#not quite a crack fic

[madbug]

i did it again boys. I may or may not have failed a midterm last week but ive written over 10k collectively of zelink fics. hope this makes someone happy. certainly not my parents lmao, they want me to be an engineer, and here i am, writing fanfic

[wileycap]

AITA for striking my (M43) son (M20) when he rejected me as his father?

I understand that the title might have you thinking the worst, but please hear me out.

I didn't have a relationship with my son for basically all his life. This was due to my circumstances at the time: I went through a major personal tragedy and was severely injured, to the point of being on life support. To this day I have a lot of issues with my health.

I recently reconnected with my son. I immediately invited him to meet my boss (M92), in hopes that I could set him up with a job opportunity. I feel that this is significant. As far as I know, my son has been working in menial jobs in agriculture, but then apparently chose to leave that life and - to my shock - join a criminal syndicate.

I felt as if getting a good government job would be a way to turn over a new leaf in his life, especially given his past. However, he immediately became combative. I attempted to give him some guidance in managing his emotions, but he rejected that as well.

I'm sad to say that the argument became physical. Some blows were exchanged, but in the end, I was angry enough to strike him. I immediately felt very bad, and decided to offer him the government job on the spot. He rejected me again, and chose to leave very abruptly. I haven't had any contact with him since.

So, AITA?

Edit: Yes, I admit that to call it striking him was an understatement. To clarify, I cut off his hand.

Edit: However, I feel like it should be stated that I myself am a quadruple amputee and we have excellent healthcare.

Edit: I did not immediately identify myself as his father when we met. I think this was my mistake. I think he would have been much more receptive of my message had I done so. As it stands I only told him of our relationship after I had struck him.

Edit: My wife is not in the picture. To my knowledge she passed before his birth.

[ginyia]

Going through some old stuff. Made me sad

[nyatbinary-81]

Its Odette Time! this is a slightly late submission for the ptutu aspec week prompt ‘Courage’. its a redraw/reframing of one of my FAVORITE shots in the show, the s1 finale pas de deux lift, seen under the cut.

now, you may be wondering, "nyan, who the hell is odette?" and. well. thats on me i havent actually posted her to tumblr yet. partially bc odettes main design is made by my brother, partially bc im not sure the people will like her, shes on my artfight (nyanbinary87) if you have that, but if you dont, the TLDR is that shes mytho AND tutu. like, post-finale, if the "the pendant was a heart shard" was more literal and transgender.

but hold on, this is ASPEC week, not trans week! why is she here? well, its up to the mods if this is okayed as a submission, since odette is primarily a trans headcanon of mine. but, she is Also aspec, and this piece aims to emphasize that aspect of her. see, one of my favorite things about odette is how she completely reframes mytho and tutus relationship from a semi-romantic one to one of self love. theres something so beautiful in your true self putting together your false self because she only wants your happiness, even if it means her disappearance.

to emphasize that, this tutu takes on a form less like duck's tutu form. she borrows elements from my brothers odette design, which is basically siegfrieds design on a dress, as well as dropping elements from duck to favor the actual swan lake odette, particularly in the hair.

[thesirenqueenx]

Everytime I see a merthur fic with the tag *Uther Pendragon’s A star parenting* I know the crack fic’s about to be cracking

[mostlymaudlin]

i made a joke on twitter that someone should write a crack fic that opens with Andrew riding the horse in TKM and he’s like “bet you’re wondering how i ended up here.”

and well. then this happened:

You’re probably wondering how I ended up here.

A horseback ride in the Blue Ridge mountains sounds idyllic, if you’re the kind of person that takes vacations straight out of the free tourist brochures at gas stations. I am not that person.

In fact, I had never been on any vacation before this week. If I were to take a vacation of my choosing, I would absolutely not be doing an activity that requires me to activate my core while breathing air that smells like animal shit.

Yet here I am. Sitting on a horse double my height, following a group of people I don’t even particularly like down a stinky, too-green path through the woods.

You might ask, why did you put yourself in this situation? It’s a good question, and I fear I have the worst answer of all:

There’s this guy.

I know, I know, how cliche. If it helps, I am not prone to them: I’m an orphan but not a Chosen One. I’m a college athlete who couldn’t care less about winning. I’m a twin but I’m nothing like my brother.

The boy problems, though? I’ve got ‘em. And oh, do I know how to pick ‘em.

Neil’s horse ambles down the wide path next to mine. The man himself is slumped forward in his saddle, reins held loosely in his bandaged hands. Neil has the misfortune of being very murder-able, so the bandages are a more common part of his whole look than one would hope.

This most recent bout of “almost getting killed” was particularly… vexing. (We don’t need to go into detail. All you need to know is that I didn’t handle it well.) Neil is moving on, though. He’s taking in the scenery, and his expression befits a tourist brochure even if the rest of him screams, “I should probably still be in a hospital.” When he catches me looking his lips curve into a small smile, and Reader, it is imperative that you understand how passionately I hate him.

“This is cool,” Neil says.

“Well, as long as you’re enjoying it,” my cousin grumbles from behind us. Nicky enjoys nature about as much as I do. I shoot him a look, and he mimes zipping his mouth shut.

