#sharp and shiny circle au

[crappymixtape]

tangled • part one

PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • PART VI ❝ all you’ve known your entire life is in the inside of your tower – the brick walls covered in your murals skating around you in a semi-perfect circle, the view from the very top one that would take anyone’s breath away, but how could it be beautiful when you could never leave? that is, until an unexpected someone happens upon your hidden tower and offers you a chance to escape | (  3.2k, tangled AU • fluff, angst, strangers to lovers, steve x you, steve x reader )

S E T M E F R E E, O H I P R A Y 🎶 cowboy take me away, fireswimmer

You were up with the birds, awake as fingers of sunlight slipped through your window and fanned out over the quilt you’d stitched together during the winter months. Spring was coming to an end and the days were growing warmer, enough to probably not need your quilt any longer, and when you stepped out of bed onto the cobblestone floor you felt a buzz of inspiration zip through you.

Maybe it was the way the sun crept through your window or maybe it was the sound of the waterfall rushing just outside the tower, but you wanted so badly to run your fingers through the grass. Hear the way the breeze blew through the trees. Dip your toes in the water and look at the details of a petal up close and–

“Rapunzel! Let down your hair!”

Mother’s voice drifted up from the bottom of the tower and you felt your heart hammer in your chest. You’d never asked her to leave the tower before, hadn��t asked her for much honestly, but with your birthday coming up maybe she would make an exception.

Every year, on the eve of your birthday, lights would illuminate the sky. Dancing and swirling among the stars and drifting beneath the moon. Beautiful and sparkling and it happened every single year. Why? You were dying to find out. They weren’t far from the tower, surely she would entertain your request. After all, it was your birthday.

“Rapunzel! I’m not getting any younger down here!”

“Coming, Mother!” you called back and tossed your long, shiny locks up over the hook spun into the roof of the tower. They cascaded down the wall and landed in a spun pile at her feet.

Pulling and pulling and pulling, Mother ascended up to the window inch by inch until she stepped up onto the ledge and into your circular room, “Good morning, dear.”

“Morning, Mother.”

“It’s time to brush your hair dear. I saw on the way up, you’ve got twigs tangled up in the ends. Hardly a way to treat such beautiful locks, my goodness. What do you do all day? Tsk. Just another reason for me to keep you here, you can’t even manage to properly care for yourself.”

A pang of shame hit you square in the chest and you wrapped your arms around your torso, making yourself smaller. Unseen. Unheard.

“Sit,” Mother said pulling up a stool and you did as you were told, sitting on the small surface as she took the chair behind you, brush in hand. “Now sing me our song. You know how much I love it,” she demanded, not asked, and you did as you always did…

Flower, gleam and glow, Let your power shine, Make the clock reverse, Bring back what once was mine.

Heal what has been hurt, Change the fates' design, Save what has been lost, Bring back what once was mine. What once was mine.

“That’s my girl,” Mother appraised, running the brush through the ends of your hair and pulling too hard at the end, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

“Mother…” you started, hesitant, reluctant. Should you ask? She seemed in as good a mood as ever.

“What is it?” she snapped, short. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea, but something in you pushed. Please, please ask. If you don’t ask we won’t ever know. And you had to know.

“I was thinking–”

“Never a good thing,” Mother teased meanly and you bit your bottom lip between your teeth. Nerves swelling in your chest.

“I was just thinking...tomorrow is my birthday and well–well, there’s something I was hoping we might be able to do.”

Mother hummed in her throat, a sharp thing that held irritation, like you were a pest she couldn’t rid herself of. “And? Rapunzel come now, speak up!”

“And–and I was wondering if you might take me to see the lights at the castle. They’re there every year on my birthday! They can’t be stars…I’ve charted them all and I just…I want to see what they are–”

“The lights?” Mother started to laugh. “The lights? Rapunzel you must be joking.”

“No, I’m not…I’m not joking, Mother I really do want–”

“Truly, how could you think I would just take you–”

“Mother, it’s what I really want! I just want to see the lights!” you shouted, but as soon as the words left your lips you clamped your hands over your mouth. Afraid of what you’d just done.

Mother narrowed her eyes at you, lips firmed into a twisted line, angry and her patience evaporated as she took a step toward you and you shrank again.

“You will never raise your voice at me like that again, is that clear?”

“Yes, Mother.”

Her voice notched up in volume as she stepped closer to you.

“And I don’t ever want to hear about those lights again, is that clear!”

She was closer still, breath heated and harsh against your cheek.

“Yes, Mother.”

Towering over you, Mother took you by the wrist and roughly pulled you up to her face so that you were inches away, the heat of her words spilling and burning and wicked, “And you will absolutely NEVER, EVER be leaving this tower! Is that clear??”

When you spoke for the final time your voice cracked, tears streaming down your cheeks, chest burning with embarrassment and shame and regret. “Yes, Mother.”

Letting go of your wrist, Mother sighed and sank back into her chair, eyes closed and fingers pinching her the bridge of her nose.

“Ugh, now I’m the bad guy.”

You sniffed, wiping your eyes hastily with the backs of your hands, trying and scrambling to regain your composure. Afraid to push her even the tiniest bit further. You wished you’d never asked, wished you kept your thoughts to yourself. The lights, your birthday, all of it. Wished you could take it all back.

Clearing your throat you sat back on your stool, curled into yourself as you peered up at Mother sitting her in chair. Impatient. Bothered. Exasperated.

“Mother…” you started tentatively, “I know what I want for my birthday now.”

“And what’s that?” she sighed.

“New paint? The kind made from the shells you once brought me.”

She fixed you with a look, the way you might regard a dog begging for scraps, “Well, now that is a long journey, Rapunzel.”

“Please? I promise not to ask about the lights again,” pressing your hands together you tried to look sorry, thankful, grateful, please.

Mother sighed again, but you held onto hope. “Oh, alright,” she conceded, standing from her chair to gather her things. Surely you couldn't do much damage over a few days. “I’ll be back in three days time. Are you sure you’ll be able to manage without me?” she asked.

You gave her a small smile, “Yes, mother. I’ll be fine.”

“You know I love you,” your mother said, a tight smile pulling at her lips.

“Yes, mother. I love you too,” you murmured.

“I’ll see you a bit, my flower!”

And with that you watched as she descended the tower, your hair in her hands sliding down, down, down to the grass below and off into the open, free, world you wanted so badly to explore, only to stand at your window while Mother disappeared into the vines draped at the edge of the meadow and into…well, unlike you, where ever she wished to go.

I SAID I WANNA TOUCH THE EARTH, I WANNA BREAK IT IN MY HANDS, I WANNA GROW SOMETHING WILD AND UNRULY.

Unbeknownst to you, the path to your freedom lay in the hands of a man just on the other side of the very vines Mother had just stepped through. Well…technically he was a man, but really more boy in the way he held himself. And carried conversation. And continually found himself in trouble because of his inflated ego, but a man nonetheless, holding your freedom.

Flynn Rider, a rogue, a thief, a ruffian. Just over six feet tall with sweeps of dark brown hair, skin like it held all of summer and the sun beneath it, eyes like burnt sugar and dotted in freckles and apparently much faster than he looked.

“RIDER!”

“Sorry, boys, gotta go!”

Flynn crashed through the line of shrubs he’d just hurled himself into and fell out the other side, scrambling to find his footing. He was probably going to regret the decision he’d just made, but that would be a problem for future Flynn Rider.

