into place and changing the outlook of his entire surroundings. They were nifty things, able to make him see in the dark as easily as if he were a cat—which was kind of the point. And it was only due to his aesthetic that he'd made them look like cat eyes as well, the pupils thin and slitted.

With them, everything was focused into a much sharper clarity, and Dan almost wished it was a new moon tonight. There was nothing so great as being able to see all of his surroundings while the Raven stumbled to and fro, unable to see so much as Dan's fist connecting with his face.

By closing his eyes, Dan's sense of hearing intensified, everything around him becoming sharp points of focus. It was thanks to his mask, and the enhanced features the cat ears contained, but it felt as much apart of him that Dan felt an acute sense of loss when he wasn't wearing it, when he couldn't comfortably hear what was happening on the other side of the room.

Now, he heard the soft murmur of voices on the street below, and the thrum of cars passing by. Far away, a car honked, and another one returned the greeting, its sound higher pitched. Closer, Dan could hear a rodent of some kind—how it got onto the roof of the building, Dan didn't want to know—scuffling over the metal of the roof, its nails clicking distinctly. Finally, he focused on what was really drawing his attention, what he'd deliberately saved for last. Carefully, quietly—though not quite enough—two human sized feet eased their way across the roof, coming closer and closer to Dan.

Finally, he thought irritably. Took you fucking long enough.

The careful footsteps continued on their way, and Dan let them. Though really, hadn't Raven's mother ever told him it wasn't polite to sneak up on your arch nemesis?

"You should be thanking me," Raven's voice drawled, and Dan felt his lips pull into a smirk. He'd been waiting for this. It was as if his body finally activated when Raven was around, his blood pumping, his senses coming alive.

"And why is that?" Dan drawled. He leaned back on his hands again now, tipping his head backward to look at the other man. He was taller than Dan, that was for sure—not that it was a difficult feat. Dan had long since become acquainted with his height, however, and it only helped his image. The Panther, he thought. Small. Lithe. Unarguably evil.

Raven looked as angry and righteous as ever. Dan knew that his blatant refusal to get angry, to ever appear like he was trying, infuriated the Raven to no end. And so Dan amped up his act, especially for him. Dan imagined he would do anything for the Raven; anything to keep him coming back, anyway. He was dressed in his signature outfit, his mask slightly pointed, as if to imitate a beak. He might as well have gone all the way, like Dan had. Cat ears and everything!

Raven's cape sufficed as wings, Dan knew, invented by the very man who wore it. He was beyond creative, Dan had to give it to him—and a genius too. He was always creating gadgets to fuck up Dan's plans.

"Because I could've kicked you off the roof," Raven finally answered, and Dan raised an eyebrow, though the expression was obscured by his mask.

"Doesn't that go against all your like, superhero morals?" Dan questioned. "Besides, I would've been fine." It was true, Dan's own outfit was made of a special kind of material that assured he wouldn’t be harmed, even if he were to fall a very, very long way. More important though was its ability to make him land on his feet—and from there he could start running.

"You're incredibly lax for a villain," Raven commented. This idle chit-chat was fine with Dan. In fact, he was depending on it.

"Am I?"

"You didn't even know I was here," the Raven said confidently. See, that's where you’re wrong.

Dan hummed. "Well, yes, that's what you think."

Raven scoffed. "You're just trying to cover up for your own inattentiveness."

"Perhaps," Dan answered. "Or perhaps I knew you were here the second your rubber-soled shoes squeaked onto the roof. Perhaps I knew exactly where you would stand. Perhaps it'd be a good idea for you to not stand where you are for much longer."

Dan closed his eyes, a feral grin gracing his lips as he heard Raven's heart pounding away. Typical.

Move, Raven, he urged silently. Move. Move.

He felt his connection with one of the men below the building tugging at him. Whilst the Raven had chattered away, more of Dan's subjects had gathered beneath the building. Now, he suspected, they weren't waiting around impatiently. They probably looked excited, maybe mischievous. Maybe murderous.

"Press it at 9:30,” Dan had instructed, pressing a small button into the man's hands. His eyes had glossed over slightly—he'd looked dazed—but he'd nodded obediently. "And stand below the building on the corner of Marx's Street," he'd added. And then tilted his head slightly. "Actually, press it at a quarter til. The Raven had a knack for being late."

Move, Raven, Dan thought. Or it'll be too late.

He knew already that if the Raven didn't move he'd be forced to save him. Most of Dan's fun originated from the Raven, and Dan didn't quite know what his purpose would be without the other man.

