#monsters and birch trees

[saikira999]

The "Birch"

A local wildlife in the birch grove, characterized by distrustful or aggressive nature (the closer to winter, the more aggressive). Birches are predators and caretakers of the Birch Grove, mimicking ordinary trees, but with a number of differences, namely: mobile eyes, respiratory organs, digestive organs, etc., flexible trunk and branches with roots, resembling four-fingered hands.

They live alone throughout the Grove, and tend to get into a fight when they meet their brethren. Have no blind spots due to dozens of eyes growing on their bark, capable of closing and squinting when irritated. Very slow but stubborn and patient monsters that are not afraid of carrion. The birch's mouth is located in the roots and is carefully hidden. Also able to get food from the ground, with the help of roots, but in the long absence of meat in the diet hibernate and can die.

Usually, birches are quite calm in the warm season, and carry on their branches wonderful foliage, at the loss of which they become nervous and angry.

Very dangerous.

[saxonilla]

based on RRH AU by @themadzarka

Also some personal headcanon(s) design for the hunter.

[rfscaveart]

It's been so long since I've felt the desire to doodled anything Here is just a quick sketch of a weird, haunted or eldritch birch tree, or a haunted birch tree fakemon idk.

[bluegrasshellbard]

Birchboy sketches (again)

[1-dollar-bottomless-void]

The Mouth of Adam Hungers for its Missing Rib

Her heartbeat is loud in her ears. The creature walks between the trees, teeth snapping, body creaking, looking for her, that gaping wound in its side dripping honey-like ichor onto the ground. It's unlike anything she's ever seen, and yet... something deep in her chest knows this thing, as though it's a part of her.

Or she's a part of it.

[behind-the-willows]

10/10/2020

[libraryofbaxobab]

March 26, 2024:

I thought giving it a couple days would help me gather my thoughts, but looks like they want to remain ungathered. So here's what I've got:

This main character is a gift to me. She/her nonbinary, who presents androgynously, with moderate-to-severe mental illness and in desperate denial of her attraction to her cameraman. There's A LOT going on there and that's just the character, aside from the plot. I love her, and even more I loved seeing her from his perspective; his interpretation of her body language, how he regards her when they're alone, what he sees when she's in Business Mode. All that was gloriously romantic without being too much.

Storywise, there are a lot of characters and moving parts, considering there is a mystery on top of a mystery and everyone is holding something back, but also there is the "you can't go home" subplot, but also there is the secret backstory, but also there is the possibility that there's Something In The Woods. Normally, I'd say a book with all that is trying to do too much. But... can I really call it too much if it's all handled competently? The only part where I think it dropped the ball is with the one missing teenager, that kinda got overshadowed by the main character's personal stuff, but then again this story's about her not them.

8/10 #WhatsKenyaReading

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

Thank you so much for the part 2 of the shapeshifter AU! 🙏 The atmosphere is so singularly spooky and sultry. Keep up the great work!

on it boss!!

70 / 1.6k / part 3 of shapeshifter familiars!141 tormenting witch!reader

...

You wait until the early evening. It's the earliest you can run. Your so-called familiars won't come out while the sky is still bright. Even so, the moon’s faint sliver stands faintly visible against the sky. You pack your things and fetch your traveling cloak. Vital components. Your dagger. Scrying parchment. You've survived on less.

Something catches your eye as you open the door. The setting sun gleams off the little glass vial on your hearth. You grab it. It's the thing Soap left—what he was teasing you about; the "little treat" he brought back. You see now what it is: black henbane. Your heart beats faster. Out of anger or anticipation—you're not sure which wins out. You'll certainly make use of this. But it will be despite your demons. Not because of them.

As you set off to leave, though, you find yourself face-to-face with a different threat altogether: townsfolk with torches and pitchforks.

The mob's torches flicker, casting jagged shadows across their grim faces. Their leader, a broad-shouldered blacksmith with soot-stained hands, steps forward. The pitchfork trembles in his harsh grip. "Off to consort with devils, witch?"

Behind him, a farmer's wife spits at your feet. "My boy hasn't slept since your cursed raven perched on our roof! You sent those monsters to torment us!"

A ripple of agreement surges through the crowd. You catch the glint of silver amulets around their throats—crude charms of rowan berries and iron nails. Your designs.

"I don't want any trouble," you tell them. You already intend to leave this place forever; all you need to do is convince them to let you go in peace. "I swear it. I condemn the demons that plague the village just as you do."

The blacksmith's shout cracks like a whip. "Liar!" He thrusts his pitchfork toward your cottage and the crow feathers littering the threshold. "Found your nest o' nightmares. Bones under the floorboards. Charms written in your hand guidin' those beasts!"

A teenage boy hurls a rock. It grazes your temple with a thump that rings in your skull. "She fed my sister to the black dog! Saw its yellow eyes in her window the night she vanished!"

Then a torch arcs through the dusk. It crashes against your doorframe, tallow and embers cascading onto dry thatch. The farmer's wife screams, "Burn the hellspawn out!"

Other voices roar in agreement. The mob surges forward as one. Their amulets glow faintly as they near your wards, rowan countering rowan.

You slam the door shut, scattering glowing red hay, and bolt for the back door instead. You flee toward the forest. Warm blood slides down your face and trickles into your collar. You crash through the tree line. Brambles tear your cloak. Torchlight dances between birches behind you. They’re gaining.

"Kill her before she calls the beasts!" one voice shrieks.

Another voice, a child’s, cries, “There! By the elder tree!”

Your boot catches on its massive roots. You hit the forest floor hard. Pine needles stick to your bleeding palms as you scramble up—and freeze.

Yellow eyes blink open in the shadows ahead. A wolf.

The blacksmith’s heavy gait clatters to a halt. “Christ preserve us.”

The hound steps into the fading daylight, scars rippling across its muscular flank. Ghost. He bares teeth longer than your fingers.

You back away only for another shadow to fall from the trees above and land next to you soundlessly. The shape is feline—Gaz—but he's no longer the size of a housecat. He's as massive as a tiger. A growl thunders through him. He levels his gaze past you. At the villagers. They don't stand a chance.

You whirl back on the villagers with wild eyes. "Get out of here!" you cry at the mob.

The blacksmith shoves a trembling boy behind him. "Back! Back to the—"

Ghost lunges. Not at the villagers. At you.

His jaws snap inches from your thigh, herding you backward into Gaz's flank. Gaz pins you with one paw on your chest. He keeps his claws sheathed, but the pressure is enough to bruise. His rumbling purr vibrates through your ribs as he licks blood from your temple wound.

"Demons!" A villager hurls a torch. It bounces off Ghost's shoulder. Embers catch in his fur. He doesn't flinch.

Soap's cawing laughter rings from the treetops. He drops down as a raven, shifting mid-fall into human form. He lands in a crouch. "Och, look at these brave lads! Come to play with the big bad devils."

The blacksmith thrusts the pitchfork at him. "Back!"

 Soap catches the shaft and yanks the smith forward. "Careful now. You'll poke someone's—" He drives the smith’s own weapon through his boot, impaling foot to soil. "—eyes out."

Screams erupt. The mob fractures. Some flee. Others stand frozen.

"No, don't hurt them!" you gasp out. You try to push out from under Gaz's paw, but it does you no good. "Leave them alone!"

Gaz's purr deepens into a predatory rumble as he drags his rough tongue up the side of your neck to taste your sweat. His hot breath stirs your hair when he growls, "Too late for mercy, love. Smell the fear on 'em? Ripe as summer fruit."

Soap wrenches the pitchfork free from the smith’s screaming form, flicking gore off the tines. "Aye, let's make it a proper feast! Been ages since we had fresh meat that fought back."

"Enough."

Price's voice cracks through the woods like thunder. He stands under the pines’ shadow as if waiting for the last motes of sunset to vanish before he ventures out.

"You lot should've heeded the warnings. Salt your thresholds. Avoid the woods after dark." His gazes pauses over a young child frozen in fear, no parents in sight. He tuts. "But you meddled. Stole from my witch. Harmed her."

The blacksmith finds his voice. "W-We didn't—"

Price steps forward. His boot crushes the smith’s bloodied foot into the ground. Bones pop. "See, that's the trouble with mortals." He crouches to stare into the terrified villager’s face. "You don’t admit you’re wrong."

"Price, please, just take me instead," you plead. "I'm what you came for, aren't I?"

Price's gaze snaps to you. He rises slowly. The flicker of your burning cottage on the horizon behind you reflects in his eyes and makes them glow. His expression tells you how little choice you have in that particular matter. Where you go, they go.

Then he looks past you. “Gaz."

Gaz’s hand slides up your inner thigh. "Already on it."

"No. Save the foreplay. We've got a village to raze." He grabs the bloodied collar of your cloak and hauls you to your feet. "You'll watch. Then we'll discuss your ungrateful actions." His gaze flicks away. "Ghost. Gaz. Clean up."

You can only watch Ghost and Gaz bound into the screaming mob. Your body feels lighter than the air. Then you remember the weight of the henbane in your cloak pocket. The next moment, it's in your hand. You crush the glass, ignoring the stab of pain. You send it sailing through the air, and it lands right on its mark—the roaring torch discarded in the leaf litter.

The henbane catches and wafts up into the air as smoke. It curls upward in thick, narcotic tendrils. The smell is heady, its effect potent and immediate. Soap snarls as the first plume hits his nostrils. He staggers back and clutches his head. Gaz convulses mid-pounce, collapsing into ferns as his tiger-like form shrinks to housecat size. Ghost whines low in his throat and shakes his massive skull like a dog with water in its ears.

Chaos erupts. Villagers seize the chance to bolt. The blacksmith drags his wailing son toward the tree line.

Price grips your arm hard enough to leave talon marks. His other hand clamps over his nose, veins bulging in his temple. You cough into your sleeve. Your vision swims. Henbane's poison works both ways, after all. It’s powerful for those who know how to use it for their own ends. Black henbane is what you used to summon your familiars and what bound them to you. But its hallucinatory effects are more pronounced on those who have surrendered the greater part of their souls to magic—or for those whose bodies are already flush with it. Price, Gaz, Ghost, and Soap don’t stand a chance. Even your soul is so considerably marked by witchcraft that you quickly fold to its effects. But you, at least, can twist it and warp it to weave a spell that might protect you.