Patting the satchel at his side he peeked into make sure the contents were still intact and at the sound of thundering hooves picked his pace back up, sprinting through the woods.

It was a beautiful day, not a cloud in sight, rays of sun shining through canopy and dappling the forest floor with warm sunlight. It would have been even more beautiful if Flynn wasn’t being chased by the King’s guard, but he supposed it was the only option when you’d stolen the crown of the missing princess.

Chest heaving with the effort, he pushed his legs to go faster. Sprinting over fallen logs and thick brambles, wincing but not stopping as they pulled and slashed at the thin fabric of his tunic. He had to find cover before he ran out of breath or else he’d face the gallows.

Again.

It wasn’t that he was a bad guy. He wasn’t murderous or wanted for treason or anything. In fact, he wanted to be done with this life on the run and so he hoped this might be his ticket out. Hawk the lost princess’ tiara and hop a boat to somewhere far, far away.

His lungs started to burn as he sucked in air, sidestepping a particularly nasty blackberry bush and earning a scratch across his cheek. “Damn,” he hissed, wincing at the pinch of pain. He could hear the guards closing in behind him, the captain giving orders to his men to split up and Flynn knew his time grew short.

An arrow grazed past his ear as his slammed into a tree, the tip sinking into the bark just inches from his hands.

Too close.

“A promotion to which ever of you idiots catches, Rider!” the captain shouted and it pushed Flynn into another sprint.

Step over step over step, out of the thick stand of trees and into a wide field of wheat. The shhh shhh shhh of the grass against his trousers hissing as he stumbled once on a dirt clod and again on a molehill until the third time he wasn’t so lucky.

The toe of his boot caught on a rock dug into the dirt, sending him flying forward and over the edge of an embankment. Tumbling head over heels down, down, down and hitting the bottom with a heavy THUD!

“Sir! We’ve lost him!”

“What d’you mean you’ve lost him??”

“I–I’m not sure, sir. We–we’ve lost visual.”

“Bloody useless–if you lot can’t find him, then I’ll do it myself!!”

Groaning, Flynn pushed himself up from where he’d landed and blinked away the knock to the head he’d just earned for running through a damn field. Voices carried down the embankment and he could hear the King’s guard scuttling about back up the hill – they didn’t know where he was.

Scrambling back up onto his feet, Flynn quickly checked to make sure the tiara was still in place before frantically looking for an out. He had a moment’s cover while they tried to find him back up at the top, but surely they’d see the bent wheat stalks at some point. The bottom of the gully was more of the same, thick brush and brambles and trees and…vines? All drooping down just above the ground at the same angle and blowing just ever so in the breeze.

Brows knitted together he pushed a hand to them and stumbled forward a bit when his hand fell through them, not solid. So he pushed further still, watching as his arm disappeared further and further until he was completely concealed.

“Sir! We found something!”

Sucking in a gasp, Flynn pressed himself against the rock of the tunnel he’d just discovered and held his breath. The King’s guard tramped down the hill and trotted right past his hiding spot, their shadows dancing across the vines as they concealed him out of sight.

“He’s here somewhere, keep looking!”

The sound of hooves slowly disappeared and when quiet flooded back in, Flynn could hear the sound of a…river? A waterfall? Birds and a soft breeze across his skin…taking a few steps toward the bright light at the other end of the tunnel Flynn shielded his eyes in the crook of his arm and walked out into the most beautiful place he’d ever seen.

A waterfall cascaded down a cliff at the far edge of the little valley he’d wandered into, crashing into the rocks below and fanning out into a river that wound its way through the ground and past his feet. All manner of birds chirped and sang as they flew through the cloudless sky, landing peacefully in the trees. And there, just in the very center, a tower made of brick and cobblestones with a thatched roof, a chimney and windows all around but…no way up?

He knew he couldn’t stay idle, even if he was out of sight for now, surely the King’s guard would find him. Taking one quick loop around the tower, there was still no door in sight, so snatching the pair of daggers from the belt at his waist he stabbed one between the bricks high above his head and pulled to test his weight. When it held he found his footing and drove the second dagger in and arm over arm began to climb up to the largest window.

His biceps were burning, his shoulders on fire. There were a few times Flynn even thought he would surely fall to his death, but slowly he made it up, up, up and when he finally fell through the window gasping for breath, he prayed to whatever gods there may be that he might find a bed at the top of the bloody tower. Stealing a crown, outsmarting two idiot thugs and then running from the King’s guard was no easy feat and he could feel exhaustion in his very bones.

Heaving himself up off the cobblestone floor he loosed a heavy sigh of relief and pushed his hair from his eyes.

“Gods, finally. Alone at last.”

And then with a very loud CLANG! everything went black.

IN THE COMFORT OF YOUR ARMS, ON A PILLOW OF BLUE BONNETS, IN A BLANKET MADE OF STARS, OH, IT SOUNDS GOOD TO ME.

There was a man.

In your tower.

In your room.

AT YOUR FEET.

How he’d made it all the way to the top of the tower without the aide of your hair was beyond you, but as you peeked out at him from behind your mannequin you couldn’t help the tiny pang of guilt in your chest. Maybe you didn’t have to hit him with your frying pan, but it was too late for that now.

You’d never seen one before, only knew what Mother told you: dark, beady eyes and sharp fangs, gnarled hands to snatch you with and kidnap you away into the night.

Stepping out from your hiding place you took a tiny step forward, the smallest step, and poked him with the handle of your pan.

“HEY!” you shouted, but he didn’t move. “Oh, gods…” Did you kill him?

Another few steps and your bare toes nearly brushed his arm. Slowly extending the pan again you turned his head with the handle and nudged his lip, but in place of scary fangs were teeth. Just like yours. Bending down carefully you lifted a hand to his face and hesitated, waiting for something to happen, but his steady breaths continued to fall and his eyes remained shut.

A cut chased across his cheek, the tiniest streak of blood along with it, and your brow furrowed with worry. Did it hurt?

You ghosted your hand over his, just as normal as ever though a bit rough and maybe a little dirty, but wide and warm. Not gnarled. Not scary. You wondered at what it would feel like to hold it, yours so small and his so big.

Slowly, gently, your fingers trailed through the sweep of brown hair covering his face and brushed it aside to reveal mole dotted skin, warm and golden like summer and he’s beautiful. The most wonderful thing you’ve ever laid eyes on and you want to see more and–

“Unghh…”

CLANG!

You instantly regretted hitting him again, but what were you supposed to do? He opened his eyes and began to stir and what if he’d jumped up to grab you?

A groan escapes your lips and you rough your hands over your face, you still have a man in your tower. What to do, what to do. As you took stock of your modest surroundings there wasn't much to work with. Your mannequin, a small stove, things for baking and sewing and painting, your bed, your closet–

Your closet!

Blowing a puff of air between your lips, you bent down and grabbed hold of his feet and pulled a little. When he didn't stir you pulled again. A little more, a little further, a little further and further and straining, struggling almost dropping him, you shoved him into the wardrobe and slammed the doors shut, propping the handles closed with a chair.

“Oh! Oh! I did it!” you squealed, sweat clinging to your brow, giving a little jump of excitement. “I did it!! I’ve got a person in my closet. I’ve got a person in my closet…I’ve got a person in my closet! Mother thinks I’m too weak to handle myself, huh? Well, we’ll just see about that!”