He lifted his wrist up before his eyes, staring at the face of his watch. It was black with silver lines along the side to mark the hours. 9:44. In the watch, he looked at the reflection of Raven, stood still with indecision. He'd already wasted an entire minute trying to decide whether Dan was bluffing.

Dan watched as the seconds ticked away on his watch. He glared. Was he really going to have to save Raven?

As the seconds eased down to five, Dan tensed, ready to spring to his feet and shove the Raven out of the way.

Suddenly, Raven sprang, leaping into the air and taking a quick step towards Dan, before perching on the ledge beside him, the wind making his cape billow out over the lengthy drop. And not a moment too soon.

Just then, in the exact spot the Raven had been standing (which had taken a lot of calculations and guesswork on Dan's part), the flooring disappeared, falling, Dan knew, for several stories. That part of the roof was located directly overtop a large stairwell, and he would've fallen the whole way down, his cape-wings too large to expand in that small space.

"See, Raven?" Dan said, and he glanced up at the Raven with a soft smile. "Don't say I never warn you."

The Raven's mouth was pulled into a sharp line, his displeasure evident through that facial feature alone. Dan didn't blame him. His mind was probably whirring, trying desperately to understand how Dan could've planned that out ahead of time. In reality it was probably just hard for Raven to believe that anyone might possibly be as smart as he was. Sure, Dan wasn't quite as skilled at inventing things, but he was great at plans. He'd gotten straight A's his entire school career, even when it had begun to merge with his more nefarious activities.

"So," Dan said, "shall we get started then?"

—

Dan groaned, loud and long, as he stumbled into his apartment. He was bruised all over, though he supposed he had some salve somewhere that would help with that. His head felt infinitely lighter now that his connection with all those men below that building had been severed.

He closed and locked the door of his apartment behind him, giving his shoulders an experimental roll and wincing when something in his back twinged. Yes, the Raven seemed to have kicked him there, at some point. Dan suspected he deserved it, having forced several civilians to blow up that building. It'd been empty though, Dan had made sure of that. Still, the boss of that corporation probably wouldn't be too happy to see his building reduced to rubble, but that's what he got for rejecting Dan's application. Being a super-villain didn't pay much, after all, and it was a bit exhausting to have to steal his way through all his groceries.

Dan suspected he also deserved to be captured and unmasked for all his other crimes, but that had still yet to happen. The Raven was good, yes, but he wasn't good enough to capture him. To prevent some of his more dastardly plans, yes. To get Dan bound in ropes and his mask ripped from his face? Nope.

With a long-suffering sigh Dan stripped off his clothes, struggling out of the layers of latex and carefully folding his mask into a small square that could fit into his pocket. Practical and compact, his gadgets were. Not to mention fashionable.

He coughed, and his lungs burned in protest. It probably wasn't a good idea to breathe in so much smoke, but his favorite part about blowing things up was watching it. The smoke that billowed away was just part of the added fun. The Raven had been properly peeved to see that Dan had gotten away with his plans. He succeeded just as often as he failed, all depending on which one of them had shown up more prepared.

Still, Dan knew he wasn't properly evil. He wasn't torturing innocent civilians, wasn't shooting down crowds of people. He was just having a bit of fun, sometimes righteous fun, at that. Just last week he'd hunted down and castrated a serial rapist—he should be thanked for some of his deeds! (Some, though definitely not at all. Dan knew he wasn’t likely to get thanked for, say, bewitching the mayor, but still.)

Plus, having been born with his powers, wasn't it only Dan's right to put them to use? His divine right, perhaps?

His powers were easy, and once he'd actually embraced them, they'd been simple to control as well. All he had to do was give someone a command with a bit of intent behind it, and they'd do it. It wasn't anything like hypnosis, it wasn't some kind of trick. He could make anyone do anything he wanted, anything under the sun. He could even make them rip off their own dick (which he'd learned just last week).

Limping into his bathroom, Dan turned the knob of the shower and watched it sputter to life. He'd at least returned a few of the more vicious injuries the Raven had given to him.

He closed his eyes as he slipped into the shower, remembering the events of the night.

—

"No time, Panther," Raven said, standing tall over Dan. He looked powerful, although he always did. "Today's the day you're getting captured."

Dan threw himself back against the roof, groaning loudly into the night air. If he were any less skilled of a villain he wouldn't be so ballsy as to do something like that. He supposed he was putting himself in danger whenever the Raven was around—making himself vulnerable to capture, or perhaps death, if the Raven could bring himself to do that. But Dan was faster than the Raven, stealthier too. By the time the Raven could take a step, Dan would be on the other side of the roof.