Cloaked in smoke, you transform.

The shift hits you like a lightning strike—bones crackling, muscles twisting, vision narrowing into a something wide and preylike. The forest tilts, and suddenly Price's grip is gone. He holds your sleeve, but not you. You slip away, tumble through your limp clothes, and hit the forest floor on four paws. The world sharpens into smells of damp moss and wolf musk. Your rabbit heart hammers against ribs as thin as wishbones.

You dart left--straight into Gaz's waiting claws. The tomcat pins you with a paw, purring as his claws prick your scruff. Then he sneezes, henbane pollen glinting in his whiskers. You writhe free.

You race deeper into the forest with the wind at your back. The woods close in, but thorns no longer claw your clothes; roots no longer trip you. You are no longer an intruder. The forest itself turns toward you, opens to you. Thorns tug pleasurably against your fur as you bound past. Old magic stirs beneath your rabbit feet.

"Clever girl. Find her." Price's voice slithers through the trees far behind you, syllables slurred but venom intact. "And keep her whole enough to scream."

...

← part 2 / [part 3] / part 4 ➡

more Price / more Ghost / more Soap / more Gaz / masterlist

[flannelshirtandjeans]

I designed my own Monster High ghoul doll! She is the daughter of Näkki, a water spirit that can camouflage itself as rock or driftwood and drowns people who are careless in water. She is Finnish, loves metal music and coffee, and cares deeply about sustainable fishing practices and protecting lakes and ponds and rivers. Her pet is a skeletal seal pup, who once died in fishermen's nets, but was brought to a new life by Lumme's sadness and anger. She's a part of the metal club at MH, but doesn't play or sing, more just enjoys listening to it and bonding with her fellow students. She my seem quiet and reserved, but won't stop talking if you get to know her properly!

Some design notes under cut:

Also I'd like to add design notes to this:

- fishing nets and hooks & related things are a big design note in her doll because she did almost die by drowning stuck in a fishing net, and she has Feelings about questionable fishing practices.

- there's a permanent tangle of netting around her neck to represent the way she technically died

- her purse is a glass float

- her hair is a light ashy blonde-brown - dirt road brown as we call it in Finland, which is a common hair color in Finland, with accents of darker brown, green, and blue.

- blue eyes, cloudy iris, dark eye whites. Netting eye-shine

- her base skin tone is a light grey, but she has rocky camouflage and birch-tree camouflage on her limbs, ears, and forehead to represent her camouflage/shapechanging abilities

- Luunappi is a skeletal "kuutti", baby northern ringed seal, who died of getting stuck in nets, and Lumme's anger and sadness at the injustice magically revived it

- frappe bc Finns drink ridiculous amounts if coffee per capita but I didn't want to give her straight up black coffee

- Karelian boo-strie is a Karelian pastry but made to look like a fish with big teeth

- her object heel is a fishing loom stone, a type of a fishing weight

- her phone is not an iCasket bc she's _Finnish_ and obvs reps Nokia instead. Hence Noakiasket

- sea glass bottle bottom sunglasses. Seaglass is frosty so that's a little funny for sunglasses but listen.

- the CD is "Nemo" by _Nightfish_ which is obviously a silly riff on Nightwish, which is a Finnish metal band, and she loves metal (Finland has so many metal bands. We just really love metal.). I decided on a CD-player purely for nostalgic reasons.

- "Land of a thousand lake monsters" refers to Finlnd, and you can see the shape of Finland on the cover. Finland is called the land of a thousand lakes, so we probably have a lot of lake monsters too.

- yellow comes a little out of nowhere for this, but I like raincoat yellow and it reminds me of fishers, so I can have it.

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

do i not fear death, but just pretend to?

part II

Pairing: Dean x Deergirl!Reader

Summary: Dean grapples with feelings he doesn't understand. You aren't his usual hunting partner.

Warnings: mild pining, loneliness, implied age gap, skinny dipping, (that's all for now.)

Word Count: 4,102

Dean didn't expect to find you like that.

You were curled in the moss just beyond camp—a doe again, legs folded beneath your body, eyes half-lidded as the light cracked gently through the trees. The air was still cool, dew clinging to the earth like breath held overnight. Birds stirred, tentative and sleepy, but you? You hadn't moved. Hadn't made a sound. You were watching.

You had been watching.

Your ears twitched first—soft, subconscious flicks at some insect's buzz. Then your nose. A subtle tremble as you sniffed the morning, read it like scripture, catalogued every breath. And when his boot scraped the earth—

You looked at him.

Big, dark eyes. Deep as wells. Gentle as dusk.

Dean stopped walking. His whole body did. Froze, somewhere between reverence and regret. His heart thudded heavy against his ribs.

You blinked. Slowly. No fear. No flight. Just you, and the sunlight pooling in the hollows of your fur, dappling your white-spotted sides in gold.

Cute, his brain whispered, stupid and soft. Fucking adorable.

Then immediately: What the hell is wrong with me?

You were a monster. A creature. Something he'd been trained to kill. Something that shouldn't exist. Something unnatural. But all Dean could do was stare at you like a man staring down the barrel of a truth too beautiful to name.

She's just a deer.

No. Not just. You made a small sound—a chuff, not quite a huff—ears twitching again as you turned your head slightly, like you'd allow him this moment, but only this one. And then, with fluid grace, you stood. It wasn't abrupt. It wasn't jarring. You unfolded like something the forest had made tenderly, piece by piece. Then you stepped behind a cluster of birch trees without a sound.

Dean exhaled, sharp through his nose. He wasn't sure if he should look away. He didn't. From behind the tree, he saw the ripple of change—bones cracking soft, spine shifting, limbs reforming.

And then—

You. Human again. He caught only a glimpse. The bare curve of your back. The pale line that slashed across it—a scar, wide and deep, like someone once tried to cut the wild out of you and failed.

Dean's breath hitched.

Then the shift of fabric—your fingers pulling that white dress, thin and worn and weightless, over your shoulders. It floated down your body like a sigh. Like mist.

You stepped back out into the light. Hair wild. Eyes calmer now. The dress hanging just below your knees, loose and soft, like something old and sacred.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to.

Dean looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time—because maybe he was.

"You were up all night?" He asked, voice low, rough from sleep and restraint.

"I don't sleep much," you replied, brushing a leaf from your shoulder. "I listen."

Dean nodded once. His gaze flicked to your bare feet, then back up—past your throat, your collarbones, the still-damp ends of your hair.

"I saw the scar," he said, after a beat too long.

You didn't flinch. But something in your eyes darkened.

"Most people do."

"What happened?"

"Later."

Dean nodded again. Tucked it away. He didn't push. Wouldn't. But the image of it stuck to him like sap.

You turned, facing the trees.

"It's moving again. Whatever's watching us—it doesn't sleep either."

"You sure?"

"I felt it last night. Breathing against the branches."

Dean swallowed hard. "And you just stayed out here with it?"

You looked back over your shoulder. Eyes catching the sunlight like secrets.

"It's not me it wants." A beat passed. "Not just me."

Dean stepped up beside you, machete sheathed at his side, jaw clenched. He was too close. The air between you was too warm. Too quiet.

"You ready?" He asked.

"Always," you said. And then you were walking again, barefoot through the undergrowth, slipping between trees like you belonged to them.

Dean followed, slower. Quieter. And behind his ribs, something sharp and unfamiliar bloomed. Not fear. Not yet. But something close.

You moved through the trees like a shadow folded in half. Dean followed, steps quieter now, more deliberate—closer to how you moved, though not quite the same. You left no trace. He left bruises in the earth.

The morning sun filtered down in splinters. The birds were cautious, singing only in patches. Everything else was quiet.

"You never told me your name."

You said it without turning, your voice calm and even, like you'd been holding it for the right moment.

Dean looked up.

"Didn't I?"

You shook your head once. "You asked for mine. You never gave yours."

He blinked. Paused mid-step.

"Huh."

He hadn't noticed. Or maybe he had, somewhere beneath the noise of wanting you.

"Dean," he said, clearing his throat. "It's Dean."

You glanced over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifted—just barely. "Dean," you repeated, like you were tasting it. "It suits you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that it sounds like the kind of name a man wears when he doesn't expect to grow old."

Dean didn't answer.

You moved ahead of him, quiet as the wind through pine. The moss barely shifted beneath your feet.

Dean followed in your wake, every step louder than he wanted it to be. It wasn't just the boots. It was him. The weight he carried. The blood in his history. The way the woods never quite seemed to accept him the way they accepted you.

The forest stretched around you in slow green shadows. You paused now and then to touch a tree, press your hand into the soil, tilt your head like you were listening for something ancient buried in the bark. Dean watched. Pretended he wasn't watching.

But he watched everything.

The way your dress brushed your calves like a whisper. The way your hair tangled at the ends. The shape of your fingers when they curled over moss or reached for low branches. The breath you took before speaking. The stillness you wore like armour.

Then you hummed—quiet and wordless.

Something in his chest went hot. Sharp. He cleared his throat.

"That a song?" He asked, voice low.

You glanced over your shoulder.

"It was."

"Old?"

"Everything I know is."

You smiled—just barely. And for a moment, so did he.

A clearing opened ahead, bathed in slanted light, shadows rolling like soft waves across the ground. You stepped into it first, then crouched low beside something in the grass.

Dean joined you, kneeling beside you.

"Here," you said softly. "Its path curves. Whatever it is, it isn't moving in straight lines. It's herding."

"Herding what?"

You looked up at him, and suddenly he was too close. The words were slow on your tongue:

"Maybe us."

Dean's breath caught. Because now you were looking at him, and he was looking at you, and the space between your mouths felt charged, like it might burn if the wind moved the wrong way. Sunlight glinted off your lashes. Your lips were parted, soft and unsure, and then you said his name—

"Dean."

You said it like it mattered.

He stared at you, the world narrowing to your voice and the heat of your body next to his.

You reached for him—bare fingers brushing his wrist, light as a tremble—and everything tilted. For a second, it was unbearable, the need to close the gap, to hold your face in his hands, to lean in and not stop.