And as you took a victory lap around the room your eyes caught something on the floor. A bag you hadn’t seen before and as it fell open, the contents inside flickered in the light as it came through the cracks in the roof.

Picking up the satchel you pulled back the flap and found something even more beautiful than the man you’d just shoved into your closet.

Gold. Purples and pinks and turquoises and glittering in the sunlight and as you carefully picked it up, you were surprised at how heavy it was. Eyes narrowing, you hold it closer to look at the intricate way the gold pieces twist around the jewels and gems, securing them in place and creating little flowers along the sides.

A smile flickers at the corners of your lips. It looks just like the pictures from your fairytale books. The kind of thing only a princess would wear. Laughing softly you step in front of your mirror and hesitantly hold it up over your head. Just for a moment. Just to see what it would look like…

Slowly, softly you lowered it and let it settle upon your head and a flash of light strikes you. A memory, bright and sharp and vivid. A spinning sun hanging overhead. The most lovely laughter, like music, like a song. A warm embrace. A lullaby.

BANG!

Sounds from the closet and you nearly fling the crown to the ground. How foolish of you to let you guard down. How could you forget? You could hear Mother scolding you, telling you how stupid you were, how you could have been kidnapped or killed.

Heart hammering against your ribs your eyes settle back on the closet as it bangs again.

Your guest was awake.

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[thisthatpinkvenom]

DOUBLE TROUBLE

SAN / FEM READER / SEONGHWA

⤏ Synopsis: What happens when a SanHwa girlie succumbs to her pent up one-sided sexual tension and types it out on her keyboard.

⤏ Genre(s): drabble*, incoherent and filthy smut

⤏ Content: polyamorous!au, established relationship!au, non-idol!au

⤏ NSFW Warning(s): just lickin' and suckin' and fingering away (fem receiving), manhandling, hard dom!Hwa, Sannie's more of a softer dom, one pussy slap, light mxm

⤏ Note*: this content is completely fictional.

"Stay still."

Your limbs trembled under your very compromising position, muscles feeling as if they were made of elastic banding threatening to snap if pulled too hard. You could only complain through muffled whines and weak whimpers, the hem of your shirt bunched and shoved into your mouth to unveil your breasts. You could do nothing but watch the thick fingers that squeezed the soft flesh and toyed with your nipples. Blurred in the background was your boyfriend—one of two—whose hands rested on the back of your thighs to make way for his mouth to access your sensitive little pussy. His perfectly gelled hair from the morning became a disheveled shell of what it used to be, black locks falling over his forehead still stiff and shiny from the hair product.

Though those details became secondary when his eyes threatened you with a simple glance. Without warning, a sharp smack made contact with your clit and you cried out, your vision blurred with tears while the wet cotton slipped away from between your teeth. With your legs squirming, your hands rushed to reach between your thighs but to no avail, they’re caught swiftly by his own. One hand went to sooth your throbbing nub with its thumb, a large difference with what hit you before. You didn’t resist, your weak head falling back against the tummy of the man who held you, the man who completed your relationship dynamic in full circle.

His eyes were naturally sharp, but they were warmer and more forgiving with you. But you made no mistake to think that he would go any easier on you, he could be meaner if he wanted to.

“Sannie,” you mumbled between sniffles.

San, who snuck you a loving gaze, wiped your tears with his thumbs and your dripping nose with the sleeve of his silk button-up. His lips merely teased you with a feathered kiss on the forehead as he smoothed his hand along your head. He reached for your shirt, shushing you softly in the process.

“Everything’s all right, Baby. Keep it in your mouth”—he stuffed the spit coated fabric between your lips—“and be good.”

“I told you to stay still and you just won’t fucking listen,” Seonghwa said lowly. His lips were coated in your arousal and his own spit, glistening under the warm lighting from the floor lamp.

You muffled an incoherent apology before being pathetically handled like a doll, repositioned to sit on San’s lap. Your sore legs were stretched open again with this time, held open by the strength of his sturdy arms hooked around the back of your knees. Seonghwa crawled closer, the mattress dipping as he did so. His face was so close to yours, though not touching, you could almost feel his hot skin. He observed the cotton between your teeth, breaking character for a brief moment with a ghost of a smile appearing on his lips as he firmly tapped your cheek one, two, three times.

“At least you know how to do one thing right. Good girl,” he praised before kissing your cheek.

Lowering himself to lie on his belly, his hands found purchase on San’s thighs, thumbing them across his black slacks. He pushed himself forward to prod your entrance with his tongue, retracting it once it slipped in as far as it could go and dragging it unhurriedly up your lips and meeting your clit. The tip poked and teased at the hood, before Seonghwa pulled back and pursed his lips to gather a wad of warm spit that soon seeped down your pussy lips. He traced their shape with his thumb, then followed suit with his plump lips trapping your clit in their hold.

Your body shivered as all you could do was comply, whimpering in quiet pleasure while he sucked with gentle pressure. You felt a pair of lips pressing kisses down your skin, starting from behind your ear all the way to the dip of your neck. San was whispering words that you could barely make out, catching a few things in your ear like how you were doing so well and to hold out for a little longer.

“Just take it, Sweetheart”—he squeezed the back of your quivering thigh—“that’s all you gotta do.”

Pointing your feet to the ceiling, keeping your legs open, and letting them have their way with you; that’s all you had to do. You should be more than proficient in doing that by now.

“You’ve taken our cocks so many times. Don’t tell me this is harder,” San taunted, softening the blow with a wet suck on your neck.

You shook your head side to side, chest heaving with large breaths before muffling a weak noise when two fingers slid into your pussy. There was no specific point for you to focus on. Every touch, every wet, sloppy sound, and every word screaming at you to pay attention to them. Seonghwa didn’t have to worry when San was there to check on you, so he didn’t intend on holding back at all. His middle and ring fingers moved on from relaxed pumps to a rapid “come hither” pattern between your walls, all the while his mouth was still going strong on your clit.

Your eyes snapped open as your head pushed off from San’s shoulder.

“Mmph!”

You couldn’t keep your promise anymore, wriggling in his hold while your shirt absorbed every desperate noise you made. You didn’t know what to do with your hands, it’s as if they briefly had minds of their own, moving aimlessly at your sides before finding purchase on the sheets. Your muscles were left stunned and your mind went blank that you hadn’t even registered the iron grips pressing into the back of your knees.

You’re left a twitching mess, your toes still curled in your socks when San eased your legs back down.

Seonghwa almost slipped his tongue out to lick his lips, letting out an amused hum before coming closer. You’ve become sandwiched between your lovers, sore and weak from the work you’ve been put through. All you did was bask in the warmth that engulfed your half naked body, complete in their space.

“You want a taste, Baby?”

You knew he wasn’t referring to you when you felt his cheek press against your ear, sharing a sweet kiss with San until the sounds grew louder and their lips moved with more heat in motive. He squeezed your breast and with his free hand, grabbed the younger man’s own to touch his erection.

“Our sweet girl’s had enough, hm?” Seonghwa muttered between kisses. “Let’s put her to sleep.”

You mumbled a half-hearted protest, though it only gave them more reason to kiss your cheeks and tuck you under the sheets. You’re left to slumber alone, with the last thing you remembered seeing was your boyfriends stripped of their clothes, exchanging desperate kisses at the foot of the bed. You managed to catch a glimpse of San throwing his head back in bliss when a hand reached lower to wrap around his stiff cock before you finally let up and let your vision turn black.