"You're no fun, Raven," Dan complained, and he looked up at the dark figure with a frown. "Don't you even want to hear my monologue? My tragic backstory? I prepared one like all the proper villains in the movies."

"You're not funny," Raven replied. True, his mouth didn't curl in amusement, though Dan didn't doubt his own sense of humor. The Raven was too serious for his own good.

"Besides," Dan continued. "You've never caught me before. What makes you think today's any different?"

"This." Dan hadn't, of course, been prepared for Raven's new invention. He was always coming up with new things like that, trying to trip Dan up. And it worked. Dan was left gasping and in pain as currents of electricity coursed through his body, until he finally managed to pull himself out of the pain and launch himself away from his opponent, ripping off the bugs that had attached to him with the Raven's attack. They appeared to be some sort of projectiles, ones that latched onto Dan's clothes and released an electric current in response.

"Good God," Dan muttered, breathing hard. "That fucking sucked."

"I thought it would," the Raven replied snarkily. And then Dan grinned. Raven grew visibly angrier, which only made Dan more excited. Fighting the Raven made him feel alive.

The fight was brief but brutal, quick, vicious exchanges that left their skin and muscles throbbing in complaint. At the end of it all, having been electrocuted twice more, Dan was forced to bring it to an end.

"As fun as this has been," he panted, clutching his side. "I've really got to go."

"But you haven't done anything yet," the Raven had pointed out.

"How kind of you to remind me." Again, the Raven had a lot to learn. He wasn't the only smart person out there, after all. Usually, Dan persuaded people on the spot, right in front of the Raven. He enjoyed the disgusted downturn the hero's mouth took. But Dan could persuade them in advance too, and he could command them to respond to certain signals as well.

With a sarcastic salute to the Raven, Dan brought his fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly into the night. The first rumbles of the explosion were echoing underneath them as Dan launched himself off the building, watching as the Raven sprang up into the air in flight, surprised. By the time Dan landed (on his feet, as usual), Raven was a speck in the sky, and glass was shooting from the windows of the building into the surrounding area, right before an explosion sounded below them. That’ll be the basement level.

Dan then set off with a run, years of practice under his belt, making something like running the easiest task in the world. He was quick. He was fast, just as fast as the Raven was, flying. Police sirens echoed all around, threatening to give Dan a headache. He sprinted on.

The damned Raven was following him from above, as Dan knew he would, and he giggled to himself as he sidestepped into a random alley and pressed himself against the wall. Suspecting trickery, Raven circled above him a few times, before deciding Dan had probably escaped into one of the surrounding buildings, and landed at the entrance of the alley. Dan stayed pressed against the wall. The art of melting into the shadows was as easy as breathing to him, and he stepped out of hiding when Raven was close enough.

The other man’s breath hitched quietly, just enough to let Dan know he’d truly surprised him, and then Dan pressed him against the brick wall with his body. He was strong for his size, he knew that, and it was all thanks to the muscle he’d built with his years of being the Panther. Raven was new to the equation, after all, but Dan was happier now than he’d been for a long while.

“Following me into a dark alley, Raven?” Dan whispered. He placed his hand on the exposed skin of Raven’s jaw, and the other man’s hand shot up to grip Dan’s wrist with the strength of iron. Dan concealed his wince—that was sure to bruise. He could feel the Raven’s body pressed against his, could feel him panting, due to all the rapid movement he’d been doing. “Don’t you know bad guys lurk here?”

“I could fucking electrocute you right now,” the Raven threatened. It was a bluff. If he could, he would’ve done it already, but Dan knew now, as he had suspected back on the roof, that Raven had used his last little electrocution bugs already. He was out of them.

“But you won’t,” Dan said sensually, and then he leaned up and whispered into Raven’s ear, “because you’re as turned on as I am?” The Raven made a choked sound, and he moved, just barely, likely about to deploy another hidden weapon. Dan wasn’t about to find out what other tricks he’d kept up his sleeve, and he leapt backwards, agilely perching on the ledge of a windowsill, several feet above the Raven’s head. This ability was another gadget installed in his costume—his shoes could propel him the length of two men into the air.

“You’re disgusting,” Raven snapped. Dan pouted.

“You’re homophobic,” he countered childishly, settling on the windowsill and dangling his feet below himself. Try to grab them, Raven, he silently urged. I dare you. “What a hero! A heterosexual hero. You wouldn’t save a queer, would you?”

The Raven growled, and he launched himself into the air, reaching for Dan’s feet. Dan laughed giddily, and he slammed the heel of his foot into Raven’s chest when he was close enough, delighting in the choked sound he made. Raven collapsed back onto the floor of the alley, and Dan jumped back down to squat beside him, breath knocked out and struggling to regain it.