Your breath caught. Your eyes flicked to his mouth. And he leaned in. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the shape of the choice. But he stopped. He stayed there for a breath that hurt. Then he pulled back, slowly, deliberately, like he meant it. He straightened his spine like a man putting on armour.

"We should keep moving," he said, and his voice had gone cold.

You blinked, lips pressing together. You nodded, soft.

Just like that, he stepped away. He didn't meet your eyes again—not really—not for the rest of the walk. He kept his distance. Walked ahead of you by a few paces, not far enough to call it rude, just enough to make it clear. His hands stayed busy. Checking gear. Adjusting straps. All pointless.

When you spoke—little observations, soft things—he responded in clipped tones.

"Yeah." "Maybe." "We'll see."

And you... didn't question it. You just adjusted. Fell into step behind him instead of beside. Kept your hands to yourself. Said less.

But he saw it.

He saw the way your eyes dipped toward the ground when his voice went flat. The way your mouth curled like you wanted to speak, and then didn't. The way you touched the trees a little longer now, like grounding yourself was easier than reaching for him again.

You didn't hum anymore.

And Dean? Dean hated himself for how much he noticed.

Don't touch her, he told himself. Don't want her. She's not yours. She's not human. She's not safe.

But none of that was what stopped him. What stopped him—what chilled him—was the fear that he'd already crossed the line. That he already wanted something no hunter should.

You stayed by the fire that night as the last light died behind the trees.

Dean didn't speak. Neither did you.

He moved through his usual motions—checking the perimeter, adjusting the tent flap, unrolling his sleeping bag. His hands were mechanical. His shoulders were tight.

You didn't sit as close as you had the night before. You didn't hum. You just stared into the fire, your dress haloed in ash-gold light, curls half-shadowed, eyes unreadable.

He could feel it, thick in the air—the distance he'd created, brick by aching brick. And now it lay between you like a grave. He glanced up once, caught you watching the fire, your face blank but your fingers twitching—just a little. Like you wanted to reach for something that wasn't reaching back.

Say something, he told himself. Invite her in.

But he didn't. He stared at the tent flap. He stared at the fire. He stared at you. And then he retreated into the tent like a coward. The zipper whispered closed. But he left it unlatched at the bottom. A useless gesture. A silent maybe.

He lay there for a long time, staring at the roof, hands behind his head, guilt boiling slow in his chest.

She should be inside, he thought. She's not a damn animal.

But you were. And weren't. And that was the problem, wasn't it?

He rolled over. Pulled the sleeping bag up. Didn't sleep. Outside, he heard the soft shift of hooves in the grass. You had changed again. He knew that sound now—your deer form didn't rustle like a predator. You moved like the trees were letting you pass.

You kept watch. Quiet and loyal.

And Dean hated how badly he wanted to unzip the tent and ask you to come in. Not for protection. Not for warmth. For forgiveness. But he didn't.

He woke before the light.

The woods were still ink-dark when he blinked awake, sweat dried cold on his back. He sat up slow, bones aching from a night of guilt and half-sleep, heart weirdly heavy.

You weren't outside the tent. Not in deer form. Not in human.

He stood, tension pulling tight through his chest. "Fawn?" He called, quiet.

No answer.

Something tugged at him then. Not panic. Just knowing. He slung on his jacket and walked, slowly, into the trees. The dawn was beginning to touch the sky—gray and blue, light bleeding slow between the branches. It was quiet. Still.

He stepped through the last stretch of woods and found the clearing. Stopped breathing for a moment.

There, across the field, was a herd.

Deer. A dozen of them or more. Grazing, nudging each other gently. A stag stood tall at the centre, his rack wide and regal, flanked by smaller does. A few fawns darted between them, spring-legged and clumsy, chasing shadows, kicking at nothing but joy.

Dean stood in the hush of it. Watching.

And then he saw you. Off to the side. Still in your deer form—quiet, small, white spots catching the light. Not grazing. Not playing.

Just watching.

You were angled slightly away from the group, ears perked, eyes fixed—not with hunger. Not even longing. Just... distance.

Dean's throat tightened.

You were part of them. And somehow not. The herd didn't shy from you, but they didn't draw near either. They didn't treat you like other.

But you stayed other anyway. Alone. Silent. Still.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. He just watched you watching them, standing half-lit in the gold spill of the morning, hooves planted in soft grass like roots trying to find home.

You flicked your ears. Lifted your head. Looked at him across the clearing. Your nose twitched. Your eyes met his.

And Dean understood—really understood—for the first time that you were lonely. Not just alone. Lonely. And he'd made it worse.

You looked at him a moment longer. Still. Waiting. Eventually, you turned your head. Took a step. Another. And then you walked—slow, silent—back toward the trees. Back toward the place you always stood just outside of. Not part of the herd. Not part of him.

Dean stayed where he was. Watched you slip into the woods like you were fading from a dream.

He looked back once more at the meadow. The stag stood regal, unmoved, nostrils flaring. The fawns still bounded. The does grazed in soft rhythm. It should have been beautiful. It was beautiful. And yet... all he could think about was how far away from it you had been.

By the time he made it back to camp, the fire was nearly out.

You were human again, crouched by the pit, your white dress catching the light of the dying coals. Your curls were wild from the shift, leaves tangled in the strands. Your bare shoulders were streaked with dew and ash. Your hands were smudged with soot as you brushed dirt over the embers.

You looked up when you heard him, but only briefly. You didn't smile. You just went back to what you were doing—tidying. Making ready to move. Just like always.

Dean stood there a second longer than he meant to.

"You didn't have to put it out," he said.

"I always do," you replied softly. "I don't like leaving things burning."

Dean rubbed at the back of his neck. Stepped a little closer. The fire crackled once more and then sighed out, dead.

"Hey," he said. "Back there... at the clearing..."

You didn't look at him.

"It's okay."

"What is?"

You shook your head, standing slowly. Brushing your hands off.

"You don't have to explain, Dean."

"Explain what?"

"Any of it."

You finally looked at him. Your eyes were unreadable again, and that scared him more than anything else.

"Once we find whatever this thing is," you said, "I'll be out of your hair."

There was no anger in it. No bitterness. Just... resignation. You weren't pushing. You weren't clinging. You were offering him distance. Mercy.

Dean's heart dropped through the forest floor.

"Fawn..."

You turned away, started rolling up the tarp that had protected his few supplies from the dew. Your fingers moved carefully. Precisely.

Dean watched you, jaw tight, words stuck somewhere deep in his throat. He thought of the way you'd stood at the edge of that herd. Alone. Still. Watching like something that remembered what it was like to belong but hadn't in a long, long time.

And he hated it. He hated how beautiful you were. How soft. How strong. How wrong it all was. He hated that he wanted to reach for you and hadn't. And he hated himself more for doing exactly what he thought was right—only to see you shrinking from it.

Say something, his mind whispered. Fix it.

But he didn't. He just helped you pack. Silently. And the distance between you grew like frost between trees.

The two of you walked for a long time without speaking.

The trees began to thin, light spreading wide and warm across the forest floor. The sound of water reached you before the view did—soft and trickling, a quiet invitation.

You were the first to step through the last fringe of trees, and Dean followed behind—slow, unsure, still carrying the weight of what neither of you had said.

Then the lake opened up in front of you.

Small, still. Tucked between low hills and sun-dappled moss. Lily-pads floated across the surface, flat and wide, blooming pale yellow and white. The water was clear near the shore, darkening to rich green in the centre. A heron stood knee-deep in the far shallows, still as a statue, surrounded by reeds.

You stepped forward and stopped—completely, utterly still.

Dean nearly walked into you, but paused just behind. Watched the way your body softened. The way your fingers twitched at your sides like they ached to reach for the light, the water, the peace.

You took a breath. One of those real ones. Deep and open, like it came from the centre of your chest. And then you smiled. Not the tight, quiet thing you'd been offering him since yesterday. Not the gentle curve of survival. A real smile.

Dean stared at it like it was sunlight itself.

Your fingers pulled the white dress over your head with easy grace, baring your skin to the morning without hesitation. You wore nothing underneath. Just yourself, wild and unafraid.

Dean's throat went dry.

You waded into the lake slowly, the water rising up your calves, your thighs, your waist. You didn't look back. Not at first. You just leaned your head back and let the light spill over your face, and Dean saw your shadow cast long across the surface of the water.

And in the shadow—antlers. Not on your head. Not in the light. Only in what followed you. Curled and crownlike. Elegant. Impossible.

Dean stared.

What the hell were you?

And why—why—did he want to follow you into the water like it meant something?

He didn't let himself think too long. Boots off. Socks stripped. Shirt, jeans, everything discarded in a messy trail behind him. He stepped into the lake, breath catching at the cold, but kept going.

You turned at the sound—just a glance over your shoulder. Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. And then you smiled again. Smaller this time. Softer. Like you didn't know if you were allowed to.

Dean melted. Just a little.

"Didn't think you'd come in," you said.

"Didn't think I'd want to," he replied, wading deeper.

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering if I ever want to get out."

You didn't laugh. But something in your face lit—like it might.

Dean swam out a little, the water moving cool and clean against his skin. You stayed closer to the lily pads, fingers trailing across their wide green backs.

You looked at him then—really looked.

"This is the first time I've seen you let go."

Dean raised a brow. "I'm not exactly frolicking."

"No," you said, smiling again. "But you're not carrying your weapons."

He glanced at the shore. At the pile of his clothes, his gear. His belt, his machete, his gun.

"You feel safe?" You asked.

He looked at you. At the way your hair floated around your shoulders, the droplets of water beading along your collarbones. The tiny scar beneath your ribcage.

"No," he said honestly.

Your smile faltered.

But then he added: "But I don't feel like I need to run either."

You stared at him a long time.

"You're afraid of me," you said.

"No."

"You're afraid of what I make you feel."

That one landed. Dean didn't answer.

You didn't push. You just turned slowly in the water, letting your fingers trail behind you as you moved, circling around him like something made of dusk and myth.

"You don't have to pretend," you said, voice low. "I've seen the way you look at me."