Neil only shrugs, leaning further against the neck of his horse. I’m not sure how he’s awake. In the last four nights, he’s slept in a hospital, on a cot in an FBI conference room, on a dorm room floor, and then finally one night in a real bed in the luxurious “cabin” our teammates are renting. Minus the hospital, I’ve dealt with the same sleeping arrangements (yes, including the giant fluffy bed, no, we will not make a big deal of it). Even without the copious injuries, I do not have why don’t we go horseback riding? energy. But somehow Neil, with his half-melted face and arms, has giddied up to come smile at me and the sky and the trees.

This brings me to my point: I’m in deep. I’m so fucked. This morning, I would have told you that you’d never catch me in touching range of a horse. But for twelve hours, I thought Neil Josten might be dead; if he’s going to stand in front of me, saying he wants to go horseback riding, then yeah, every person on this goddamn team is going to get on a goddamn horse unless they want me to gut them.

My thighs are so sore and itchy. I’m on a horse that smells worse than my gear bag, swatting away flies and dodging low branches. I genuinely hate the present moment. It’s my fault, I know: these are the perils of letting ourselves fall for stupid ass men. These are the perils of getting attached to anyone at all.

But put yourself in my shoes. Really visualize it — they are cowboy boots with honest to god spurs, and I was forced to pay money to rent them.

Now ask yourself: Did I really have any other choice?

now on ao3!

[nana-mizu-shiki]

His ass was out and he isn't even gonna get paid for it!

But Tim's used to not getting an answer to that particular question.

These two were only from the first chapter bc I didn't want to spoil, but I read through the first 19 chapters (it's unfinished) and this fic is absolutely hilarious and filled w/ angst (even if majority is hidden behind Unreliable Narrator, it is still visibly there)

[grosslyoversimplifiedpolitics]

[ID: Not quite a crack fic but getting close]

[the-penguinspy]

avatrice + ineptly kiss cheek

ty for the lovely prompt as always, em :)

--

Beatrice had just finished putting the grounds in the coffee maker when Ava stumbles out of their bedroom, yawn halfway in effect as she rubs a hand over her face. Her borrowed boxer shorts are slung low over her hips, and her sleep shirt exposes her midriff when she brings her arms overhead in a languid stretch. Beatrice almost (almost!) overfills the water container in the coffee maker, but she catches her blunder in time. 

The coffee maker whirs and growls as it heats up the water and starts to drip into the pot, and Beatrice reaches into the cupboards above her for two mugs before she finally feels a pair of arms wrap snug around her waist. Ava’s chin hooks over her shoulder, and the sleepy grumble that accompanies the motion is muffled in the crook of Beatrice’s neck.

Beatrice rests the mugs against the countertop before turning around to greet Ava with a kiss on her forehead, fingers linking around the back of her neck. “Good morning, darling.”

A sigh of contentment as Ava settles more firmly against her. “G’morn’, babe.” She nuzzles Beatrice’s collarbone, presses a soft kiss there. Another one higher up on her neck. She eventually stands on her tiptoes for one more kiss, but her trajectory is flawed – off-course, her aim lands along the curve of Beatrice’s jaw instead. 

Beatrice smiles, a corner of her mouth quirked upwards; Ava’s irresistible on the best of days, but in the mornings, she’s just too – 

“Cute.” The adoration comes out on an exhale, automatic like breathing. The fact is this: Beatrice takes pride in her discipline and self-control. The act of loving Ava, however, requires neither; hasn’t, not for a long time, and Beatrice chuckles softly before her lips find their place on the apple of Ava’s cheek. She lingers for one moment, two – and in the beat between the second and third, she feels a satisfied hum rumble its way from Ava’s throat. 

The aroma of coffee wafts through the living room and saturates the spaces between them, filling in the missing puzzle piece – it’s not really a morning without the promise of fresh caffeine, paired with the lovely, skewed kisses from one delightfully sleepy Ava. 

[lucaswarmhotchocolate]

Voldemort as a Hogwarts teacher but he's as he was the night of his resurrection, with the scales that glitter and sharp fangs and long split tongue and pointed ears and red eyes with slitted pupils and everyone is fucking terrified of him (except the older years who are scared, yeah, but just grateful to have a decent teacher while they take their wizarding SATs and ACTs because holy shit voldemort is actually really good at teaching who knew).

The one person who is fully unafraid is Harry Potter, more curious about the situation than anything. He desperately wanted to know why his prophesied enemy would abandon his goals of killing him, why he would do something as mundane as teach at Hogwarts. Harry was, of course, grateful to at least have a decent teacher in his OWL year, but he was still so curious.

Valentine's day rolled around as always, just as terrible as always, but Voldemort is spared from such a unique evil. Nobody dares to piss off He-who-shall-not-be-named... well, everyone except for Harry, who anonymously sends voldemort a single pure white rhododendron cluster and a modest box of chocolates. There are about 2 dozen small bites in the small, dark and warm wooden box with slight red undertones, wrapped in a thick green velvet strip with gold lettering that spells "Voldemort". It is gorgeous. Everyone looks at the luxurious gifts on their teacher's desk and wonders how he will react when he arrives.