“We really do have fun together,” Dan commented, and he cocked his head, staring down into Raven’s blue eyes. “We should do this again sometime! Maybe next week? I was thinking I might do something with the public library.”

Raven’s eyes filled with rage, and he bared his teeth. Soon enough, the air would flood back into his lungs, and he’d be diving to catch Dan. He stood, laughing as he stared down at Raven. He wasn’t quite at Dan’s level yet, but Dan was waiting anxiously for the day it came, for the day when it was actually hard, the day he could barely scrape a win. He was at quite the disadvantage, however. Raven was willing to do anything to capture Dan, but Dan would always let him go. After all, how else could he assure that Raven would come back?

“Don’t worry so much, Raven,” Dan said, and he jumped onto the window’s ledge again, and then another. “My plans are actually quite tame. I was thinking I might steal a book!” He was unable to keep himself from laughing in pure delight, at that, and he peered down from the roof of the building now, where below the Raven was struggling to his feet. Dan waved, and then he was running along the tops of buildings. After all, he had a microwaveable meal to get to.

~~

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for anyone who doesn’t know, i update every saturday! :]

[tangablesadness]

Monochrome Kiss

Wrote this because I want song fics to become a thing again. I loved them so much!

  The monochrome blows

Through our colorless encounter.

I shall entrust each of my pains to you

I solemnly lifted a hand, reaching out to the sun I haven't seen in ages, almost unrecognizable now. The light reflected off deep scarlet lines criss-crossing my ivory skin, and the small warmth permitted by the half ball of brilliance settled underneath my skin, causing it to feel like fire to my shivering limbs.

I was still frozen though.

Exhausted I began to fade, looking uncaringly to the demon that bowed, to dead to be enraged at his sarcastic teasing smile.

I learned how to later. I was just almost stabbed, bloody bastard.

The demon turned to me, softly picking me up and carried me in the vaguely directed direction. His crisply cleaned shirt was soothing in a way, I could pretend it was someone else if I closed my eyes.

I lied my head against his chest, ignoring his sardonic expression and lazing into the embrace. I fell asleep promptly.

It was warm here.

The unforgiving autumn,

Which forcefully traces my scars, comes

While your cool fingers still beckon me

He pried and pushed, watching with dark eyes as I wished my aunt goodbye. Laughed and mocked as I stood in that cemetery, watching for my reactions, my hypocrisy, my "kindness".

 My eyes were deadened as he looked into them, alive and sparkling as he stood away in contemplation.

He was toying with me.

I gave him my reply, answered his wonderings with perhaps more emotion than necessary. His assumptions worsened the guilt of not having any.

He pledged his allegiance to me that day, hands raised.

My emotions wore a white cloth.

After I'd melted, you tenderly save

The troublesome, icy me

And toy around with me with a kiss

The ring sparkled in the dimming light, perfect, whole, beautifully cursed sapphire encrusted with carved silver that fit snugly around my thumb.

He didn't have to, it wasn't an obligation of his butler aesthetic.

That made it worse.

He brushed a kiss against my neck as he tucked me in, and he left me to wonder at the night as he stepped out.

His hunger permenated through the wall,

yet I still wanted to play his little game.

Nevertheless, I search for a single form of love

Your dried eyes tied it to the present from a time far beyond

I could feel myslf choking on terror as I looked up from that cage, the puke spewing violently from my mouth as I hurled forward. I called for help, for anyone to save me. I heard a voice in the background-

What do you have to be afraid of?

and I reached out to it desperately, pulling myself from the hauntings.

Call my name.

I screamed in agony, looking for that damning savior that had saved me so long ago. I saw feathers and wings behind my shut eyes, and the blood demonic eyes burning as a claw reached out for me.

I opened them up to face it again. That hunger and want.

I was comforted to know that the need that tied us together was still there.

If I can, I want to end while shrouded this like

Together, we concealed our pale selves; the moon is hiding, too

He looked downward as the stone pieces of angel wings cracked behind him. He leaned in for a kiss.

How appropriate that little scene would be for when the time would come for the ending of this unimportant little show.

How many nights

Did I come to love since then?

In the sea of dependence, I forget to even breathe

I choked myself awake, coughing on the blood slipping from the insides of my throat, the delicate skin torn by a knife as I watched it spill into my filthy cage, and then the carpet of my bedroom as I slipped into the waking world.

He came to me immediately, letting me lean on him for grounding, picking me up softly and cleaning everything and myself. He gave me milk and honey and kept his voice going in a calming murmur as I fell back asleep. Even if fake, his softened stare warmed more than his provided drink.