Dean looked down into the water. Saw both of your reflections—soft, rippling. Yours crowned with antlers. His fractured.

"Yeah," he said, barely above a whisper. "I know."

And for a moment, the water felt holy. And dangerous. And like home.

Dean watched you turn slowly in the water, your fingertips trailing ripples like memories. You weren't smiling now. But you weren't closed off either. You were open. Quiet. And for once, not waiting for him to say something.

"Why weren't you with them?" He asked.

Your brows pulled just slightly, not in confusion, but in something softer.

"I was."

Dean shook his head, wading closer—but not too close. His voice was low.

"You were near them. But you weren't with them. You were watching."

You turned your eyes to the far side of the lake where the trees had swallowed the herd again.

"I don't let myself get too close," you said.

"Why?"

"Because they're peaceful. And I don't want to change that."

Dean stared at you, frowning faintly. "I don't get it."

You didn't answer right away. Your fingers dipped beneath the surface, stirring the water absently. Then you looked out at the lilies, the reflections. The sky.

"I've been like this for as long as I can remember," you said finally. "This shape. This age. Frozen around twenty, maybe twenty-one. I don't really know anymore."

Dean stilled.

You kept speaking, voice steady, like you'd rehearsed it in your own head a thousand times but never said it aloud.

"I don't remember my parents. Don't remember if they were like me, or part of a herd. Maybe they left me in the woods when I was born—with little antlers poking out of my skull like a bad omen. Maybe they didn't want to risk the others."

Your voice went thinner. Not weak—controlled.

"I've been on my own longer than I can measure. I've stopped trying. I stay that way. Because I don't think it's my place to take companionship. To take anything."

The water lapped gently at your waist. The heron lifted from the reeds then, rising in silence. Its wings stretched wide, slow. Effortless.

Dean watched it go. And then he said, quiet: "That's what I was afraid of."

You turned to him, blinking.

"When I didn't kiss you. That's what it was. I didn't want to take it. Like it wasn't mine to want."

You didn't speak. You just nodded, your eyes falling back to the place where the heron had stood. You sighed. Deep. Honest.

Dean's chest ached.

He didn't want to feel sorry for you. That wasn't what this was. It wasn't pity—it was recognition. It was the gnawing, hollow sameness of it all. The way your loneliness mirrored his own so closely it made him want to drown in it.

You had given so much without asking for a single thing in return. And he had met that gift with distance.

Dean moved closer—just a little. Enough to be beside you in the water. Enough to let the silence feel less like a wound.

He didn't touch you, but he wanted to.

"I was cold," he said. "Back there. After that moment."

"I know," you murmured.

"You didn't deserve that."

You didn't say thank you. You didn't reach for him. You just stood in the water with him, morning light catching the edge of your profile, eyes reflecting the sky. And that—that—was worse.

Because Dean had never felt closer to someone he couldn't hold.

You stood beside him in the water, the silence wide between you. And then you turned. Slowly. Carefully. Your eyes met his—soft, unreadable, reflecting the sky and the shadow of the trees behind him.

"I think we're more alike than you want to admit," you said.

Dean blinked. Swallowed.

"What do you mean?"

You tilted your head, the way deer sometimes do—curious. Gentle.

"Your loneliness," you said quietly, "it calls to mine."

The words sank deep. Like a knife made of light.

Dean's breath caught. His chest tightened. The ache that had been riding under his skin all morning surged, and before he could stop himself, he reached for you. His hand found your waist. The curve of your bare hip just beneath the water. He pulled you toward him—not roughly, not desperately. Just gently. Like he needed to feel that you were real.

You didn't resist. You let your body come to his, weightless in the water, and you wrapped your arms around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The lake was still. Murky green beneath the surface, bright above.

You were warm against him. Chest to chest. Legs brushing. Your skin dappled with gold light, water droplets clinging to your shoulders, your collarbones. Your pulse soft beneath his fingers.

Dean didn't speak. Couldn't. He was looking at you like you were something holy. Something impossible.

Your eyes were wide—doe eyes, always. Vulnerable. Knowing. Your lips were parted, not in invitation, but in wonder. And god, the freckles. He couldn't stop staring at them. Like stars across your skin. Like someone had placed every one with intention.

"You're not what I expected," he murmured, voice hoarse.

You didn't look away.

"I know."

"You're not what I'm supposed to want."

"I know that too."

His thumb brushed the edge of your jaw. The curve of your cheek.

"But I do," he said, barely above a whisper.

You smiled then. Just a little. Sad. Knowing.

"I understand why you were afraid of me," you said.

Dean's hand stilled against your cheek.

"Everyone else has been."

He felt the words like a bruise spreading beneath his ribs.

"They see something they don't understand. Something wild. And wild things make people afraid. So I stopped asking. I stopped expecting to be anything but alone."

Dean pulled you tighter. Not to claim. Not to possess. To comfort. To answer that call.

You tucked your head against his shoulder, your breath warm on his neck. His arms circled you fully now, hands resting on your back, fingers brushing the ridge of the scar that ran beneath your shoulder blades.

You didn't flinch.

And he didn't let go.

a/n: oooooh, we are getting deeper into their dynamic now. I LOVE THEM. This is so different to any of my other works and I'm kinda living for it. Like, I know... I know there's no smut yet. I promise y'all it's coming... and it'll be worth it. But for now? I'm really enjoying the plot and building this story. The slowburn hoe in me is thriving right now. Hope you guys like it. The shift in their relationship has begun. All the love.

Dean taglist: @mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @bittersweetfig @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l @liiiilsss @mj-102009 @bitchykittenconnoisseur <3

[a-dying-wish-if]

A Dying Wish is an interactive story about being a bird.

Well, not just a bird.

Thousands of years ago, you were worshipped - maybe they built grand temples and statues of you, maybe secret little shrines in the darkest parts of the endless woods...

But none of that matters anymore. The statues and temples of old have crumbled into dust and the woods burned away in the fires of industry.

Yet you are still there today, unknown and uncaring, hidden in the rubble of this broken world, in which a humanity far beyond its peak slowly grinds towards its own erasure.

Although fatigue should be unknown to you no matter what physical form you assume, you find yourself to be tired. That's why you chose to become a mortal bird, fragile but free, and seek out one of the few remaining forests to starve to death in relative peace - not that you're sure what death actually means to a being like you.

But as you come to rest on the branch of a lone maple tree in the midst of countless birches, you find that you are not alone... a human is bleeding out beneath your tree.

Genre: Romance, Horror Setting: Pseudo-Postapocalyptic ('90s Russia/Yugoslav Wars vibes) Note: there's only one (customizable) RO Objective: find your place among the many monsters in this world and worm your way into the RO's heart

Demo: TBA. This project will only occasionally be worked on as I focus on my main wip, Орлёнок.

[forestclan-clangen]

MOON 2 (Part 2)

<< FIRST | < PREVIOUS |

- Iciclepool and Talonpaw go training. She tells him about ForestClan's history, and the source of the monsters and sacrifices. (Talonpaw, apprentice, male, 6 moons) (Iciclepool, deputy, female, 58 moons)

Talonpaw was careful not to trip over any of the stray stones and large tree roots dappling his path. His eyes widened with awe as he looked up at the canopy. He admired the sharp points of the pine trees and the now-blooming leaves of the occasional oak and birch. He gasped as he saw two squirrels chasing each other up and down the tallest part of a great pine, chittering like bickering kits.

For his entire kithood, he was constantly reinforced how terrifying the woods were. How they held monsters beyond his understanding; how they preyed easily on kits and apprentices like him. But now that he was here, he felt a pang of sadness. How could a place so beautiful ever be so evil? He was never allowed outside of camp until now, and for what?

"Talonpaw, are you listening?"

Talonpaw jumped, meeting the copper eyes of a rather stern Iciclepool. "Y-Yes, Iciclepool."

The she-cat stopped walking and sat down, glaring at him. "Then can you repeat what I just said?"

Talonpaw's face turned hot with embarrassment. He sat down and tucked his tail over his paws. "...No."

"That's what I thought." Iciclepool sighed, her tail twitching with annoyance. After a few moments, she took a deep breath and her tone softened. "I know that this is a lot of new territory for you. It can be overwhelming at first. Can you tell me what you can smell right now?"

Talonpaw raised his head and tasted the air. His eyes narrowed as he strained to pick out certain patches of smells. "...I smell a really strong, pine-like scent. Like I just stuck my nose in one of the camp walls. It's sticky."

"Pine trees produce a lot of sap in newleaf and early greenleaf. And yes, we use it to glue and reinforce the defenses around camp. Good work." Iciclepool confirmed. "Anything else?"

Talonpaw hesitantly stood up, glancing at his mentor for approval. When she nodded at him, he stuck his nose closer to the ground, and started tracking smells from certain directions. "...Um...It seems like some chipmunks might've ran past here. I can also kind of smell the direction of our border. That way, I think?" Talonpaw indicated with his tail.

Iciclepool nodded. "Good. There is one other place that you should be able to smell, although faintly. Be mindful of the direction the wind is blowing."

Talonpaw again tasted the air. He didn't want to disappoint his mentor. What could she be talking about? A soft wind blew over the treetops, and Talonpaw took advantage of this. His nose tickled as he picked up on the humid smell of water, tinged with rotting vegetation and cold rock. This confused him. He only smelled this around puddles, but it hadn't rained in weeks.

"Is there...water? Like...a lot of it?" Talonpaw asked. Iciclepool's whiskers twitched with pride, and she wordlessly stood up and beckoned him to follow her.

Talonpaw eagerly padded after her, hopping onto every stone and avoiding every hole he saw his mentor navigate. Then, Iciclepool reached the edge of the treeline, and stopped. Talonpaw padded up behind her, and his pawsteps slowed as he stared in awe at the scene present before him. A large, jagged mountain stood out from the large hills surrounding it; painted in trees stretched out as far as he could see. A massive lake stretched out at the mountain's base, with large rivers flowing in and out of the basin. The waters reflected the sun's rays back at them, creating a brilliant shine that danced along to its own rhythm.

Talonpaw's heart thumped loudly. He felt betrayed. Underneath all the awe, he just...couldn't understand why no one told him about this. Why didn't anyone tell him about the beautiful lake? The mountains in the distance? Why didn't ForestClan occupy every corner of this place?