The answer is that he won't. When Voldemort enters the classroom from the hall he simply glides over to his desk as usual, pausing only for a moment as he sees the cluster of flowers and what was no doubt a box of chocolates, and vanishes the offerings with a single wave of his hand. For some reason the class of 7th years seems disappointed, they really were curious about the potential love life of such an intimidating man.

What they don't know is that Voldemort didn't vanish the chocolates and flowers into the abyss, but rather teleported them to his coffee table in his personal living quarters. What they don't see is Voldemort carefully examining the flowers, amused by the meaning of such delicate white petals.

They could be a threat, a subtle message that the chocolates are poisoned, the anonymous gifter eager to see if he will parse out the message and avoid whatever fate the possibly laced dessert would lead them to. The message could also be a more heartfelt one, the sender promising to give him everything they can, riches and gifts and protection. Or maybe the flower's meaning was not for him, but rather for the sender themself. Maybe they were simply nervous, and hoped that the flowers would help them reach out to Voldemort.

That's something that always irked him, the convoluted and non-standard victorian flower code. Now, however, it send a thrill down his spine. He has no idea what the flowers mean, what the intentions behind it were. There is no note to be found, not in the box of chocolates, not on his desk. The only way to find out what it means is to wait, and enjoy the gifts he has been sent.

And so, Voldemort enjoyed the chocolates, picking at them throughout the week. Hopefully this anonymous person would continue their efforts, Voldemort always loved a good puzzle.

[nostalgia-tblr]

I watched Avengers: Age of Ultron (apart from I skipped some overly long action sequences) and I am not sure so can someone tell me whether or not Tony Stark was the baddy in that film? Because about halfway through I was sure he was but then it was maybe just an evil robot after all and I am confused because either this film was surprisingly subversive or it was about robots hitting each other.

[tswwwit]

Hey! You mentioned a while back that if the other dimension Dipper/Mabel/Ford might call the penthouse for advice in dealing with their Bill, and Familiar!Dipper might pick up the "call". I've been rereading the Bill v Bill series and can't get the scene out of my head. Any chance you'd be interested in writing it?

I'm certainly interested in writing it! I think there's a lot of opportunity for Shenanigans, and that's totally my jam.

The problem is: Actually Getting Around to writing it. But perhaps one day!

[astrid-beck]

I've never posted fic to Tumblr before and i am very scared but I figure the people who followed me for Astrid hot takes might enjoy some more Astrid hot takes. if ur a fan of ambitious starry-eyed children developing horrifying magical weapons, astrid and bren’s insane academic rivalry, or women who are attack dogs that want to bite their masters, this might be the fic for you!

Sitting next to Ikithon at the dinner table, Astrid is unshakeably conscious of two things. One, that the windows are not real. And two: neither is she. Sixteen years ago, Bren designed a spell. Sixteen years ago, Astrid finished it, alone. (Or: Astrid can never be forgiven for the crime of not being Bren Aldric Ermendrud—but Caleb Widogast can.)

(bonus: critter genfic bingo!)

[morelikeravenbore]

rarararr I've almost hit a tumblr milestone what should I do to celebrateeee

[undertheopensky]

The Ocarina 1

Whumptober Day 8: “It’s all for nothing.”

Characters: Everyone except Four, technically, though Four is still the main focus

Trigger warnings: Alternative Backstories, Unreliable Narrator, Memory Loss (sort of), Past Child Death

Read on Ao3!

-----

The portal sneaks up on them. One minute, they’re walking along a trail through a flat prairie, and the next Sky is bouncing off a wall and landing on Legend in a tangled, swearing heap.

There’s a lot of yelping as everyone else struggles not to follow suit.

Once they’ve all come to a complete, groaning halt, they start trying to sort themselves out. Wind has to be helped out from under the low table where he’d gotten stuck, and as Warriors drags him to his feet he starts trying to count heads. Not easy, in such a cramped environment.

“Where are we?” Sky asks.

“It looks like Four’s place, I think?”

Glancing around the sitting room, Warriors admits Hyrule is right. The room does look like the upstairs wing of Four’s house, with bedrooms off the sides and the stairwell behind them. Twilight is helping Wild right the chair he’d tripped over while Sky moves an end table back to wherever it had been before he and Legend crashed into it. Everyone’s accounted for, except…

“Where is Four, anyway?” Wind asks, then, without waiting for a response, bellows, “HEY FOUR, WHERE ARE YOU?!”

There’s no response. Wind’s shoulders hike up a little, surprised and uneasy.

“Did we get separated?” Hyrule asks.

“It’s never happened before –”

From downstairs, there’s a muffled patter of small footsteps on stone.

Wind lights up. “Four! Is that you?”

The sound stops abruptly.

No one comes up the stairs; no one answers Wind’s call. Wind scowls and heads for the landing, intent on flinging himself down them in pursuit.

“Wait.” Wind freezes at Warriors’ sharp tone. “Something’s not right.”

“Well yeah, Four’s not answering us! What if he’s hurt?”