"Stay by my side until I fall asleep."

Even with your captivation, you only leave behind a tepid warmth

In the art of knowing when to quit

I dislike your conceited kisses

I watched him, exasperated and slightly worried as he preformed act after act, striking awe into the fellow circus members around him. He created an erethal form as he danced through, the most arrogant grin on his face as he perceived their awed expressions and trimpahant shouts. He came gliding up to me cockily, and I had to roll my eyes before I hissed at him to settle down.

He looked back at me in surprise as I hushed him. It was such a foolish thing for a demon to require such admiration and attention from what he considered cattle. Wasn't this creature not supposed to feel such emotion?

Maybe his narcassisim finally overcame such boundaries.

Later when we departed he tried to carry my tired body to my shared tent. In turn I brushed him off and walked in another direction.

Don't leave me alone, perceive and color me already

What words will slip out of your room?

Being confused, falling asleep- Will you tell me about things beyond those?

I lay splayed out across his small bed, taking up everything as my nude form was shown off without care.

I stared back at him as he smiled down at me, walking over from his position by his rumpled clothes and stooping down to brush away some hair from my left eye. He flipped his left hand over and pressed it into my lid, and I flinched shocked from the pleasant burning sensation that coursed through me.

"Do you have any idea of how it feels to soon have the chance to know another as such?"

His eyes shined in the dim moonlight and he covered my vision entirely. When I could see again the bed I was lying in was a King.

An odd feeling of admiration built up in my chest, and I wondered confused of what caused such an emotion.

I knew my answer as I felt a scarlet gaze though the crack of my door.

Only the moon is looking at the sighs lost in the questions of smiles

When the next long needle points to the ceiling

You won't be around anymore

I won't need you anymore

I shook in strain and agony as I held onto the leftovers of that bridge. The explosion tore me this way and that as it rumbled and screamed. Then everything turned deathly silent, sending a shiver down my spine. I heard the crunch of footsteps laze their way towards my spot, opening my eyes and looking up as they paused.

The sky overhead was painted black as the moon shone brilliantly in watch. I looked into soft, almost glassy eyes as they stared down at me with a care I did not know. It tugged at something, deep and wrenching, and I stared at him back blankly, taking in his surprise as my own forlorn hopeless smile appeared in return.

He reached out to me.

I let go and plummeted.

Nevertheless, I definitely searched for a form of love

Your teary eyes tied it to the present from a time far beyond

He fumbled to put the ring on my finger, and sounded almost off as he apologized.

It did not matter though, nothing mattered.

I felt numb and took pride in the calm. I was shattered for years but my revenge had me focus on the wholeness of each piece.

I looked back silently over the surface of the water, seeing the unnatural stillness while tapes still played beneath.

You had to marvel at his aesthetics, I would indeed die beautifully.

If I can, I want to end while shrouded this like

Your wish and the night bring morning along in vain

He never took his gaze off me, as if my final actions was the cherry on top of my soul.

I wondered if that brilliance inside me will merit this time to some sort of memory in that demon's mind.

He bowed to the ground in what seemed to be some sort of reverence, and I couldn't understand how this added to our little game since it was over. It made me want to burn everything, yet I was to numb to care about such a thought.

I was tired.

He cupped my cheek softly, and leaned forward, catching me slightly off guard with some sort of kiss.

I had to wonder the selfish intentions behind granting me such a thing.

Paint it with a tender, passionate, yet cowardly kiss

The moon illuminates our final night

The darkness burned everything I ever cared about.

[flashfictionforpittance]

Pact (VTMB):

Geight swung his sack into the air and released, letting the momentum carry it over the chain-link fence and listening to it whump onto the other side. The contents, long silent and mostly dead, piled up inside to shape the thing like a sleeping dog, hunched over against the cold. Geight scaled the fence, looped his lankiness over and let himself drop the two feet between his dangling feet and the ground. Being tall was useful for trespassing, not so much for the next part. He got on all fours, doubled over with his sack on his back, and crept as best he could toward the warehouse. It was your typical Spooky Hiding Place for The Damned (TM). Brutalist, concrete architecture with rusted equipment in the yard, long abandoned due to mass corruption from the men in charge and innumerable worker’s rights violations. How cliche.

Nearing one of the windows, Geight settled beneath it, dusted the gravel off his shins and picked up a rock. He opened the sack and wasted one of the (mostly) limp furballs on covering it up. The windows still protested at being smashed, albeit less so. After a tense few seconds Geight remained un-discovered, and eased his arm through the window to unlock it, then opened it and vaulted inside. It was pretty standard layout-wise. Concrete. Rusted conveyor belts just seething with tetanus. Abandoned hardhats scattered around the floor like migrating tortoises. Meh. The real drama was going to take place upstairs, not in this shithole, anyway. Not that Geight was going to get to participate. At least, not directly. 