You knew well enough that you’d find yourself between them when you woke up, completed in their warmth once again.

[witchofthesouls]

I love your bayverse Isekai AU, will there be any more snippets on the shenanigans with our feral wildling prime with equally feral newsparks and politically rogue sentinel actively failing and somehow successfully courting the said feral prime while simutaneously giving the metaphorical middle finger to the council regime.

You're standing in the middle of a pale desert. The white sand ripples without wind, and it's endless without anything in sight. A stark divide between the ground and dark sky. The stars are strange. Dripping like a child's clumsy first ventures into watercolors; saturated, vibrant hues fading into weak trailing brushstrokes. With enough concentration, you parse out the shapes of the stars, outlines squirming, moving back and forth, bleeding across the night like odd-shaped marbles.

Someone calls out, and you turn to see a fluttering-

______

You wake up, and the dream fades. The remaining echoes of crying easily meld into the newsparks' wails for your attention, even under Thundercracker's crooning engines, calm field, and fuel production. They look for you, blindly reaching out, fields refusing to settle until well entangled under your own and dozing on your chest.

______

Because you and information slugs don't mix, you're learning the old-fashioned way: direct practice.

And there's nothing in this current life nor your past human one that could prepare you for Iaconi dining etiquette and their culinary practices.

Sentinel is surprisingly patient and encouraging. Star Saber, on the other hand, is demanding and pompous as usual.

A few pieces of the cutlery are familiar in a vague shape-sense, like a spoon should be a spoon, but the spoons' handles have delicate metal leaves with tiny bundles of shiny berries. One grouping is so fragile that the shells jiggled as it rose from a well-hidden compartment from the table. Another clutch isn't round but more hexagonal. A blue hexagon-like raspberry with reddish fuzz.

There's also a tool that looks like a love-child between a well-used slinky and nunchucks and a doohicky that combined a two-pronged fork with a honey dipper.

There's nothing on the table that looks remotely close to honey or a sauce to use said dipper.

You deeply yearn for the simplicity of Thundercracker's cubes and her endless supply of snacks.

Biting the bullet, you commit to a spoon, and Star Saber exudes disdain as you try to scoop out the plain tofu lookalike on your plate. It jiggles and warps the moment the utensil touches it, and the berries, every single one, fall off. The hard ones bounce off, tinking across the table and floor, and the fragile ones splatter the tofu. A contained mess of color and sound clash as discordant strings and chimes overlay and warp.

Sentinel is then right by you. "Like this," he says, and he takes your hand to pick up the fork end, guiding you to twirl the dipper right over the plain tofu block. It quivers, and there's a lovely wind-chime noise before the entire thing flows upward, carving into long, unbroken chains by following the grooves, and artfully twirling backdown into a nest.

A plate of color-splattered noodles now sits before you.

Sentinel uses the slinky, applying the nunckuck ends to his thumb and middle finger and gently bounces the slinky over the noodles. The noodles slither their way into the middle, and after a mouthful is gathered, he brings the contraption near his face, flicking off the thumb attachment and the flexible tubing and 'drinks' his food as if it's a straw itself.

A sharp, ringing hum grabs your attention, prickling over your senses at vibrates in your field. When Star Saber stops circling the rim of the wine glass, the hum dies down as well.

"You failed when we entered." You stare blankly at the Seeker, and he clicks his glossa before explaining, "The most prominent member signals the rest to sit."

"But I waited for you because you're the most experienced!" Star Saber had literally spent weeks beating it into your processor about the teacher-student dynamic: who sits, who stands, who dismisses, and many other important, little steps of social nuance.

"Yes. If this was an educational setup, but this is a formal meal, it's the established Prime that signals to everyone else to sit."

You throw all caution to wind and reach over to the turn table in the middle. Sentinel laughs as you manually spin it until you reach your target: the deconstructed savory pies basket.

Star Saber remains unamused as you take a bite of the sphere, and spices flood your senses, coating your glossa with a hearty, thick gravy. The 'wrapping is supposed to be peeled, but it's completely edible and flaky layers.

It's a performance piece with the right sounds and gestures. The wrapping would gracefully unravel, and the contents reorganize itself into a sophisticated piece of art before settling into cups to be eaten one by one.

You find it more comfortable to eat the pie in one whole go. Star Saber deeply sighs at your atrocious manners and actually snaps at Sentinel when the mech decides to follow your lead.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

CONGRATULATIONS ON 1,000 FOLLOWERS! That's absolutely wonderful! You deserve it.

1.) T. "I see you. I know you're watching me." // 2.) 🕶 Mafia AU // 3.) Writer's choice! Go wherever the muse takes you. // 4.) 📚 Book

Thank you so much! ❤️ Hitman Eddie and mob baby Steve are rapidly taking over my brain, so here's some more of them!

Poisoned honey

Rated: M

Words: 995

Tags: Mafia AU; Hitman Eddie Munson; Mob boss Richard Harrington; Blood and violence; Obsessive behavior; stalking; flirting; sexual tension

Notes: Part 1 | Part 2

The boss is in one of his moods. 

Eddie endures the screaming with a stoic face - or as stoic as one can manage with a split lip and one eye swelling shut - and thinks to himself what a fucking joke it is. If anyone has a right to be mad, it's him. 

The intel he got on the job was all wrong. The target arrived with backup, turning what was supposed to be a quick, clean affair into a bloodbath. Eddie still finished the job, of course. But the goods he was supposed to secure got destroyed in the fight, losing the boss a ton of money. Hence the yelling. And the name-calling. And the throwing things. 

Eddie sidesteps the whisky tumbler that's hurled his way. It hits the wall, but he can feel the shards catch in his hair as it shatters into a million pieces. Jesus Christ. On days like this, he almost regrets getting into this. 

Almost. 

It's not easy, working his way into Richard Harrington’s inner circle. In the beginning, the asshole wasn't even aware Eddie existed. And even now that Eddie has his attention, he's still far from gaining his trust. 

Eddie gets it, though. You don't become a mob boss by blindly trusting anyone. 

And so Eddie has been biding his time, slowly weaseling his way into the group of Harrington's most loyal hitmen. The better part of a year passed before the boss even deemed him worthy of entering his office, but that’s okay. Every job brings him a little closer to his goal, and every time he sets foot into Harrington's villa is another occasion to catch a glimpse of the prize he's got his eyes on.

*

It's getting dark by the time he's dismissed. He should go home to lick his wounds, but the patio doors are open, and the rippling light and the scent of the hydrangea bushes lure him in. The night is warm, and with a bit of luck, his little nymph will be out by the water. 

He's in one of the lounge chairs, hair wet and tousled, body draped into a robe against the breeze. The underwater lights illuminate his features. He has a book in his lap, and his brow is furrowed in concentration. Eddie stays in his hiding spot for a long while, watching graceful fingers leaf through the pages, watching pink lips part around inaudible words, and gets lost in his favorite fantasies. 

Biting and sucking at those lips until they're plump and shiny, drawing the most beautiful pleas and moans from them. Maybe he'd leave those hands free, or maybe he'd tie them up, just to watch his little nymph struggle. Just to feel him squirm while Eddie covers that soft, tan skin in marks, leaving the traces of his ownership for everyone to behold. 