“It’s more than that.” Warriors casts an eye over the sitting room, now mostly set to rights. He can’t put his finger on it.

“Ah think yer imaginin’ things, captain.”

“No, he’s… I think he’s right.” Sky tugs at his sailcloth. “This place… doesn’t feel right. It’s too empty.”

“It’s a small room with eight people in it, how empty can it be?” says Legend, pulling his foot out from under Wild’s. But his expression is guarded. He feels it too.

“Whatever’s going on, we need to be careful.” Wars checks the group over again, ignoring the skip in his heart when Four’s colourful tunic doesn’t appear. He knows Four’s missing. This isn’t new information. “Ledge, can you take point? Everyone else – just be careful, and be ready for anything.”

The shop is just as eerily still and empty as the upstairs. There’s no sign of whoever had made the footsteps.

“Okay, lil’ creeped out now,” says Twilight.

They spread out, scanning the displays for some sort of clue. Hyrule checks the windows. Legend is scanning the weaponry with a disinterested eye – it’s all typical fare for the blacksmith’s forge shop, nothing that stands out. Short swords, daggers, several types of spear, all hung from hooks in the walls or laid out on tables.

On a shelf that was probably supposed to be high enough to ward off small and sticky fingers, Wind is entranced by something.

“Is this a portrait? It’s so tiny.”

The moment Wind picks up the palm-sized frame the room melts around them.

“Dottie! Dot, Dot, Dot!”

Four’s laughter is high pitched and childish and unmistakeable. Another voice laughs with him. The air is warm and thick, bright with noonday sun and butterflies, as two tiny children chase each other across a field of wildflowers.

Wind drops the picture and everything stops.

They’re back in the empty shop, still and silent and suffused with golden afternoon light.

“The fuck was that?” Legend demands, holding Hyrule up where he’s trying to collapse in a ball.

Wild makes a horrible strained noise that has Twilight by his side in an instant.

“Okay, no one touch anything,” Warriors orders, too little too late. Everyone’s already moved as far away from the loose objects in the room as possible. “Wind, what was that?”

Wind scrubs at his eyes, then his arms, then his eyes again. “I don’t –” he tries, voice barely audible, before he clears his throat and tries again. “I don’t… know? I just – wanted to look at the pictograph…”

“Four’s time doesn’t have pictographs, does it?” Twilight asks. Wild still looks a little white around the eyes, but he nods agreement.

Warriors absolutely doesn’t want to get closer to the thing than necessary, but he needs to see if it’s a cursed artifact or something. Preferably without touching it. Fortunately, it had landed face up when Wind dropped it.

It does look like a pictograph, though, or a tiny and very well-painted portrait. A tiny Four and a tiny Zelda are frozen mid-laugh in an eerily familiar field. To all appearances, it’s a simple portrait of a simple time. There’s no runes, no gems, no sense of ominous weight to it.

So how the fuck had it cast all eight of them, most not even touching the thing, into such a strong illusion?

Beside him, Legend grimaces: he’s also stumped.

“I don’t think there’s anything else here, captain,” he says in a low voice. “Check the forge, maybe?”

“If someone was working in there, there would be a lot more noise,” Warriors murmurs back, but he heads over anyway. Legend’s right, they should clear the house completely before moving outside.

Wars shoulders open the heavy door to the forge itself, and relaxes when he spots Four’s familiar figure standing by the anvil. “Four, there you are! Why didn’t you answer us?”

The smithy squeaks in surprise and whirls round, and –

He doesn’t look right.

It’s not just the lack of recognition. His face is too round, his eyes too large and too blue, his hair a mop of windswept fluff. He looks – nervous. Confused. Young, in a way Four usually doesn’t despite his small frame and youthful features. He’s clinging to a forge hammer, the tool clutched tight to his chest, and he flinches and skitters away when Sky raises a hand in greeting.

The tunic’s not right either, Warriors realises, too late. It’s all of one colour, scarlet except for black scorch marks here and there and streaks of ash like the ones on his face. He’d clearly been working recently, though the forge fire is dead and cold.

Sky gentles his approach. “Hi. We didn’t mean to scare you, sorry. We’re a noisy lot sometimes.” He tries to wave the others off discreetly.

The boy blinks at him, but doesn’t make a sound. The hammer inches higher, closer to his face, like he can maybe hide behind it.

“We’re travelling, and we think we got a bit lost. Do you think you could help point us in the right direction?” Sky waves more insistently and Twilight wanders back into the shop, followed by Wild, Legend, and eventually Time, who had visibly had to think about it before realising his massive armour-plated frame might be intimidating to a small child who doesn’t seem to know them. The smithy-lookalike relaxes incrementally as the forge empties and the doorway clears, and he stops holding the hammer quite so much like a weapon instead of a tool.

In answer to Sky’s question, he slowly nods.

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you. Do you live here?”

He catches his lower lip between his teeth and visibly thinks about whether or not to answer before nodding again.

“That’s good! If you live here, then you probably know how to get to Hyrule Town, right?”

He nods more readily this time.

“Great! That’s where we’re trying to go! So… hmm, how to do this…” Sky makes a show of tapping his finger against his chin in thought. “So… should we go south, across the river?”