He made his way over to the vent that was ingrained in a nearby wall, and helpfully signposted with an “X” sprayed above it. He eased the panel off, realising as he did so that his wrist was bleeding real good, all over his last clean shirt. Must’ve nicked it on the window. Shit. He hadn’t even noticed. He dithered a bit, waiting for the wound to close like he was waiting to use a public restroom, and was too polite to knock and ask who the hell could be taking so long to finish crying in the stalls. It was about as fun. 

It was even less fun in the vents. Imagine trying to fit a ruler (with a limp beanie baby taped at its middle) all the way inside one of those hamster tube mazes, and you get the idea. Lost of hard angles, hella dust, air close enough to make your lungs start drooling, and lubricated with sweat. Geight felt like a baby giraffe trying to navigate an anaconda’s birth canal. His arms protested as he hauled himself up to each new level, and he wondered how literally anyone else could’ve managed this without his freakish height to help them. Didn’t make it any less shitty or painful, but Geight tried his best to ignore it. After all, he might not be the strongest, but could you imagine him trying to fight his way up here? No chance. 

As far as fledgling vampires went, Geight was probably the least lucky. He was a Tremere, which basically meant a good sneaker, crappy fighter, and that his clanmates were all witchy hippies who wrote poetry in their spare time and shunned their gangly protege. He’d also said some unsavoury things to his sire on the matter, which hadn’t done him any favours, but fuck em. Maybe that’s why he’d picked up this job. The Tremere stood to benefit from this deal, and to suffer if Geight did his job, serving a few just desserts (his inability to eat desserts being another sore topic), while he’d find himself under the wing of a new step-sire. Hopefully. 

Geight was finally at the top floor. He ran his fingers over the “x” sprayed on the vent wall, marking where he was to wait with his bag of freshly deceased gofers like some middle ages fur salesman who didn’t have all the right connections yet. In the close air, they were getting ripe. That Brujah upstart better be legit.

Voices. Geight eased himself along to the grate a little ways ahead, through which the top floor of the warehouse flourished like it was an intricate diorama, and Geight the judgemental principle. It was A+ material. Though it was just an abandoned concrete cube last week, now it was straight out of a Nosferatu movie. Plush rugs languished at angles over the floor, supporting about a dozen wrought iron candelabras that stood as tall as the Toreador dipshit at the forefront, the light bouncing off his chiselled face. Toreador were the pretty boys. In a new age vampire movie, they were the femme fatales and tortured anti-heroes who possessed that otherworldly beauty that softens human defences better than any drug or hypnosis ever could. This guy was older, like an English teacher who was in his late thirties but was in good shape, sensitive, and made you blush when he complimented the crappy fanfiction you turned in instead of homework. Glasses. Wild hair combed and tamed but still obviously windswept. A black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, top button undone. He was a dish. It pissed Geight off to no end; the only thing he wanted more than to fuck a Toreador, was to be a Toreador. 

Not to be upstaged, a second vampire presented herself on the red leather (the two words that pretty much defined the vampire aesthetic) couch behind him. Geight had heard of them. These guys were the actual Nosferatu vampires, named for the most famous one in recent history. They got this, plus an intricate underground network, the best sneaking abilities out of everybody, and being a priceless cornerstone of vampire society, in exchange for a face that looked like you’d taken a hammer to it then stitched it back together with your eyes closed. This one had horns and all, plus a face that was half collapsed into itself, and half swollen, so it looked like her head was being pushed to one side all the time. She compensated with an intricate henna around her face, which at the very least gave you an excuse to stare at her without being rude. She was laying into the Toreador. ‘Ya know there’s no way they’ll bring it, right?’ she rasped with the timbre of a cancer riddled chain-smoker. ‘even if they really do have the crypt-key, it’s not like they’ll just hand it over without a fight.’

The Toreador rubbed the space between his eyes, lifting his glasses with his thumb. Geight was pretty sure he didn’t need them. But if there was one thing vampires loved it was an aesthetic. ‘Listen to you,’ his husky voice alone made Geight hot under the collar. ‘is the artefact really all you can think about? It’s worthless. Even if the crypt still exists, it’s probably overrun with malevolent ghosts by now, half of which are probably from the first dozen treasure hunters who tried to clear the place out, and killed each other when they realised the stories of untold wealth were a total fabrication. The key is merely a symbol of trust, Vivian. I highly doubt that the wolves have any more inclination to use the damn thing than we do.’ Typical Toreador. Why use ten words when you can use forty? He was probably right, though. The key was worthless. All it symbolised was the werewolves’ desire to make peace, and share the territory. A desire shared by, let’s say, seventy percent of local kindred. The rest? Not so much. 