“I see you. I know you're watching me.” 

Eddie is so far gone in his own head, it takes him a moment to process that the words were directed at him. It takes even longer for him to realize who the voice belongs to. 

The boy has marked his page and is looking straight at his hiding spot, lips curled into a smile.

“Why don't you come out and introduce yourself? It would only be polite.” 

Soft hair falls into hazel eyes as the boy cocks his head. He looks so sweet, but Eddie knows that looks can be deceiving. He sees the coy glint in those eyes, sees the sharp edge to that smile. Knows that this is his last chance. He can turn away and save himself, or he can follow his little nymph's call and let himself be pulled into the depths. 

Those eyes sparkle with satisfaction as he steps out of his hiding spot. Not waiting for an invitation, Eddie sinks down into the empty deck chair beside the boy's, lighting a cigarette and taking a pull. 

“Eddie Munson,” he drawls and extends his right hand. “My pleasure.” 

The boy quirks an eyebrow before reaching out - only instead of accepting the handshake, he snatches the cigarette from Eddie’s lips. His fingers brush the cut and it burns like gasoline. 

“Steve. You know my last name, obviously.” Those perfect lips part to exhale a plume of smoke, hazel eyes assessing every inch of  Eddie’s appearance. “What happened to your face?” 

“Work accident,” Eddie shrugs. “Fell down some stairs.” 

Steve huffs a laugh, a curt and cruel thing. “Yeah, right. You think I'm stupid? I know you’re one of my father’s dogs.” 

Eddie feels his temper flare, snide reply already at the tip of his tongue. How he’s not a dog, doesn’t answer to any master. 

Except, that isn’t true, is it? 

He’d happily kill for this boy, would beg and crawl and debase himself. Has been doing exactly that, every day, for almost a year. 

Steve smiles, sweet like poisoned honey, and takes another lazy drag of the stolen cigarette. 

“You guys are all the same, huh? You think you’re so tough, so dangerous, but as soon as my dad tugs on your leash, you slink off with your tail between your legs. Pathetic.” 

Eddie is nothing if not fast. With one quick movement, he has snatched the boy's wrist and pulled the cigarette back to his own mouth. He takes a long drag, pressing his lips against the soft skin of those fingers. When he pulls away, he makes sure to graze his teeth over Steve’s knuckles. Those hazel eyes are huge, pupils deep and fuzzy, as they watch him stand. 

“You like leashes, little nymph? Good. Hold on to that thought.” 

Nothing has ever been harder than turning his back and walking away, but somehow he does it. Eddie prides himself in being good at his job, and much like his job, this is all about playing his cards right. 

He intends to win, in the end. 

He always does. 

Part 4

More celebration ficlets

[cherryredstars]

1K Prompts

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Warnings: Gods AU, Sprinkled Fluff, Mentions of Injured Animals

Summary: It is as the prophecy foretold.  

Word Count: 1.2K (Not Edited)

The light is a golden white. 

The monument is beginning to form cracks in its delicate marble, foreshadowing the crumbled state it will begin to take as time rushes forward. The night air is warm, chased with the occasional breeze. Footsteps echo in the hollowness, a cloaked figure descending the steps of the shrine. The wind comes to greet the figure, playfully trying to detach the pure white cloth from their form. The moon comes to greet them too, lighting the path to the village in silver. From a distance, the figure seems to glow with the moon.

The village is silent, warm from the late night candles that are now extinguished. It is shielded in darkness, but a bittersweet taste is hanging in the air, just like the townspeople said. It is familiar, bordering on fearful and comforting. Under wooden doors, light teases to escape from the homes but thinks better of it and stays to warm the residents. As the figure walks through the empty dirt road, scattered randomly with stones, the crickets and night owls quiet. 

A dog, skinny and wobbling on a broken paw sits in a dark crevice between two homes. The figure walks to the entrance of the small slit, staring down at the animal. Instead of cowering and running away, the dog tries to crawl forward. Its body is too heavy to support itself, protruding ribs weighing down its skinny legs. It tires easily, barely moving a foot before it shifts its head up to look at its cloaked savior. A pitiful whimper rumbles from its throat, silencing when the figure brings a finger to its mouth. The figure bends down, their hand hovering over the dog’s face like they are closing its eyes. The dog's eyes grow heavy, head lowering to rest on its paws. The figure gets up, leaving the dog in its place before continuing their journey. A few seconds later, a puppy of the same moonlight silver follows, tripping over its paws. 

The puppy weaves around the figure’s legs yapping in a pitch only they can hear. The puppy seems excited and nostalgic, tumbling and chasing fireflies. The two make it to the edge of the village. They stand at the entrance of a thick forest. The leaves and trunks are dense, preventing the shining of the moon. The figure walks ahead, stopping as the puppy hesitates and gives chase once again. It is colder in the forest, but the figure continues weaving in and out of trees. They do not seem to have an exact location in mind.

Suddenly, cold and deadly arms wrap around the figure’s waist. The figure stills momentarily. Then, they reach up. They grasp the material of the cloak’s hood delicately, pushing it off their head as they look over their shoulder. 

The figure--a woman--has shiny skin. Her hair flows from her head and her eyes shine with a comforting warmth that feels like you are coming home after a long and cruel journey. Her aura and face promises protection and all that you’ve been secretly longing for. 

“Cariño, you always know where to find me,” the second figure hums. 

It is a man, his dark apparel contrasting with his lover’s white clothes. He seems harsher, more final. But, matching with his other half, he gives a subtle comfort. It can only be found in a darkness, revealed to those who are brave enough to enter it. His features are sharp and defined, instead of soft and rounded. 

“I brought you a present, Miguel,” the woman responds. Both turn to the ground, watching the glowing puppy who tilts its head in curiosity. 

“I see,” Miguel murmurs. 

His arms unwind from the woman, crouching to the ground. He holds his hand out, slightly translucent and resembling bones. Hesitance engulfed the small dog again, put it steps forward and sniffs Miguel’s hand. Its tail begins to wag as it realizes what is to come. It yelps excitedly, spinning and jumping in circles before pushing its head into Miguel’s hand. Both gods chuckle, eyes softening as Miguel scratches behind its ear. The puppy pulls away, looking at the two of them one last time before licking Death’s hand. A strong breeze comes through the trees and the dog disappears with it. 

They stay paused for a moment, giving nature and its spirits their moment before Miguel gets up again. The two gods face each other, the woman holding her hand out. Miguel takes it, winding his arms around her waist once again. The Guardian throws her arms around Miguel’s neck, delicate fingers ghosting up and down his back. A dark rumble escapes his chest, his face falling to her neck and nosing at it. She giggles at the gesture, turning her head so her lips hover over his ear. 

“The village smells of death. You scare them.”

A deep sigh leaves Miguel, pulling away slightly to cup the Guardian’s cheek. He presses a soft kiss to the opposite cheek, stalling. The woman is patient, basking in the moment and not rushing Death. He is thankful. 

“They scare themselves,” he whispers back. “Something, a plague or a… hero, perhaps, is soon approaching. Something is stirring, mi luz.”

His goddess hums in thought, eyes glazing over as she peers somewhere behind his shoulder. Her hand on his back stills, hands readjusting to grasp his shoulders. His hands squeeze her sides in comfort, resting his forehead against hers. Her eyes return to his, clearer now. Her beautiful features are marred by a frown, and Miguel’s hand comes to smooth her frown lines away. 