That gets a little smile and a head-shake.

“Should we go east, through the woods?”

He giggles, and shakes his head again.

The barred door in the back of the forge bangs. Like something on the other side of it had slammed into the wood, hard.

The clamour of the hammer hitting stone adds to the racket as the little smithy in red startles. All the progress Sky had made in reaching out to him is gone in an instant: he glances back and forth between them and the door, like he can’t decide which one is the bigger threat. He’s nearly hyperventilating.

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” Sky says. “Is there something dangerous back there? Do you need help?”

The door bangs again, and Four bolts.

“Shit!” Warriors says.

“Legend will catch him,” says Hyrule.

“No, he’s gone,” says Legend, popping his head back in. “He’s damn fast. Was he wearing pegasus boots?”

“Not that I could see. You must be getting slow, vet.” Warriors doesn’t have his heart in the teasing; he’s more focused on the door in the back of the forge. It hasn’t made any more ominous noises, and is standing just as silent and unobtrusive as before. “Weapons out, everyone,” he warns, moving to shift the heavy bar out of its housing.

Sky protests. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. You saw how scared he was.”

“What if it’s what we’re here to deal with?” Warriors points out. “We don’t know where the kid went, but if we take down this monster now at least it won’t be able to go after him.”

Sky grimaces but this time doesn’t stop him.

Warriors heaves the bar up and off to the side, secures it so no one will get cracked in the head, and checks to make sure the others are close behind him. “Weapons ready,” he warns, drawing his own.

Then he throws the door open.

Nothing rushes them. It’s just the stretch of land behind the forge, the well, the woodpile, the vegetable patch.

Like the sitting room, like the forge, something about the landscape feels subtly wrong.

Maybe it’s the mist hanging over the field, clinging to the worn wooden fence and trailing into the dark Minish Woods beyond. Maybe it’s the trees themselves, growing thick in places Warriors would swear are kept clear. Maybe it’s the sky overhead, which is a blue so dull it’s almost colourless, and only adds to the gloom.

The mist is deceiving. As they step outside, it seems to creep closer, curling around their boots like it’s alive. Wars squints, trying to make out the details of the scarecrow that always sits in the vegetable patch, and can only see a hazy silhouette. The thick grey swirling around it is messing with his perception – Wars almost thinks he can see the thing move. “Stay close,” he orders, “I don’t want to lose anyone.”

“Are the trees always that close?” he hears Wind ask from behind him. “I thought there was more, like, empty space out here. Four said he used it for sword drills.”

Honestly, Warriors isn’t sure. They’ve only visited Four’s time once, and he’d been more focused on the black-blooded monsters in the south than the topography of Four’s homestead.

He thinks they’re about halfway to the fenceline when a voice rings out, sharp and angry, and makes them all freeze in place. “Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”

The mist draws back, and Warriors realises the shadow hadn’t been the scarecrow at all.

They’ve found Four, though his clothes have changed to a blue set with grass-stains instead of scorch marks. He’s also now carrying a sword instead of a hammer, which is not an improvement.

Suspicion hardens his face. He looks older than the Four in red they’d seen.

There’s still no recognition.

Warriors turns on the charm and sheathes his sword, trusting the others to watch his back. “Ho, there! We heard something back here and were worried it was a monster!”

The boy just glares. “Go away. You’re not allowed to be here.”

Time moves up to stand beside him. Immediately the boy shifts to block him from coming further, shoulders gone tight and eyes suddenly bright and lips drawing back from teeth. There’s nothing behind him but empty field, but Warriors gets the feeling the boy is protecting something. There’s desperation in the grip of his sword, fear in his teeth.

Sky raises his hands, trying to ease the tension. “We’re not here to hurt anyone, we’re just – we think we’re a little lost, maybe, and –”

“No. Go away.”

His feet shift and brace; abruptly his stance isn’t just defensive, it’s dangerous. He knows how to use the sword he’s holding.

“Okay, okay, we’re not looking for a fight,” Sky says quickly. “You want us to leave? We’ll go. Is it okay if we go that way?” He points down the side of the house, towards the south.

The boy eyes them, tense and suspicious. “Don’t care,” he says at last, “just leave.”

“Okay, we’re going,” Sky soothes.

No one’s willing to turn their backs on an agitated child with a sword, so at first their retreat is a lot of stepping backwards and trying not to trip over each other. Wars leaves himself at the rear of the pack, ready to draw and block any panicked strikes.

Once they cross some invisible line, the boy’s shoulders relax.

As they head around the house towards the woods, Blue Four turns away completely. He’s looking out towards the woods, across the field of mist and fog and empty ground.

Warriors wonders what he sees.

Then they pass the treeline and he’s out of view.

The fog is less heavy in the trees. It still swirls around their feet, mischievous and creeping, but the thick banks are broken up by the weight of the trunks. Visibility’s much better.

It still doesn’t feel right.

They all jump when Wind says, “Something weird’s going on here.”

“What was your first clue?” Legend’s grumbling does a poor job of hiding how unsettled he is.