Geight was impartial. He was just doing whatever he needed to get into a less shitty position. The Anarchs had made their offer, and the Tremere had made none at all. Easy choice. Still. The smell of those wolves as they shambled into view, it was putrid. They’d dressed up a little, black tie formal, sprayed on some knock off cologne, but they all still smelled like wet dog and dry piss to Geight. There were three of them, two young, one old who led the group, and who held an ornate wooden box in his hands, presenting it like the ring bearer at a wedding. Even the Toreador looked like he was struggling to maintain composure. ‘Ah, gentlemen. So glad you could make it. I understand this night is hardest for you. Needless to say, we deeply appreciate the dedication to our agreement.’

The Nosferatu swept onto her feet and smiled. Even from up here Geight could see her fragmented teeth, like she’d been hit in the face with a goddamn train. But like all Nosferatu, she somehow maintained a regular level of diction. ‘Good to meet you,’ she presented her hand. ‘Name’s Viv, I’m here representin’ the Nosferatu.’ this was less of a polite gesture than a test. Even other kindred weren’t fans of touching the Nosferatu. Credit to him, the leader of the pack gripped Viv’s hand and shook it firmly, and did the same for the Toreador. 

He spoke. His tone was flat. No sign of strain even on a full moon. He must have been older, with enough cycles behind him for this to be second nature. ‘And we appreciate the risk you both take in being here, Damian. I suppose the other clan leaders won’t be joining us? Oh, no,’ he raised a hand apologetically as the Toreador began to interrupt. ‘please, there’s no need to explain. The bloodshed between us has been too great to measure. Your fellows are right to be wary, even if they do agree with the pact. Hopefully, our violent history will soon be behind us.’

The Toreador, Damian, relaxed. ‘Yes, I agree. My apologies all the same, though. My cohort will surely understand their folly in time, when the hunters have been driven out of this fine city. However much we may have harmed each other, their influence is far more volatile. After all, we all share a common enemy, why not unite against it?’ It continued like this for about ten more minutes, and Geight’s brain switched off. They were just saying the same thing over and over to each other, each leader trying to make it sound a little more profound and a little more like his own idea. Viv was bored too. She’d gone back to lounging, eyes half closed. Maybe she was eyeing up one of the silent wolves? Who knew. 

There’d been a flood of hunters in recent weeks. The Anarchs said it was because the Kindred and the Wolves were so concerned with fighting each other and scoring points, they’d let slip the masquerade. Geight reckoned they’d all been ratting each other out. Luring the enemy into harm’s way, making it harder to hide themselves when good old Churchy Mc ChristKnife came sniffing around. Maybe it was a bit of both. Anyway, this alliance would last about ten minutes even without Geight’s intervention. The second the hunters were gone, old wounds would re-open and suddenly nobody would have a reason to get along anymore. The Anarchs thought the same. That, and the Werewolves were too strong to play War and Peace with. When this alliance went tits up, the Kindred were as good as kibble. It wasn’t worth letting their guard down. So they said. 

Raised voices in the warehouse. Geight woke up and peered through the grate. The box in the pack leader’s hands was open, Damian and Viv staring agawk at what was inside. Viv was scatting. ‘H-how did ya, t-that’s impossible! D-Damian, is it-’

Damian took a broad step back, pulling Viv with him. He cleared his throat. Without them in the way, Geight could see it clearly. A silver claw, as long as a bear’s, shining bright enough to make him wince from all the way up here. It seemed to have an engraving on it, but with the glint it was impossible to make out. There was something else about it, too. It scared the living shit out of Geight. Just looking at it made him feel like there was someone right behind him, poised and ready to sink their claws into his neck and pin him mercilessly to the ground as he was shredded, from his back all the way into his chest cavity. He kinda wanted to drop the gofers now. They were supposed to make the wolves frenzy, all bloody and all, send this whole thing down the tubes. But that feeling made him hesitate. He was shit scared for the first time since his embrace. 

‘I didn’t think the legends were true,’ said Damian, regaining his composure. ‘the claw of an ancient wolf, an antediluvian if you’ll excuse our terminology. I thought they were all lost.’

Viv was aghast. She was pacing, grinding her decimated teeth. ‘This ain’t what we agreed on, guys. Like, it’s real nice, and all, but...like, where’s the crypt key? That’s what was agreed. How da we know this isn’t some trick to get us into your debt? Not ta throw dispersions or nothing.’