“The temple… it is beginning to crack. It grows colder. The oracle foretold it, but it is too soon.” 

Her voice is calm, but it holds a bit of alarm. Her body grows stiff and Miguel comforts her in a way only he can. He hums in agreement, but there is little else the either of them can do. 

“I know, but we know better than most that time is unforgiving. It does not wait for God or man.”

The Guardian huffs and sinks into her lover’s hold. Some of her warmth seeps into him and he smiles. His hand goes to the small of her back while the other pets her hair. After some time, he pulls away and takes her hand. He guides her back out through the trees, returning to the forest’s edge. The night sky is beginning to lighten, and the moon begins to melt into the sky. Miguel presses his front into her back, kissing the curve of her shoulder. They are silent for a few minutes, watching as the sky clears to make way for the approaching sun. 

“A new age is upon us, mi luz,” Miguel whispers faintly into her ear. “It will be our turn to rest soon.”

A strong breeze comes again, her hair trying to follow. When it settles, the coldness at her back is gone. The Guardian stares at the horizon, that small frown still on her face. With a heavy sigh, she pulls her hood back over her face. Her feet move back through the village, growing further away from the trees. She passes the crook where the dog’s body lays, the crickets and night owls sleeping now. 

An echo comes again from marble steps, a cloaked figure in white disappearing through the column. The sun rises, washing everything in a golden white before the world is silent again. 

Then, the village people open their doors and live as they always have for the last time.

I love God AUs.

[thatshadowgastwhore]

Tim Drake x PJO Aphrodite kid AU drabble

Tim was never more in his element than when he was at a gala. A party. A soirée. A fundraiser rubbing shoulders with the heights of society, or the dregs, depending on one’s perspective. 

He was built for it, afterall. 

Five feet and seven inches of lean muscle and a shockingly defined figure, he had the shiny, healthy, onyx dark hair, perfectly clear skin, and defined cheekbones to make anyone swoon. People said he inherited all his mother’s looks, which was entirely too accurate, a private joke for him alone. 

He did look an awful lot like Janet Drake. He just also inherited quite a few of Aphrodite’s characteristics as well. 

It was all in his voice. Where Janet was sharp and hawkish, her remarks biting in a way you could feel, but couldn’t quite counter, Tim’s voice was melodic. It lulled anyone within earshot into a sense of trust and security. Your secrets were safe with him. Look at him - would he do you any harm? Why don’t you tell him all the details of the deal you’re brokering with Mr. Luthor?

He could glide across the floor in a dance, leading or following depending on who his partner was, charm the pants off anyone he wanted to, or quickly disengage from anyone he didn’t. He was everything Janet could have hoped for in a magical baby delivered to her by Eros himself following an affair with the most stunning woman in all of Paris. At least it was a plausible explanation for why he could speak French fluently. 

Yes, Tim was the pride of both of his mother’s when he put away his pretenses and just let his godly side flex for a moment. Sure, being half god helped him heal faster, keep the superhero physique, and have the reflexes one needed to excel as Red Robin. But getting to be his mother’s son on these nights….it felt good.

Which was why he maybe forgot the directive for the night. Which was to make a briefer than normal appearance before departing for patrol. He was filing away the information Mrs. Tipton was telling him about her husband, the senator’s, exquisite time in the Iceberg Lounge for the case he was working, when he felt Bruce and Damian’s eyes on him across the room. 

He elected to ignore them. If they wanted him to patrol that badly tonight, they could tell him themselves. Have Steph do it, she’d been adamant she not have to attend the gala. He continued to circle the party, sauntering around, moving his hips more than he justifiably needed to to walk, but sue him for knowing his ass looked really good in this suit. It only helped his charmspeak; people wanted to believe they were still attractive and young, and if an attractive young person complimented them and accepted them as one of their own, it only made his words more potent. Whoever said that sex sold wasn’t a liar. 

He allowed the young son of some board member or the other to lead him onto the dance floor, quickly beguiling him and tracing the right threads to tug in an embezzlement investigation. The other man (Rufus, Tim learned, a family name apparently) wouldn’t even remember the contents of their conversation, Tim’s words were so potent, just that it had ended with a good-bye kiss to the cheek. 

Bruce did care, it turned out. He approached Tim at the edge of the party near the refreshment table. 

“You were supposed to be patrolling tonight. Jason requested your help with the trafficking investigation.”

“Steph can do it,” Tim said, “I’m more useful here.”

“Tim, you know that route better than anyone-”

“Bruce,” Tim looked him straight in the eyes, “you want me at this gala. This is where I shine. Stephanie can work that patrol. I’ll find more information now to generate leads for more cases than just Black Mask.”

The charmspeak wrapped around his words, causing Bruce to pause, clearly struggling against the magic. He had a strong mind, Tim could give him that. 

“You want this, Bruce. I’m helping people.” Tim pushed. 

He knew that wasn’t really how charmspeak was supposed to work. Forcing his will onto other people wasn’t how it was most effective, he should be more subtle about it. But Tim took great pride in being the only one to lie to Batman, and he didn’t need magic to do it. He could be convincing all on his own. Afterall, Aphrodite might have made his tongue silver, but Janet was the one who made it sharp. He was his mothers’ son, and he could convince anyone of anything. 

“Yes, of course,” Bruce succumbed, “I’ll ask Steph to meet up with Jason.”

Tim’s face morphed into the perfect breezy, carefree smile. “Yes, you will.” He made eye contact across the room with his next mark, a known pawn of Scarecrow, the daughter of some uppercrust Bristol couple, and current chemistry student at Gotham University. He wasn’t wrong. He could help more people here. 

It was also way more fun. 

[daisychainsandbowties]

bea - eviscerate + stitch

this dark is everywhere, we said (and called it light)

a percy jackson au

///

Lilith wakes to the latent heat of volcanic glass seeping up through the palms of her hands, lacing along the blade of her cheekbone, drinking down the tears that scatter out of her lashes as she lurches awake, gasping.

She’s lying spreadeagled on hard, garish black rock, glittering with the reflection of enormous stalactites – a ceiling of sharp ends diving down out of the gloom. Her hair, distinguishable only as a more greyish shade of black, is stuck in clumpy patches to the ground and it peels away as Lilith forces her leaden arms to move, pushing away from the ground that always seems like it wants to eat her.

A tremor of white pain travels from her breastbone to the hook of her floating ribs, and she groans as she glances down at blood-sticky rock. It is shiny, glassy like a dead black eye – and Lilith sees her sword lying in the manner of a crooked smile underneath her upraised body. The hilt is shaped like a fishhook, the blade concave near the hilt and pitching out into a broad convex near the tip.

There’s a chain of soft gold running from the hook of the handle to the blade, and it shines strangely in the wet reflective surface of the volcanic stone that runs up to the high walls of hell itself.

Lilith knows, without looking, that there is a very specifically-shaped bruise running from just underneath one of her breasts down the rungs of her ribs, terminating just above her hip. Others too, splashed across her jaw and the socket of her right eye. There is dried blood crusted in her hairline and on her lips, cuts beneath her clothes that have bled into the fabric.

The last thing she remembers is fighting, knee-deep in snow somewhere in the Himalayas. Red spotted in the drifts and an old oil lantern trying vainly to scoop the darkness up off the snow, throwing reflections onto white-capped stone. She was following a fresh trail of blood and gore up a switchback that couldn’t really be described as a path when a great shape came crashing out of the night.