Wind ignores the sarcasm. “This looks like Four’s house, but things are just different enough to be – creepy. And it doesn’t feel right. We’ve seen Four multiple times and – he doesn’t recognise us, and he doesn’t look right, either.”

Hyrule bites his lip. “I think – you remember when Wind picked up that portrait?”

Everyone shudders a bit. That had not been a pleasant sensation.

“What about it?” says Legend.

“I think – he isn’t Four. Not yet.”

Sky looks back over his shoulder, at the field where a Four in a blue tunic had snarled and spat and refused to move, defending a patch of empty space.

“I think we’re seeing Four’s memories.”

“That’s why he looks so young,” Wars says, eyes sharp.

Legend snorts. “How much younger can he be when he looks like he hasn’t grown at all?”

“Four’s always been kind of weird about that, though.”

“He once said t’me it was a side-effect of magic,” Twilight offers.

“So if that’s the case – we’re in a construct of Four’s memories, somehow – how do we get out?” Sky says.

Hyrule grimaces. “Honestly, I was hoping you guys would have some ideas.”

“I can think of a few.” Legend’s hand is resting thoughtfully on his belt pouch. “They’re probably a bit scorched-earth, though.”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna vote to set Four’s mind on fire,” says Hyrule dryly.

“I think we should just keep going.” Twilight shrugs at their looks. “B’fore we get too drastic. There’s a lot we haven’t seen, an’ we might find an answer.”

“It’s as good an idea as any,” Time says. “We’ll see where this path leads us. But everyone, keep your guards up.”

They haven’t gone far at all when Twilight hesitates, frowning.

Wild looks back at him. “Twilight?”

“…I think I see something.”

Twilight has a good eye, luckily, because Four’s wearing green now and is well camouflaged in the trees. It looks like he’d been practising archery, from the brightly-painted targets hung at various heights on various branches.

Twilight heads over to talk to him. “Hullo –”

His bow’s unstrung. He doesn’t even try for it, instead using it like he would a blade – sweeping it out as an extension of his arm. Twilight scrambles out of the way. Even without a cutting edge, that hard yew branch would sting.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“You’re not meant to be here,” the boy says. He’s wary, like the Four in blue, but the harshness of it isn’t there.

“We know,” Twilight agrees, and that takes a bit of the wariness out of him. “We’re lookin’ fer the way out, is all. Think y’could steer us in th’ right direction?”

“Oh. That’s… probably not something I can help with. Sorry.”

He’s more talkative than Red Four, and more cooperative than Blue Four. Twilight presses the advantage.

“Is there anythin’ you can tell us? ‘Bout where we are, maybe? We’re pretty lost right now, an’ we dunno where to go next.”

“N-not really. Sorry.”

“Not anything?” Sky wheedles. “You must go to Hyrule Town sometimes.”

Green Four blinks at him. “Why would I? I can’t leave.”

“What do you mean, you can’t leave?” Wind asks. “Why not?”

Green Four shakes his head. “Because outside of this place, I don’t exist.”

With that alarming statement, he proceeds to ignore them and go about restringing his bow.

“What do you mean?” Twilight tries. “What place do you mean - where are we?”

Sky pushes as well, eyes dark with concern. “What do you mean, you don’t exist? Did someone tell you that?”

He looks over his shoulder at them, raising one golden brow. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”

That’s all they get out of him. He goes back to shooting targets, doing a very good job of pretending he can’t hear Legend’s rapidly burning fuse.

Time stops him from doing anything.

“He’s clearly done with us,” he says quietly, “and I don’t want to break whatever – truce we seem to have going. They haven’t attacked us yet and I’d like it to stay that way. Who knows what will happen if something here gets damaged?”

Legend has to concede there.

They leave Green Four to his practice, and keep going.

They pass through a gate hanging by one rusty hinge, the fenceline bordering the forge property. Wind taps the gatepost absently as he passes it. “How far is it to the bridge south?” he asks. “I don’t remember much of last time.”

“With the fever you came down with I’m surprised you remember anything,” says Wars. “It’s not far to the river – less than half an hour.”

Wind hums assent. Most of that week is a bit of a blur for him – he barely remembers making it to Four’s house the first time, and the others tell him he was still perfectly well then. It wasn’t until they were deep in the Castor Wilds that his fever had started to burn, and by that time they were too far away to turn back.

…he’s pretty sure the trees shouldn’t be thinning out this soon, though.

Like entering the woods in reverse, the fog gets thicker as they near the edge, the trees spreading out and the path opening up to reveal –

The house they’d been walking away from.

Time stops short.

“Mm, don’t like that,” Warriors remarks from just behind him. Wind steps forward to poke at the wooden gate in disbelief, while Legend turns a resigned look on the woods themselves.

“I don’t know why we thought that would work.”

“We must have taken a wrong turn,” Time murmurs with a frown. “The forest in Four’s time has always been somewhat fae, but we had him to lead us before. I’ll pay more attention this time.”

They turn away from the fence and the little house in the mist, ready to try again. Warriors plants a hand on the nearest tree –

Black. Glass shattering. Four screaming, and screaming, and screaming –

Warriors yanks his hand back.

“Don’t do that,” says Sky, face pale.