"It's beautiful, isn't it?"

Talonpaw started back and looked at Iciclepool quizzically. The white molly looked at him with a surprising amount of softness.

"Talonpaw. Do you know why we live in these woods?"

He shook his head. Iciclepool continued to look out at the lake. She beckoned him with his tail, gesturing for him to sit. The tom obeyed.

"Allegedly - they weren't always dangerous. Once, a long time ago, our ancestors lived alongside four other Clans."

"Really?" Talonpaw's eyes grew wide. "How come I never heard about this before?"

"The same reason why we don't tell kits scary stories. The kits are already frightened.

But now, you're old enough to know. There used to be five Clans around this territory. With ForestClan's ancestors, they would trade goods, and defend their territories. They would protect their borders and gather under the banner of peace every full moon to share in the news and growth of their Clans. It's thanks to one of the lost clans that ForestClan learned the ability to create and contain fire, and create bowls with clay. Our ancestors thrived because of this.

But one starless night, well-groomed cats with fur-less heads descended on the land, with no explanation. Every night, they would attempt to enter the camps of all five clans. For moons on end, sightings of well-groomed cats kept occurring. They would keep requesting to speak to the leaders; they wanted to make deals. Cats were being plagued by ominous dreams - not from StarClan, but from something else. Then, one night during a freezing leafbare, the well-groomed cats stopped appearing, and a monstrous mass of flesh, roots and bone emerged from beyond the territory. It roamed across all the Clans, and one by one, started consuming any cat it came across."

Talonpaw's fur stood on end. Iciclepool briefly glanced at him and placed a solemn tail on his shoulder. "Except for one Clan - ours. Our walls made of tall pines and heavy stones, reinforced by sap, were too cumbersome for the wretched creature to trample over. ForestClan quickly became asylum for the refugees of the broken Clans. We fought tirelessly to protect our home and honor the other Clans that lived alongside us. By the end of the night, the wretch had vanished into the shadows. And ever since then, ForestClan has made it its duty to carry on the legacy of our ancestors. This monster destroyed four Clans in one night. What would happen if it returned, and destroyed ForestClan? Where would it go next? Would it advance to other cat colonies? Would it grow until there was nothing left of the world? We knew that we would be abandoning the entire world if we didn't try to prevent that monster from reappearing again. With StarClan's guidance, we learned how to survive and keep the creatures of the woods at bay, and continue to do so til this day."

Talonpaw was still taken aback. He had heard a lot of stories about ForestClan's history before - but never did he ask how ForestClan came to be. Meekly, he asked, "Then...why does ForestClan feed the woods?"

Iciclepool's eyes flickered with feeling. For a moment, Talonpaw thought that she was going to hiss at him, and inched back. But finally, after a moment that felt like forever, Iciclepool replied.

"When I was a kit," she started slowly, "they told me it was because it stopped the Wretch from coming back. The well-groomed cats were omens from the woods that we rejected. They sent the Wretch as punishment. Now, the woods demand tribute, or we risk attracting it back to us."

"So...the apprentice trials...?"

"Cruel traditions enforced over time by cowards," Iciclepool hissed. "StarClan gave so-called 'secret keepers' nine lives, and they had the audacity to sacrifice cats with only one? It was cowardice. Pure and simple. StarClan had given us the tools to keep the monsters at bay for seasons, but leadership grew selfish and meek. ForestClan had lost its way for several generations, enforcing practices that never should have been allowed in the first place. I am so grateful that Redstar has seen reason like I have. Thanks to her, we will be able to feed the woods and still retain our numbers for seasons to come, like we always should have."

Talonpaw was surprised to hear the vitriol behind Iciclepool's words. Suddenly, a memory came back to him. He remembered when he was a kit and heard whispers from Hopechase and Cloudthunder when they thought he wasn't around. "Poor Iciclepool. I felt so heartbroken when I was the only survivor of the four apprentices made that moon. My brother...and Stonepaw and Rapidpaw...Iciclepool had already lost Creekkit..." Talonpaw remembered how hurt Cloudthunder sounded, and how Hopechase then caught him afterwards and started chiding him for eavesdropping.

"Did your kits die from the trials?" Talonpaw regretted his words the second they came out of his mouth. The desire to throw himself down into a pit invaded his entire being as he met Iciclepool's aghast expression.

"Do not answer that," he blurted, mortified. "Please, please do not answer that. I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I didn't - I wasn't - "

Iciclepool's copper eyes remained pools of dismay. They morphed into an expression of anger, then pain.

"...Talonpaw. I don't talk about my previous mate, or my children, because it still hurts. This means," her voice pulled taut, "someone has been telling you stories that aren't theirs to share. Who told you?"

"N-No, no, Iciclepool, it's not their fault," he exclaimed. "No one told me, I...I eavesdropped when I was a kit. I heard Cloudthunder confiding something sad with Hopechase - a-about apprentice trials. She mentioned she didn't know how to respond to you when she came back from hers. That's why I just assumed - i-it's not her fault, please, I swear. What I said was really, really stupid and dumb, and I'm so sorry."

As Talonpaw stammered on, Iciclepool's expression became unreadable. Talonpaw stared at his paws in shame, refusing to meet his mentor's glare. Oh StarClan, he didn't want his mentor to hate him, not like this! Redstar told him about 'inside voices', why oh why did he not use -

He felt Iciclepool's tail rest on his shoulder gently, interrupting his thoughts. After a moment that could've been a heartbeat or a thousand seasons, she said quietly, "Your words did hurt. You are not entitled to know everyone's experiences. But you are a young tom. You are still learning. Look at me, Talonpaw."

Talonpaw hesitantly tore his gaze from the floor to look at the white she-cat.

"...I won't tell you what happened to my kits. Not today. But right now, you have learned two very important things about being a warrior of ForestClan, and being a cat," Iciclepool looked back out at the lake, and Talonpaw slowly followed her line of sight. The beauty of the world before him was present again - but now, he thought about the well-groomed cats, and the Wretch, and wondered if somewhere out there, they were hiding behind the trees.

"First, we are here because our ancestors fought for us to be here. Honor them, and honor all those who will come before and after you. And second," Iciclepool looked at her apprentice crossly, "your words mean something Talonpaw. Great StarClan, I hope that's the most insensitive thing I hear you say, and from now on, you use your head. Alright?"

Talonpaw paused, then nodded. "Of course. I'm so sorry Iciclepool."

Iciclepool's fur had flattened out by this point. Then, she was struck by unusual mischief. She smirked, then said, "As punishment, your first apprentice task will be moss duty."

"Ugh! Okay - fine, fine, I deserve it. I'm going to find so much moss that you're going to regret it, though! Hopefully. Maybe. Sorry - I'll be good."

Iciclepool failed to suppress a purr. She was still hurt. But the boy meant well.

---

< PREVIOUS | NEXT >

[serenpedac]

2024 Writing Roundup

Thank you @lykegenia for the tag <3

words posted: 28703

additional words written: Around 40000 words, most of which are for the poly AU and Ava's car racing AU.

grand total of words: ~69000

fandoms: The Wayhaven Chronicles, one Dragon Age oneshot, and some writing for Yael for our GURPS campaign.

highest kudos: Tales of Fate and Fortune, though that's ignoring the oneshot collections, as well as 'when words', since those only had parts added this year and it's impossible to separate the kudos.

highest hit oneshot: featherstone. Again, this is without counting the oneshots in collections (I know it's not ideal to put those into a single work, but it's better for me).

new things I tried: At first, I wanted to say it was writing Adam/Nate, but since I wrote them specifically for the polymance AU, I'm going to say writing a poly-relationship. Relationships in various forms have been on my mind a lot this year, and I think that's reflected in my writing.

fic I spent the most time on: Including words that are not yet posted, it's the poly AU main fic: touching, tangling, intertwined.

fic I spent the least time on: For Gold and Glory (and Good Wine) --- Just a silly little fic about my Warden and Rook meeting.

favorite thing I wrote: The latest chapter of when words fall silent. It's a scene that I've been thinking about for years, yet putting it on paper was quite hard. It feels good to finally have it written down, though. The writing itself may not be my best (I'm finding it very hard to judge this chapter), but each and every part is there for a reason, and I just have a lot of feelings about this chapter. Here's an excerpt (cw: mention of death):

Dappled sunlight plays across the ground, creating patches of light and shadow and everything in between. A few early butterflies flutter between the tall grasses in splashes of citrine and dusky orange. Nate’s sigh is carried away by the wind rustling through the birch trees scattered across the land, their leaves a soft, light green against the silver of their slender trunks. The place is beautiful. What he wouldn’t give to not be here. His hand goes to his chest, inadvertently, finding the ribbon pinned there. Its frayed edges brush against the tips of his fingers, a reminder of the life torn away before it had a chance to be lived.

favorite thing(s) I read: Since the Friday rec lists focused on Wayhaven, let me put down some other things here:

before you can kill the monster (you have to say its name) by @/inquisimer --- A rewrite of the DATV quest with the Gloom Howler. Isseya is such a fascinating character and Veilguard's handling of her disappointed me, so I'm very happy to get to read this fic that focuses on giving her nuance!

Rosemary and Citrus by @/lykegenia --- Lykegenia's writing is always a pleasure to read, and this Rook/Lucanis fic is no exception. It's wonderful to get to dive deeper into the characters.

Number 5 by stardust_and_sunlight --- A Doctor Odyssey fic set the morning after that one night, with the Max/Tristan content we deserve (also looove Avery's role at the end here).

Remembrance of Earth's Past (The Three-Body Problem trilogy) by Liu Cixin --- Putting these books on here, because my summer was defined by them. As frustrated as I may have been with some parts of it, it's a story that had me in its hold for months and left its mark on me.

writing goals for 2025: Finish 'when words'! Getting better at finishing longer fics in general, tbh. I tend to start fics and then abandon them, which is something I want to work on.

new works:

Farah/Gabi

Meet-cute Neon Pink Tulsi Yellow Like the Summer Sun

Yael/Nate & Susan/Nate (how did I write/post so little Yael/Nate this year?!)