She recalls being swept aside by a massive paw, or maybe a hand, and landing dazed in the snow. Rolling aside just in time to avoid a sharp-seeming downstroke. Might have been claws, or a blade, or a set of enormous teeth. Her lantern rolled away, and Lilith heard the ringing in her ears that announced death. She scrambled to her feet and saw where her light had been tossed away, where it came to rest by a shape lying limp in the snow, surrounded by a halo of blood.

Lilith didn’t need to roll the corpse over – didn’t have time, as snow swirled and a shape stalked her. There, with snow and ice muddling the feeling of stone beneath her feet, she felt powerless. She couldn’t reach out and rend the earth, couldn’t call fire up from the mantle of the planet. Too much interference, too much fear.

There was a crumpled polaroid in the back pocket of her jeans, showing a smiling woman in a puffy green jacket, pretending to blow on her hands for warmth, though she stood next to a bonfire and underneath a clear, starry sky.

There was no need to roll the corpse over because the jacket lay in pieces around the body, rent by claw or blade or teeth, and Lilith felt anger surge up inside her as she tore her sword out of its sheathe and turned in a wary circle, trying to pierce the blizzard with the tip.

But then she heard a flurry of movement behind her and something rammed into her back, tossing her forward and face-first into snow. A phantom voice in her head whispered through the wind as Lilith reached vainly, dizzily, for invisibility, for her god-given power over not being. Coming up, as usual, against the wall of her own scattered focus.

A voice in her head saying, shut the fuck up and fucking Travel, or so help me I’ll come back to life and murder you.

And so she Traveled. Reaching out to gather up the shadows into a soft blanket, into a blade she pressed willingly through her own body, carrying it away from the blood in the snow and the monster in the dark. And there was nothing and no one and nowhere to think of but home, wretched though it is.

Hades.

Lilith stands, dragging the sword with her so that it dangles with the tip almost touching the ground, resting the blade flush against the curve of her boot. It has a soft black glow, down here in such proximity to the waters where Lilith stood, stripped to the waist and running with cold sweat. Where she dipped the fresh-forged blade into the polluted waters of the Styx.

She’s wearing her black aviator jacket, sunglasses sticking out of the pocket, over a somewhat threadbare t-shirt with a weird, shadowy creature on the front. She keeps meaning to Google what it is, but a giant snake ate her phone last month.

And, anyway, there’s no one left to call.

As ever, a pall of ghoulish green light sits over the gateway to the underworld, seeping along the riverbank in both directions. It’s a little like dry ice, but this isn’t a stage or a theatre. It’s just where she lives.

Lilith frowns down at herself, at the spots where her jacket has frayed, where the black leather has cracked or been scraped away by claws, the chill sitting barely above her bones from weeks of sleeping rough up on the surface. The golden chain on her sword settles against her knuckles – a faint, weird warmth – and Lilith lets a small sigh escape from inside her mouth as the greenish mist rolls past her.

There’s something about the mist that feels animate, today. It almost seems to cup her cheek, to flow over her cheekbone like a cold thumb, taking a little heat out of the bruises. Though, there’s a pressure to it – almost a reprimand.

Lilith stares towards the gates and the looming canine shape that sits squarely inside, worrying the inside of her lip. Is it her imagination, the slightly-chiding care that runs through the green light, the cool river mist?

She doesn’t speak to her father – not more than a handful of times in her life. He didn’t save her mother from the bombs or her sister from starvation, and he tucked her away in a dreamless sleep until he had a use for her. So what does she owe him?

Nothing.

Certainly not conversation, or whatever paltry imitation of love he can scrimmage out of his rotten heart. Fuck you, she thinks. There’s no benefit in saying it aloud, but Lilith lifts her middle finger, pointing it towards the mammoth walls, toward Cerberus and the stupid, banal bureaucracy of death.

The ghost in her head chuckles, low, and Lilith feels the golden chain brush her fingers again though there is no wind here to move it.

A wave of dizziness wash over her – a wild urge to lift the hilt of the sword up to her mouth and kiss the chain, but all she does is stand there in the shadow of her father’s kingdom, aching down to the marrow of her bones.

Then, from behind, from down in the direction of the ferry, she hears the scrape of wood over stone. Here, on the parallel shore of the Styx where nothing moves or walks or breathes but Lilith.

She whirls, sweeping her sword around so that she stands – unsteadily – with her body held sidelong in a narrow target, blade parallel with her raised arm, tip pointed towards whatever foul thing has crawled up out of the river.

Then she freezes, blinks, feels all the moisture in her mouth turn coppery and sour, because it’s not a monster.

It’s a girl.

Shorter than Lilith, with a pair of dark eyes pooled above a grim little mouth. Lilith realises – with a sense of disquiet – that she is beautiful. There’s a dust of freckles sitting like an afterthought on her nose, her cheeks, drawing out the dark shadows beneath her eyes. Her mouth is pulled tight, grimacing, but it hardly upsets the softness of her jaw.

She’s wearing a dark blue shirt over what looks like a thermal base layer. It’s cold down here, though it has never truly bothered Lilith. She’s built for it, or just used to it. Despite the extra protection, there is still a faint tremor sweeping through the girl as she stands, black rock glittering underneath her.

It’s easy to see why.

She is drenched in blood, leaning heavily on a spear made of bronze, decorated with tiny winged shapes. Lilith can’t make out what flying creature it is, but she makes a guess. There is, indeed, an owlishness to the girl as she stands, blinking through the gloom at Lilith, making no move to defend herself as blood spills out from where her palm is pressed into her stomach. Lilith can see the pink glisten of unearthed viscera beneath it, can see that her fingers are pressed inside to the knuckles.

A half-blood, then.

Lilith’s fingers tighten around the hilt of her sword. It’s Stygian iron – a substance that can only be forged in the waters of the Styx, capable of absorbing the essence of monsters, ripping them even out of Tartarus. Monsters and mortals and gods fear it, but the girl only blinks down the curve of the sword as Lilith holds it aloft.

Her voice, when it drifts out of her mouth, rolling into the mist, is clipped and precise and soft. All by itself it makes a crack in Lilith’s resolve.

‘You’re the daughter of Hades?’

It is, Lilith thinks, mostly a statement. In her bruises and her battered black clothes, with the life-eating pall of a Stygian sword in her hand, Lilith looks like the bastard child of death.

The stranger is a hazy shadow, cut to the quick by the perpetual drain of this place; the sewer of the Styx washing by with a sound like a hundred thousand muttering voices.

Blood patters softly onto the stone at her feet, but it scarcely has a chance to pool before the stone swallows it. The girl, hair half-unbound around her shoulders, strands falling down around her face to complicate it with shadows, stares at her own boots for an instant, wobbling. Lilith understands what she is feeling; it took weeks for the rock of this place to feel solid, to stop warbling underneath her with the threat of turning to liquid, to blood, to ink.

Lilith has dreamed of the bottom of hell, and this is not it. This is only the threshold.

‘Who’s asking?’ she growls, taking a careful half-step forward. It’s more of a shuffle, really – a habit born from fencing lessons held deep inside the walls of the Underworld, in a garden full of soft fruits and the promise of spring. The place she learned to fight.