“But the fence didn’t do anything!” Wind blurts out in panic.

“And thank fuck for that,” Legend mutters.

“Or the doors, for that matter.” Wars is shaking out his hand like it hurts. Wind knows from experience it doesn’t, but something in the contact is so very other that it feels like it leaves a residue, cold and prickly. “Whatever the case, lesson learned: don’t touch the trees.”

“Yeah, that’s not a good idea.”

Wind nearly leaps out of his skin. Sitting on the wooden fence where he hadn’t been a moment ago, Red Four blinks at them, wide-eyed and innocent.

Legend is muffling his cursing into a hand, clutching at his chest melodramatically with the other. Time looks like he’s experiencing the five stages of grief simultaneously. Sky, by contrast, just looks relieved, and like he’d hug him if he didn’t think the boy would flee again.

“I’m so glad you’re okay! Whatever was making that scary noise didn’t hurt you, did it?”

Red Four makes a noncommittal noise. “I’m fine. Nothing can hurt me here. But the woods are where the bad things are. You gotta be real careful, if you’re gonna go out there.”

“Do you know the way through?” Wars asks. “Could you lead us?”

Red Four’s eyes go big and he rapidly shakes his head. “No way! It’s scary out there!”

As if afraid one of them will drag him into the woods, he throws himself from the fence and –

– vanishes.

“I guess Hyrule was right,” says Legend, into the shocked silence that follows. “They really are just… memories. Rulie, how’d you know?”

“They’re all too young,” Hyrule says quietly. “It’s in their eyes, the way they move – Four has confidence they don’t. They’re – he’s scared, every time he sees us. When Four met us for the first time he just laughed, and demanded a closer look at our weapons.”

“We have to find real Four, then. He’s gotta be here somewhere.”

They’ve hardly explored the whole property, even discounting the (terrifying) woods beyond the boundary fence. Legend and Warriors briefly argue over whether to split up – “It’s more efficient!” “It’s dangerous!” – until Time vetoes them, insisting that no one else is getting lost today and that’s final.

They’ve already been over the vegetable patch, and the woods to the east. They’ll work their way around towards the west, and see what else there is to find, before braving the path to the north. Wind isn’t feeling too hopeful about their chances of making it all the way to Hyrule Town, when the southern road had spat them back out at Four’s house.

Knowing that the trees might be hidden memories makes them all tense. Wind doesn’t like it. Nobody talks, too intent on watching where their feet go, and keeping an eye out in hopes of catching sight of Four’s brightly coloured tunic. It’s so quiet it’s making his ears hum.

It takes a while to realise that what he’s hearing is actually music.

Tuneless, aimless; it’s not a song being played, just an exploration of melody floating high and sweet on the wind. Sometimes it holds a note for long seconds, what he’d initially mistaken for a ringing in his ears; other times it runs down scales like water falling down a cliff, then back up again like a swabbie in the rigging.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Legend growls.

Following the music at least gives them some direction. The trees look the same as ever, everyone careful not to brush too close, until they abruptly end in a clearing around a large, pale stone. On top of the stone sits Four, clad in dark purple, playing a golden ocarina.

It’s still not their Four, Wind realises with a pang. The clothes were a hint, but the face is the real giveaway: solemn, sad, and unexpressive, even as eight heavily armed strangers walk up to him.

He draws out the last note, wavering and plaintive, before slowly lowering the instrument. He doesn’t speak.

Sky steps forward. So far, he’s had the most luck interacting with the younger incarnations of Four. “Sorry to bother you. We’re a little lost, and we’re looking for our friend. You probably don’t know us yet, but –”

Purple Four’s brow creases. “What are you talking about?” Even his voice is wrong. Too flat, too quiet; all the life drained out of it and left to exist as a shadow of itself.

Sky tries a smile. “We’ve seen you all over, in different places around here, but it’s okay if you don’t remember us –”

“Stop.” Purple Four sighs, the most emotion they’ve seen out of him yet. “I didn’t expect you to be this stupid.”

He leans over and plucks up a framed portrait from the mantle.

Wind doubles over. His eyes are vibrating. Four had just – reached – and the shelf was right there under his fingers but they were still outside, sun warming their skin, mist underfoot, trees leaning heavy over their shoulders. It is so much worse than the woods looping back on themselves.

Purple Four waits for them to get over the disorientation, neither amused nor concerned, then holds out the picture to show them.

It’s… all four Fours, together, in the same image. Not as if they’d been spliced together, but – tangled together, pressed close and smiling, like friends, or siblings.

All together like this, it’s easier to see the differences between them. Not the clothes, quickly and easily changed, but… the shapes of their mouths and noses and eyes, the subtle shifts in colour, so easy to overlook. The paleness of the purple Four’s skin and hair, the honeyed tone to the blue one’s pin-straight locks, the curls escaping from under a red cap.

They look happy.

“You’re not Four,” Sky says, “are you?”

The boy in purple blinks, slowly. “No. I’m not.”

“So then, what’s your name?”

“You can call me Vio.”

“The other Fours we’ve seen – they’re not Four either, are they?”

Vio looks at Sky, eyes heavy and dark. “No. They’re not.”