Stockings Tales of Fate and Fortune

Poly AU (Yael/Nate/Adam)

written by your hand featherstone let me show you touching, tangling, intertwined

Other

Metamorphosis A Touch of Friendship For Gold and Glory (and Good Wine)

Tagging forward anyone reading this! And also (no pressure): @evilbunnyking, @nerdierholler, @wayhavenots, @nat-seal-well, @nsewell, @itsmistyeyedbi, @serial-chillr

[psalacanthea]

The Courting of Ghilan'nain

well this was meant to be a little fanfic friday dribble-drabble, but just kidding it's actually 3.8k. So I guess I should actually put it on AO3. Hang on. Ok, I put it on AO3. Here's the link.

Andruil x Ghilan'nain, Andruil & Solas, Ghilan'nain & Solas, 3.8k T

Impossibly tall and twisted trees denoted Andruil’s camp deep in the forest.

As Solas wandered the wood, a spirit-home of wild fade currents, tendrils of magic and air brought him whispers from the gathering.  They said the Mother of Halla, great benefactress of the mortals, had not deigned to greet the Huntress; there was silence from her den deep within the trees.  This wood was the home of monsters, strange creations that appeared from the dark depths, some helpful, some vicious.  Many had destroyed by the Huntress’ arrows, but some, like the proud halla, thrived among the people.

The halla did not bow her head; not even to the gods themselves.

An insult.

Even the Huntress’ lenient temper would be roused by Elgar'nan's order.  When Mythal had heard she’d demanded the Mother of Halla be captured, Mythal had bid him come and see what was afoot.  For as her husband loathed them, Mythal loved the halla, who were happy to serve her when they scorned Elgar’nan.

Perhaps a petty reason for him to leave her side, but Solas was curious, too.

What punishment had Andruil devised for the mortal who crafted beasts that defied the gods?

The grand camp, a temporary home crafted by an eager fade-sculptor among Andruil’s court, did not infringe upon the wood.  A gentle shimmer in the air kept wildlife away, each root-woven archway blending into the world around them.  But beyond that border, it was far from ordinary.

Without was autumn, but within was early spring.  The air was crisp and breathtaking, sky bright with stars and a rippling aurora stolen from a place where night and cold still reigned.  Solas gazed up at as he passed the outer court dotted with small shops and dwellings, each with their own unique design.  It was a beautiful and impressive feat, to walk a portal from autumn to spring thaw.  Wilderness to civilization.

Andruil preferred not to upset the game, her preferences visible among the ephemeral fade-sculpted fancies.  This camp had been built around what was, not replacing it.  Even the snowdrops were raised from the crude soil beyond their season rather than created, lured by beckoning magic.  Solas walked the streets of the ever-changing and ever-moving city of Andruil, listening to the chime of breaking ice and the soft sounds of conversations muffled by the harmony of the Fade.

A light snow drifted down, dusting the carved ice path leading to a central camp surrounded by twisting cherry blossom trees. They shed insubstantial petals that melted at a touch, an ever-drifting veil that led into a tunnel of constantly melting and freezing wisteria wrought of ice, their droplets falling onto tuned stones that made a charmingly random melody.  Trickles of ice-freed springs laid a soft ripple of sound underneath, rivulets of melt dripping from every surface as he passed from the tunnel to face the final ascent.

Most, if not all of Andruil’s court were within.

Solas made himself a wandering shadow, avoiding eyes and notice.  He was welcome to travel where he would, but often found it best to avoid notice unless he was required– though the habit did rouse suspicion.  Mythal had asked him to witness this moment.  It was more convenient to do so without rousing attention.  He would intervene in case of disaster, of course.

Andruil could be…impulsive.

Her followers held too much sway with her.

The path led to a hunters’ rest of filigree ice walls and woven birch pillars, a massive central fire blazing low with flames of silver and violet.  The lights matched the aurora overhead, lighting the whole space with hues of purple, green, and blue.  It was those dressed in scarlet and orange who suffered most of the choice in lighting, Solas noted.  The natural stone stair had been given more gravitas with ice-wrought railings, the moss that sprang from every crack coated in perpetually-melting frost, the delicate carpet still autumnally green and brown despite the artificial winter.

Solas wondered idly if changing the seasons out of order would do some damage to the wood, unprepared for such cold.

The moment he entered the temple-like camp, open to the sky, his eyes were drawn to not to the vista above, but to she who required all this posturing.  The Mother of Halla had been captured, herded into the presence of Andruil at last…whether she desired it or not.  Andruil did not take ‘no’ for an answer.

Alone, Ghilan’nain stood shunned by the gathering of immortal and spirit, lingering in the shadow of a twisted sapling column wreathed in sculpted vines.

Yet once the eye found her, it could not leave her.

Eyes like strawflowers stared across the room, compellingly alien, too large for her elongated face.  They were set oddly far apart, alert and wary, pupils a horizontal bar.  And that was far from where her idiosyncrasies ended.  Her face was nothing but flaws, her nose too long with a flattened bridge, her mouth too wide and too pale.  Her ears were nearly clownish, turned outward proudly.  Unforgivably flawed.  Yet she was harmonious, wholly herself by design; this curious sculptress of beasts clearly considered herself a canvas as well.  And so she drew the eye as to art, to be judged on some higher plane than mere attractiveness.

The Mother of Halla was unbound, and unwatched by the guards, ostensibly here of her own will.  But Solas knew the lie.  He could feel her frustration and distraction, her disdain for the feast, her unease with the celebratory crowd that gazed at her like she was yet another of Andruil’s bizarre trophies.

This is what he had been sent to observe.

In a sea of spring color she was wilted and faded, draped in the hues of skeletal fallen leaves.  But it suited her, the odd fragility and simplicity of her dress, the richer palette.  The truth of the world outside.  And if she was barely dressed for the occasion, well, she was a mortal and it was appropriate for her to avoid outshining her betters.

She showed no signs of discomfort with her unfashionable iconoclasm.

Mockery flitted around the room behind hands, venomous butterflies flitting from each gossiping bubble to whisper their disdain for her.  Jealousy, all of it.  The entire city of Arlathan knew of the Huntress’ obsession with the sculptress of beasts, her hunger for her attention.  To be favored by the gods was to be feared and hated.

A truth Solas was all too aware of.

Andruil’s pride was simple and fierce.  She wore it like a child, with expectation of praise and glory for her accomplishment.  And, like a child, her pride was easily wounded– she lashed out thoughtlessly when it was threatened.

He was curious to see if the Mother of Halla would survive her long-awaited first encounter with the Huntress.

When Andruil arrived, it was with laughter and shouting.

The Huntress was celebrated upon her arrival, not like Elgar’nan, whose court was silent and fawning, or Mythal’s, which was peaceful and full of gratitude.  No, Andruil’s court was a place of drinking and song, of story and boasting.  The line between fashion and armor blurred, with the goddess herself arriving in a silver breastplate and a violet sash like a peacock’s tail that spread behind her as she walked.  Her armored leggings were spattered in mud and blood, half-bared chest sporting a jagged wound that still seeped blood.

She wore the injury as proudly as her exposed scars, the armor designed specifically to show them.  One from each of her great battles in the war.  Her people knew the story of each scar, or at least her version of them, and treated the tales as their sacred scriptures.

It seemed Andruil wanted to make a show of her arrival tonight.

In the center of the magic-hewn stone dias that stood at the top of the lodge, her altar and her throne, Andruil paused.  Her boisterous, equally-wounded hunters stalled far back from her.  The noise died.  There was still a smile on her lips, arch and arrogant.  It pulled slightly from the deep scar at the corner of her mouth that arched up to her cheek– won at the final battle of the great war, the conflict that had granted her eventual godhood.

“Generally when a goddess camps within your borders, oh Mother of Halla, one does not need to be invited to pay her respects!”

Andruil’s voice rang out, drawing every eye in the place back to the strangely-sculpted mortal.  She clutched the pillar with one hand now, but she did not flinch when addressed, lifting her chin and averting her eyes.  Step by step, she approached the dias, figures moving out of her way at her approach.  The fire roared as she passed it, briefly washing her in strange, sharp shadows that made her all the more fragile.

At the bottom of the stairs, she bowed deeply to Andruil, until her knees touched the floor.

Ghilan’nain said nothing.

The silence pleased Andruil, her smile widening, shoulders rolled back.  “Bring the trophy!” she bellowed, giving no more words to the still-kneeling mortal.

Solas curiously observed the prisoner, who did not at all behave like one.  In fact, he would say she was remarkably composed, and remarkably brave.  He would admire it, were it not counter to her continued survival.  Still, there was much to be learned even in fleeting moments of those whose audacity spelled their doom.

Beauty even in melting snow.

Andruil returned, holding proudly in her hands the severed head of a halla.  It wasn’t the beast itself that surprised Solas, but the sheer size of the head cradled between Andruil’s gauntlets, its intricately carved antlers eclipsing her face.  A marvellous beast, larger than any he’d seen before.  Its blood-spattered fur was golden, dead eyes rolled up towards the rippling sky.

“Rejoice, Mother of Halla!  I have defeated the greatest of your beasts, and won our ferocious competition at last!”  No cheers broke after Andruil’s bold pronouncement, the entire court respecting the gravity of the moment.

A sob broke the breathless silence.

A gasp of shock and horror flickered around the room, shadows lengthening, air chilling.

Ghilan’nain wept.

And not with overwhelmed honor at the skill and glory of the Huntress, but in pain, her face falling into her hands, graceful body crumpling to the floor in a puddle of gossamer skirts.  Heartbroken, voice borne on the ringing silence, she sobbed, tears spilling from between her fingers and dampening her skirts.  Solas’ eyes were drawn to her, as many were, but the focus was not on the weeping mortal, but the triumphant goddess.

No; Andruil was triumphant no longer.

Her pride had been shattered by the mournful response, and she stared in shock and dismay.  Her hand fell, the proudly-displayed beast’s head falling with a thump.  There was no blood left to spill, but its mouth hung open grotesquely as it rolled down a stair, beautifully curved horns clinking against the crystalline stone.