The pack leader closed the box and it was like the whole room sighed. The tension seeped out. The fear subsided. ‘The crypt key is a useless relic. It means nothing to the wolves, and as such, if we were to trade it for peace, this deal would mean nothing as well. But here,’ he pulled a rusted key from his pocket and tossed it to the floor where it tinked uselessly against the concrete. ‘We brought it nonetheless. This claw is of far more value to us. Countless wolves have died to protect it for generations. Take it as a symbol of our trust.’

Damian cleared his throat and took the box in shaking hands. ‘And your fury, should this pact be broken, no doubt? I see how this would be a more...appropriate gift.’

‘Indeed.’

Jesus. These guys were fucking legit. They were serious. Like, seriously serious. That bag of gofers suddenly felt like a lead weight shackled to Geight’s wrist. If he dropped it there wouldn’t just be a massacre in here, the whole city would be saturated in blood before sunrise. The stakes were sky high. And if he dropped the bag, who’s to say it wouldn’t drag Geight’s limp body down with it, into this powder keg he was flinging matches into? Nah. Fuck this. Let them have their alliance. If there was a chance he could avoid those claws, the sheer unstoppable power that flowed through that artefact and every stinking wolf it’d sired, there was no argument. He was out of here. 

Viv took up the conversation. ‘Gotta admit, in all my years a tradin’, I never once saw an ancient claw get passed through the black market, let alone get handed over fa free. Or politics. Same thing, kinda. Either way it’s a hell ofa find.’

‘Vivian,’ tisked Damian. He addressed the wolves. ‘I thank you for your generosity. In exchange, the Camarilla offers an equal use of all of its resources, from the Nosferatu network to a seat at council meetings henceforth. And this,’ he produced a steel box out of nowhere, and flicked it open. Inside was a fat cylindrical block of stone, engravings all around the outside, significantly less impressive than the wolves’ offering. ‘the key to an ancient Vampire relic. And a reminder that our * ahem * less dignified practices are long behind us,’ he handed it over. ‘Shall we call the night a success, and adjourn? I imagine you’d all like to retire, considering,’

As the fuck did Geight. He started sliding back the way he’d come, wondering how he’d manage to drop down each level of vents without alerting the sharp eared wolves. He hauled as gently as he could, an hour’s worth of sweat helping him along, until he felt it. A shifting. He focused his mind, the way you do when you feel something climbing up your leg and have to decide if it’s a spider or a bit of lint. It slumped down his back trailed around the backs of his knees, lumpy and soft, and...

He banged his head against the wall trying to turn around. The vent seemed to shrink around him as he bent, stretched, and strained his body to get turned around, doing so just in time to see the hatch he’d been looking through open, and the bag of gofers empty through it, hovering in the air as if gripped by two invisible hands. The limp bodies flooded out, followed eventually by the light thudding and cracking as they landed among the meeting. There were shouts of confusion. Then of anger.

The pack leader’s voice rose among them, trembling, each syllable rumbling and threatening to fall into a guttural scream. ‘Get out! Run! Both of you! There’s no ti--aaaaaaaaigme!’ A sound like three bears, bigger and badder and more furious than any living creature known to man, roaring and screaming in agony rose up from the warehouse, echoing through the vents. It ricochet’d against the aluminium and rattled in Geight’s ears until they rang as if they too were screaming, and the sound of furniture, cloth, metal and flesh tearing were so close he almost feel the spray of blood against his own face. He clung to himself, watching the space above the vent as it closed, the sack flung carelessly across it. He trembled as a thin silhouette broke through the darkness, a grey blotch against the black. It squatted where Geight had been only a few seconds before, and as its pale face came into view, lacerated by the shadows of the vent, it pressed a finger against its lips, waved, and disappeared into a fine mist, trailing away and leaving only the smell of sulphur behind.

Geight lay in the vents until the roaring passed. It didn’t stop. It just moved until he could no longer hear it. Then he slid back down the vents, and out of the warehouse. He didn’t have to. But he didn’t want to see what’d happened. He already knew. The Anarchs had sent a backup. Someone to finish the job when he couldn’t. Another Tremere, too. That stung.

Geight flung himself over the fence like the garbage he was. He couldn’t go back to the Anarchs, not after what they’d done. He had no doubt, hundreds of Kindred were probably going to die before the night was out. The Camarilla might want him, with what he knew. Maybe. If they were still there tomorrow. For the time being, he just wanted to go home, find a dark spot to hide in, and forget about the sound of claws and teeth and shredding flesh. If he could, just for a little while.