Wind – doesn’t understand. Sky’s going all gentle, in a way he hadn’t even with terrified Red Four, and Twilight just looks sad.

“Four’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“Correct.”

Wind blinks, and tries to look him – Vio? – over with fresh, non-Four-tuned eyes. But… he really does look like Four. Same height, same face, same hair. Were they twins? He’d seen that once on Windfall, two little girls who’d looked the same and dressed the same and laughed the same tinkling laugh. But what did that mean for the other three, who also looked so much like Four?

“If you’re Four’s brother,” he says slowly, “why haven’t we ever met you before?”

“Because I’m dead,” says Vio, too calmly.

Wind goes cold.

He misses the next part of the exchange – ears ringing for real, vision greying at the edges – and has to blink himself back to reality.

Vio raises an eyebrow at whatever Sky had last said. “I have been for years. Same as Red, Green, and Blue.”

For a moment Wind thinks Legend will make a comment about the names, but he stays quiet.

The thought comes to him, Not even the snarky veteran will make fun of the names of four dead children, and he abruptly feels lightheaded again. Have been for years, and Four is just sixteen – how old were his brothers when they died?

“I’m sorry,” Sky says, quiet and sombre.

“What for? It’s not your fault.”

“I’m still allowed to be sad that you died,” says Sky.

“You never even knew us.” Vio’s frowning again, the same light crease of his brow.

“But I know you now. I’m talking to you now, and I’m sorry you died.”

“I’m just a memory, like everything else here.” The boy gestures with the ocarina, and Wind remembers the portrait. Tiny Four laughing in the sun. Wars touching a tree, and the sound of glass breaking. “We’re his memories of us. Who we were, how we spoke, the things that we could do. We’re not real. Just echoes of people who used to exist.”

He looks down at the ocarina, fingers drifting restlessly over the holes.

“I’m not even close to being real. I may as well have never existed, for all history remembers of me.”

“But Four remembers you,” says Time quietly. “He remembers you so well you have a permanent home in his mind.”

Vio’s expression tightens. Instead of responding, he draws into himself, pulling the ocarina to his lips and playing a short phrase, then repeating it. It’s almost a nervous tick, like someone playing with their hair or worrying at their tunic.

Time sighs, sounding every inch the old man they call him. “Vio. You seem to – know more than the other three. Is there any chance you know where Four is right now? We haven’t been able to find him.”

Vio pauses halfway through a note. “But he’s here.”

Wind glances around in confusion; Time frowns. “What do you mean?”

He gestures with the instrument. “He’s everywhere. You’re inside his memory palace, where else would he be?”

Twilight exchanges a concerned look with Time. Finding current-time Four had been their last idea.

“Then… how do we get out?”

Vio’s eyes rest on them, dark and inscrutable. “How, indeed?” He lifts the ocarina and begins to play once more.

[goodyeartheshippycat]

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply (see additional tags)

Relationships: Ethos/Phobos, Deimos/Praxis

Summary: A modern-setting AU in which Jules (Phobos) the high-strung Londoner visits the Scottish countryside for some relaxation and has a meet-cute with Aidan (Ethos) the sheep farmer while en route to the B&B where he is staying. Sheep-related antics ensue. Somehow, against all odds, Jules leaves his heart at the gateway to the Highlands.

Your eyes do not deceive you, friends. The link preview does say "Chapter 16", but I have not skipped a chapter. This is indeed Chapter 15 (the final chapter!) of Scottish AU, but the fic on AO3 has been rearranged to add a new chapter 1, which is a gorgeous cover image I commissioned from @prismatic-cannon in celebration of finally finishing my magnum opus. For ease of viewing, you can see the cover image in its full glory here on tumblr, too!

Here's some self-indulgent looking back on a list of things I didn't know when I started writing Scottish AU:

That between my career taking off and developing what was for a long time diagnosed as a chronic overuse injury (and turned out to be osteoarthritis with a side of mild tendonitis & tenosynovitis) it would take me more than 6 years to finish the first fic/arc of the longer story I'd planned out sob sob

That Scottish Romance is, in fact, a surprisingly large subgenre (I'm not generally a reader of published romance novels)

That JKR bankrolled the anti-independence campaign prior to the 2014 referendum (what a cunt, aye?)

Exactly how Brexit would play out and whether or not it would spur another indyref in short order

That a global pandemic would dash my plans to return to Scotland in 2020 (and every year of the new decade since) once I finally:

a) wasn't completely skint and would have cash to do all the touristy shit

b) was allowed to drink again and would be able to actually enjoy all the glorious whisky

Now to have a wee dram in celebration of my longest ongoing fic finally being completed! Thank you to everyone who read even a chapter of it or cheered me on or sent me stupid sheep fucking jokes. And thank you from the bottom of my heart to all the readers who have stuck around and actually read the whole mess from start to finish. I adore every single one of you!

If I one day get around to writing the other arcs I originally outlined for this fic, they will be new fics and I’ll put them into a series. But for now, this is where our tale ends <3

And yes, readers with keen memories will clock the inspiration for part of this chapter from something I reblogged many moons ago. Thanks Vi <3