��Why do you cry?”  Andruil asked, words blunt and fierce as ever.  But they were open, straightforward, puzzlement and pain clear.  “I have bested you at last.”  Her expression cleared, fierce eyes softening.  “Are you overcome with the honor?”

“I did not make her for you to hunt!”

The accusation rang out, so full of suffering that the spirits thrummed with the vibrations her agony rippled through the air.  The light changed, candles burning fiercely golden, banishing the violet shadows.  In the gilded light the weeping mortal glared at the goddess, her agony pure, her heart open to them all like a flower.

The room was silent, watching the challenged goddess in fear and anticipation.

Armor gleaming in the fierce firelight, Andruil took a single step down from her dias.  “Do you not challenge me, mortal?  I have hunted your great beasts of land, sea, and sky.  Why do you weep now?”

“Challenge you?”  The question was full of too much pain for offense, great tears spilling again as Ghilan’nain’s chin rose.  Her lashes trembled, gleaming.  “They were imperfect.  Flawed.  But her–”  Her voice cracked, bleeding.

The Mother of Halla reached out a dappled hand, long fingers stretching as she crawled up the shallow stairs, tears still spilling from her autumnal eyes, gown spread across the crystal like the shivering wings of a wounded moth.  She grasped the severed head of the gilded beast, hands cradling its gilded muzzle, dragging it down into the embrace of her arms.  Chest heaving with the force of her tears, she pressed her forehead to the halla’s.

“She was perfect.  Perfect!”  The last word rang like an accusation, an arrow to Andruil’s heart.  Ghilan’nain’s head lifted, her eyes wounded and hazy from her unceasing woe.  Her question, her anger was posed to the room, as if each soul who witnessed bore the burden of the desecration.  “How could you?”

The heartbroken anguish echoed.

Her sorrow was too profound and too beautiful.  Elvhen who had mocked her were now weeping for her, faces turned away in shame.  Still, more watched in fear, anticipating the displeasure of the Huntress.  

But Solas knew better.

Andruil’s eyes behind the mask of her face were full of pain and shock, a child whose clumsy fingers had crushed the butterfly she admired.

“Tell me– were they not tokens of your worship?  Challenges to my skill and might?”

Ghilan’nain laughed, the sound bubbling over miserably.  “No.  No.”  She wilted, curling in on herself like a child afraid of a blow.  The severed head was shielded from the room in her arms, as if denying them any further spectation of the beast’s demise.  When her chin jerked up and her eyes met the goddess’, full of outrage and pain, there were murmurs of shock, whispers of magic-shielded conversations.

Such defiance…

Solas tucked a hand beneath his chin, watching the scene with detached fascination.

Truly, this Ghilan’nain did not fear death.

“I have made nothing for you.”

“You say that now because I have bested you,” Andruil scoffed.  She stared down her nose, looking more bemused by the defiance than angry.  There were not many who would raise their voice to the general without a blade in hand to challenge her.  Tears were new.  “If you wished the great Golden Halla not to die, you should not have sent me so many challenges.  Can you not see that it is your failure, weeping mortal?  It was inevitable she would die– it is only a beast and you are no god.”

Andruil’s benevolence was tentative, one hand beginning to rise, but stalling before her reaching fingers could extend fully.  Curiously, the Huntress was taking far more care with Ghilan’nain than even he would expect.  She seemed utterly at a loss beneath the bravado.

When her gaze scanned the room, Solas knew his attempts to stay a mere observer would not succeed.

A voice echoed in his mind, rising and falling with Adruil’s always-wandering attention when her regard found him.  “If you must spy and pry for Mythal, at least serve your purpose.”

The viciousness of her voice in his mind did not concern Solas, though Mythal had told him time and time again that she could not protect him if he went too far.  He did not challenge Andruil, so there was no reason for her to attack him.  Her plea, while high-handed and rude, was genuine.

Andruil truly had thought the mortal was courting her attention.

And worse, she had been charmed by it.

There was a simple solution if all she wished was to please the mortal in return.  “Swear to protect all of the halla that remain.  Elgar’nan finds their arrogance displeasing, but if you demand their enshrinement, he will agree.  You are owed the boon.”

“Lower my head?”  Across the room her eyes blazed, piercing the shadows he watched from.

Solas was exposed, and eyes that previously cast past him were now fixed upon him as he stood in the shadow of a colonnade, hands tucked behind his back.  They spoke in silence, but their conversation left currents in the air that eyes tracked.  He could see the smattering of attention at his appearance.  “You have proven your skill and it does not move her.  Prove your benevolence now.”

As soon as he offered an answer she would accept, Solas was ignored.

With his purpose served in her eyes, Andruil no longer paid him any heed.  Finally she broke her stern silence, and the air began to move again, chests rising as the Elvhen were freed from the grip of her furious confusion.  The Goddess of the Hunt gazed across the room, and then down to the mournful mortal at her feet.

They had spoken in few moments, but it seemed Ghilan’nain had no intention of a response.  Her face was flat and expressionless now, tear-streaked and cold.  Even that was beautiful, the way her skirts floated down around her as she rose, the bravery of her strange reddened eyes, her lifted chin.

She was as brave in her calm as she had been in her tempest.

“Your beast was a worthy challenge.  A warrior of great grace and strength,” Andruil said with more confidence with no further argument posed.  “She will celebrated in story and song!”

There was a cheer from the court of the Huntress.  It was an honor they understood, and more than a mortal should hope for.  Solas was not surprised in the least when what followed was in fact the opposite of what Andruil intended.  

Without a word, Ghilan’nain turned away.

Immediately five hundred hands went for weapons; there was no way she would escape without the Huntress’ grace, no matter how brave he was.  But Andruil lifted a hand and waved them off imperiously.  The court stood down.  No one would question the goddess’ whims, for she was a dauntless god, and her skill in the hunt was not to be questioned.

The Huntress allowed Ghilan’nain to flee, wounded, Solas knew she would be hunted down before long.

Her reasoning simply defied Andruil’s divine confidence.

Chatter turned to feasting and laughter, making light sport of the obviously confused mortal too overwhelmed by the presence of a god.  No, it was not the tale of the night.  Instead the story of hunting the Great Golden Halla spread, making certain to highlight that the beast had been sent as a challenge to the goddess of the hunt.  Andruil’s boasting confidence could turn any wild tale into myth.

Even when they had seen the truth with their own eyes.

She, sadly, did not allow him to linger and enjoy the company of her ranks.  Once the wounded halla was gone, and the feasting had begun, she found his mind again.

“Have you seen enough, whimpering beast?”

“Mythal wishes for your success.  Shall I depart?”

“Stop.”  He watched her gilded profile in the distance, her eyes fixed upon the butchery of the rest of the beast.  It seemed she had no intention of sparing this kill from the feast.  Vulgar.  Her voice in his head was sharp, short, belying the frustration she had hidden from her people.  “No riddles, servant of Mythal.  If you are so wise, tell me what I must do.  For Elgar’nan has demanded I stop the flood of beasts that come from this wood.”

Ah.  The full scope of this ceremony was now clear to Solas.  He should report to Mythal with haste, once he had sufficiently soothed the Huntress.  As had crossed his mind before, the halla offended Elgar’nan.  But now the people depended upon the halla, revered and loved them, and seeing them forced into service would enrage them and tarnish Elgar’nan’s reputation.  So, he sought to destroy their creator, fearing the independence of beast and creator both.

He could not, and would not abide their refusal to serve, not when they flocked to Sylaise and bowed to Mythal.

A fascinating puzzle that was not for Solas to solve.

“You could kill her,” he suggested, curious to hear her reaction.

“Easily.”  In the distance, Andruil shot him a distant sidelong glance, like a dagger of emerald.  “If I wished to, I would have, you useless slave.”

The insult, like every single one before it, was ignored.  “You misinterpreted her.”

“Do you call me a fool?” She instantly retaliated, as he had presumed. “I did not misinterpret her.  She was overcome.  Why would she create such vast and terrible creatures, if not to gain the notice of the Huntress?  I thought you were wise.”

Pleased with the success of his manipulation, Solas smiled faintly to himself, turning away for an archway of skeletal branches covered in pale green buds..  Very well, he would make no further attempts to enlighten her with the truth of the situation.  If she preferred ignorance, so be it.  “Then if she is merely overwhelmed by the honor paid, as you claim, if you deigned to arrive at her home yourself she will throw herself at your feet.”

“Of course she would.”  But, much to his surprise, Andruil did not seem eager to claim the bait he laid.  “But…she seems a delicate creature.  And it seems the loss of the beast has touched her deeply.  If I appear too suddenly she may offend in her grief.”

Another truth revealed itself.

What other emotion but desire could evoke so much understanding?

“You, Voice of Council.”  It still wasn’t his name, but it was not ‘slave’.  “Go speak with her, and set her mind at ease so she is prepared for my arrival.  At the third dawn.”

“As you command,” he replied, bowing his head across the great hunter’s lodge to Andruil.  There was no point in saying no.  With a moment to report, he was all but certain Mythal would suggest he do as Andruil ordered, and so to resist would be pointless.

As he departed Andruil gave him one brief look of acknowledgement across the cold temple, then turned away to her hunters once more.  No doubt whatever tale was told of this night would be only from her perspective, and not the truth.  After all, the truth was…unflattering.

A mortal’s tears had bested the will of a god.

As he hunted for the Mother’s den, the wolf wore a smile.

Mythal would be pleased.

[wonderfullyinlovewithlife]

Of Monsters and Men (part 2)

Kai Parker x Reader

WARNING: THIS IS DARK!!! THE THREAT OF SA is at the for front of this work, please be aware of this. know this. DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT. Burning bodies, dead children. It's wild in here. Pain. Gore. CANNON KAI. I REPEAT. CANNON KAI. I think we forget that this man is a SOCIOPATHic KILLER FIRST. Though part one and two are seriously more light than what is to come.

Happy New Year!! So proud of myself for posting on the first of the month! I hope that means that writing will be at the for front of my year!! Love you all.

Enjoy! Please comment your thoughts at the end, I love seeing what you guys thought. And with that, onto the story....

Before today, you hadn’t known there was an hour in the day when a forest could be silent. That such a space could tolerate silence. Though, in all fairness, you hadn’t noticed the absence of sound until the lonely chirping of a small bird broke up the stillness with its song. You held your breath. Hours had passed, but you still felt incredibly on edge, waiting patiently for whoever was out there to find you in the rabbit hole. 

Your knees felt stuck into place, skin cold and numb. You worried this bird was giving you away, as illogical as you knew it was to think such a thing. The sun wasn’t entirely out yet. It was sunrise, you figured, or that moment before sunrise when everything seemed cast in blue. Cold light streaked into the mouth of the hole you were in. You tried to relax a little, wanting to close your eyes, not necessarily to sleep, but not to have to look, to stare into the dark mud wall in front of you. You hadn’t touched the girl again after she slumped against you, dead. Your white shirt was soaked entirely in her blood. 

You looked at her then for a long time. Was this a dream? You wondered if she had gotten smaller in the hours you had hidden away together. She looked like even more of a child now. This small girl you were sure you could hold in both of your arms if you tried. You wanted to commit her face to memory, but with her eyes closed, her small features seemed too child-like and nondescript, safe for a button nose that curved up so deliciously it made her look like a doll. 

In the dim light, you could finally see the scratches around her hairline. It was as if she had tried to claw off her own face. You imagined that someone must have grabbed her by the hair, and this was her trying to fight them off. But you didn’t know where to take this scenario. Who would hurt a child like this? What kind of monster?

When it felt sufficiently bright enough, you twisted around to get your feet behind you to crawl out head first. You gently pushed the girl to rest against the other wall, her head making a horrible clicking noise. You turned your face away so as not to breathe in the waft of rot she emitted. For a moment, you thought you saw her jot. You froze, terrified. Was she not dead? You didn’t wait to look, scrambling out of the hole quickly, wanting nothing more than to return to the surface world. 

It hurt your knees to stand. You took a tentative step forward and almost fell to the side. You needed a moment to adjust. You leaned against the nearest tree, a slim birch that wasn’t very wide, though its bark pattern intrigued you. It twirled in on itself, making it seem like the tree was covered in eyes. It was warmer than the dirt wall you had just spent the night against. The muscles in your back felt tight. You figured it was a result of the dampness, but you couldn’t do anything about it now. Now was the time to plan. You looked around at the forest. The trees here weren’t necessarily dense, but there wasn’t anything thick enough for you to hide behind or climb. They were all thin and tall, these trees. Like massive pickets sticking out of the ground. 

There were two probable threats that you knew of in the forest. Firstly, those men who chased you into the woods and then, whoever had stabbed that little girl. The former was probably long gone by now, and if not long gone, then certainly waiting for you by the front of the forest, where their truck was parked. But that seemed far enough away not to be an immediate threat. You didn’t know what to do. Part of you figured that since the girl was hiding in the hole facing the front, she might have come running from the same direction as you. Perhaps that was how she found the hole. Maybe she fell in it like you.

It made good sense then just to continue walking forward. To the other side of the forest, if you could. 

It seemed like a good idea. You let yourself take slow steps, the light fooling you into a calmer state where you didn’t need to rush as much. But it was strange now. You wanted to believe it was just the terror of the night that had changed you and made you see the world with new eyes. But the world around you hadn’t developed a new sense of beauty and mystique. As you walked towards nothing, you had the keenest feeling that the trees around you were anything but trees. Perhaps, you thought to yourself, this is but a dream, and I am still inside that hole.  

You pushed down this feeling, not knowing what to make of it, and kept walking until you found yourself in the middle of a clearing with a big, beautiful house. It was a warm shade of grey, but behind it, a column of smoke stretched out into the sky. You thought at first that the back of the house was burning. You wanted to run out and tell the people in the home. But something in your mind held you back. The more you watched the smoke build, the more you realised that whatever was burning was doing so, behind the house. It wasn’t the actual house itself.

You wanted to see what was causing the smoke. But cutting through the clearing, you knew, would leave you too exposed. 

The more you looked at the house, the more it seemed to soften. Like it wasn’t altogether there but rather a mirage of a house. A sophisticated illusion. 

Hide, you thought to yourself, something here is very wrong. Though what, you couldn’t be sure. You let your mind take over and stuck to the tree line, carefully manoeuvring between them as you walked around the house. This was odd, you thought, to place a home here, in the middle of nowhere, so far from everywhere else. Was this where the little girl lived? You felt your head shake, no. You didn’t think so. She and this house felt like they belonged to different worlds. 

The smell of burning got stronger, though the column of smoke you were approaching didn’t seem to grow anymore. It quickly faded into the white of the sky. You wondered if it was the owners of the house burning their trash. That was a popular thing around here with the more isolated homes. Though you were sure that wasn’t the case because it didn’t smell terrible. If anything, it smelt like sausages or maybe fatty meat cooking.

You froze at that, taking only a few more steps to see if you could catch what was in the bonfire. There were a few birch in the way.

It was bodies. Piled up. One on top of the other. Maybe seven altogether. That’s what was causing the smoke. Beside the fire stood a dark-haired man. You watched him poke at the bodies with what looked to be a large stick. You couldn’t quite tell from where you stood. You watched the fire break down the people. 

Without breathing, you walk backwards the way you came. Those men in the parking lot be damned. You took one step, then another, not wanting to alter the man you were here until you were around the front of the house again. You couldn’t run, your ankle was still tender, but you needed to escape. Since he was behind the home, you figured you could cut through the clearing diagonally and go another way, not back the way you came. 

But the second your foot broke the barrier of safety found in the tree line, you felt the world tilt to the side a little bit. You kept hobbling along. Repeating in your head so that you wouldn’t stop: He’ll kill you. He’ll kill you. You were going to die if you didn’t keep moving. 

‘Hey!’ A voice called out from the front of the house. You didn’t even turn around. ‘I said, hey!’ You could hear someone jogging up to you, but you kept walking, limping along as you did. You wouldn’t turn, you wanted to get out of here.

The stranger grabbed you by the arm, spinning you around. 

It was him, him. You started to shake and cry. You couldn’t stop yourself. It was getting hard to breathe. The skin around your face felt too tight. 

‘You need to let me go.’ You said. 

‘Why should I?’

‘I have to go home. Please let me go home.’

‘Why’re you covered in blood?’ He said to you, a jovial quality in his voice making it seem like you were talking about something light-hearted.

‘It’s not mine.’

‘Hot. But not an answer to my question.’ 

You looked down at yourself and then up at him. There was a strangeness to his face, like the lower half of his face was trying to convey something different to the top half. His mouth was smiling now, friendly. It was a practiced expression of civility. You could tell by how the upturned corners of his mouth quivered like he was forcing himself to look at you nicely. But his eyes were impassive. He watched you like you were a rodent, something he needed to make away with. 

‘There were these boys.’ You began…not wanting to bring up the girl. 

‘Boys?’ He frowned,’ Where?’ 

‘I don’t know.’ You said. ‘I think that way.’ You pointed in the direction behind you. He was still holding on to you. His grip tight. 

‘What did you do to them?’  He asked now, some of that ice in his eyes thawing. 

You shrugged, realising then that he had misunderstood you. But you couldn’t correct him, not now. Not if it made him back down. You used this opportunity to pull your arm back. 

‘I did what you would do.’

‘Oh, I doubt that.’

‘Doubt whatever you like.’

‘I’m Kai Parker.’ He said, cocking his head to the side. ‘What’s your name?’

You didn’t know what to say.

He extended his hand out and kept it between the two of you, waiting to see if you’d take it and touch him. 

‘I have to go now Kai. I have to go home.’

‘What’s home?’

You didn’t know. 

‘Is this your house? It’s mighty big. There must be a lot of people here.’

‘You could say that.’

You nodded. Turning away from him and walking off.

‘Hey. Hey.’ He pulled you back around. ‘What’s the rush? It’s only a little after seven in the morning. With all your moving around you’ll wake the dead.’

‘Hm.’ You swallowed bile, mouth suddenly very dry.

‘Where is everybody else?’ You whispered.

‘They’re around back. Let me introduce you. It’s not often we get guests. Well, that’s not true. We get a lot of guests. But they don’t look as good as you, usually.’ 

‘I’m good.’ You said, standing very still. It was the wrong thing to say though, the resolve in his face was beginning to shift.

‘Walk. Now.’ He grabbed you, and you let him. ‘I wanna show you around.’

[patrik6090]

Gang as fursona/animalsona/speciessona

@patrik6090 yellow tailed lemur

@pennyroyald tabby cat

@mariyoursweetheart lilac flower

@importantpeachfury tortoise

@hawaii-official French bulldog

@system-of-cats 's minty void cage

@manicali bat

@plutowhoops Mammoth

@groggle triceratops

@mango-mentally-ill fox

@stargazing-with-friends raven

@ms-macintosh pterodactyl

@aflairforthemelodramaticc mayfly

@half-fey-freak-of-nature monster truck

@sleepy-boything-shit vampire bat

@f4y3w00d5 xenomorph

@decaffeinatedcatkitten cat

@canisnebular

@sarrinight grizzly bear

@asqadia-banthen Chihuahua

@eirxair lemur

@losairr coi fish

@letmeoutofthebasementplease pelican

@illusionsignmisdirecti0n seagull

@weenietickler bunny

@wyfy-meltdown parrot

@roeldraws puppy

@the-rat12 rat

@err0r-404notfound wolf

@saphi-everything owl

@ihavehomework2dobutimhereinstead trex

@gobodegoblin donkey

@finla goat

@pansexualcake9 cat

@ibuildblasters sheep

@vee1021 mouse

@enbypalsidk dog

@watercraver Roomba

@mayowayo martian

@moongasux Kirby

@untitled14360 fox

@kimisbunny bunny rabbit

@sunsickle mountain goat

@durdurdurrrb

@im-an-anthusiast king cobra

@transfem-users dog

@uwathebestgirl puppy

@yuris-redgreen-drink bat

@the-lonely-detective dog

@sarah-ankh giant squid

🤹 Tortoise

Girlkisser Birch tree

Puki anon idk

R.S I'd be a cat furry of it was allowed

I guess I'll take lemur

Means there plenty of things willing to kill me