The girl straightens, stiffening under Lilith’s scrutiny. There’s a sort of raw-boned intensity to her, like she’s holding herself very precisely in check. Her fingers, too, have tightened around the haft of her spear.

She’s shaking, blood now flowing down to drip from the tip of her elbow where it’s clamped tight against her body. Lilith wonders what it took for Charon to ferry a dying girl across the river.

The tip of her sword is only a foot from the girl’s throat as it bobs, as she raises her chin to expose the bumpy layers of cartilage sitting in a line; the very slight bulge above her windpipe.

There’s no point in asking who sent her. If she’s a half-blood, there’s only one place she could have crawled from.

Softly, again, the girl speaks. Backlit as she is by the green glow on the shore, she carries the countenance of a ghost. Lilith might mistake her for one, if she didn’t know better.

‘My name is Beatrice,’ she says, in a voice like cold water and warm milk, ‘I am a daughter of Athena.’

There’s blood on her lips, Lilith realises, as they pull into a grimace. They shiver as Beatrice pulls her fingers out of the slit in her stomach, holding them out in wry invitation.

It’s utterly bizarre, but Lilith finds herself lowering her sword, leaving it to sit against the leg of her jeans. Beatrice has proffered her right hand, so Lilith is forced to juggle the sword into her left so that she can reach out, tentative, to wrap her fingers into the sticky, blood-stained cup of Beatrice’s hand.

‘Lilith,’ she says. Somehow, it feels like an admission, like giving something away.

The daughter of Athena smiles. Pink-tinted saliva dribbles down her chin. It’s ghastly, but Lilith finds that she is somewhere on the opposite end of disgusted, wherever that might be.

There are, after all, no destinations along the river Styx but one. Death.

Beatrice squeezes her hand. She takes a ragged breath, her dark eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, boring into Lilith’s. ‘Pleasure,’ she says, a little giddily. ‘I thought I would have to go deeper into hell to find you.’

‘Well, here I am.’

A tightening around her hand, not quite a squeeze. ‘Here you are,’ Beatrice says. She lists forward, catches herself, ‘I’m here-‘

She coughs, and the redness of it floats weirdly in the mist. Beatrice stares, shakes her head like she’s trying to banish a ghost.

Her voice is very faint. ‘We need your help… daughter of Hades.’

Then the daughter of Athena, her skin like dark gold even in the bad light of the Underworld, falls forward. It happens slowly, at first, like she’s just taking a step, but then Lilith sees her knees buckle, watches the spear slip through her fingers.

And without thinking she steps forward, capturing Beatrice’s warm body in her arms.

...

Ten minutes later Lilith crouches next to a limp figure she has propped up against the pitted, high stone wall, feeling like a thief as she unbuttons Beatrice’s blue shirt and peels her black base-layer away from the slice in her lower abdomen.

Her sword is on the ground next to her, at a right angle to her body, the hilt in easy reach. Beatrice’s spear is propped up against the wall. It is, indeed, covered in tiny filigreed owls.

Beatrice does not stir as Lilith raises her hand, ignoring the unhappy shiver of the mist against her back as she draws on the power in her blood, summoning up a sliver of bone from a tiny vial of bone dust she keeps tucked inside her boot. It forms in the air, turning from powder to liquid to solid bone in the span of a moment, before settling down into Lilith’s red-painted palm.

It’s not ideal, but she can hardly wash her hands in the river. It’s full of plastic and rot and blood. Instead, she makes do with the little wadge of bandage and thread she keeps in the pocket of her jacket.

Beatrice continues to breathe as Lilith carefully threads her bone needle. There’s a voice in the back of her head spouting stupid facts about the history of needles and sutures, but Lilith hisses at it to shut up before dipping the sharp end of the bone through Beatrice’s flesh. The thread turns red as it passes in and out, but it’s proper surgical suture, so it also tugs the flesh back towards itself. It makes whole.

Distracted by her work, it takes Lilith too long to notice the change in Beatrice’s breathing. She finishes her row of stitches – they’re thick and lumpy and as elegant as she can make them, but there is no ringing in Lilith’s ears to ordain death, so it must be enough.

At a loss for any other implement, Lilith picks up her sword and carefully cuts the thread, leaving a little curl of it to sit against the taut muscle of Beatrice’s stomach. She has, of course, attempted not to notice the ripple of honed, hard muscle that runs the whole length of what necessity has forced Lilith to unearth; the evidence of a life spent fighting.

She has attempted to ignore it.

When Lilith looks up, sword resting on her knees where she’s crouched, balancing effortlessly on her heels, she finds that Beatrice’s eyes are open. Hazy with pain, but alert underneath it all.

A tentative smile flutters across her lips, ‘You saved my life.’

She dumps the sentence at Lilith’s feet like it means something.

Lilith shrugs, ‘I’m a freak, not a monster.’

The freckled skin on Beatrice’s cheeks wrinkles in tandem with her frown, ‘Wh-‘

‘You said you needed my help?’ Lilith interrupts before the question can come out and make everything awkward.

Beatrice’s stomach is still laid bare, covered in fingerprint marks where Lilith has touched her – in every single place Lilith has touched her.

Mercifully, the daughter of Athena lets her question fall away. Her bronze spear shines off of some strange reflection in the volcanic rock.

‘Yes,’ Beatrice says. There’s some depth to the word that Lilith doesn’t look down into, in the same way she doesn’t peer into the waters of the Styx as the ferry glides over it. Some mysteries are not fit for consumption.

‘Alright.’ Lilith nods, ignoring the way that the gold chain on her sword tightens against her hand, like a warm tongue, ‘Tell me what you need.’

[bunsofhoney]

Flufftober Day 15 14

Reflection

The prince sighs as he stares into the small, patinaed mirror. He tugs at a golden curl that has fallen over his temple. The rest are shiny and soft and perfectly coiffed, as they must be. His father and their fleet of manservants wouldn’t have it any other way. He must look perfect as he sits by his father’s side at court, nodding in agreement with the plans and schemes so numerous he can barely keep track of them all. Although he’s not in court now, he’s in his bedroom, where he spends the rest of his time, sequestered away to study.

The prince’s eyes circle the edges of the frame, where twin dragons curl. The pad of his thumb trace their sharp wooden claws that delicately grasp the glass.

Harry wishes that the dragons were real. That there were real dragons left in the world. He wishes that any of the ancient creatures carved in wood or gilded in gold on the well-leafed pages of his books still existed. Maybe a dragon or a unicorn or griffon could carry him off, away from the cage of this castle and the crypt of his narrowly-defined existence.

A crash across the room startles him out of his reverie. Harry jumps up, about to call a guard, when he hears “Sorry! Sorry!” in a voice that brings with it the nostalgia of an warm late summer day, playing chase with a young boy from the village, back when his father was less of a tyrant. He plucks a name, Peter, from memory, but doesn’t say it aloud.

The figure who has just fallen through his open window (five stories up, in a tower, mind you) is clad in dark blue breeches, a flowing red shirt, and a red handkerchief with holes cut for eyes, tied around his head. His voice, and his frame, both seem young, or at least not older than Harry.

“Um. Excuse me? Do I know you?”

Harry approaches the figure hesitantly. The young man looks up, and the brown eyes hiding in his mask grow wide.

“I, uh…no, no. Just passing through!” He leaps to his feet, too fast for words. Before Harry can ask another question, he’s somersaulted back out the window.

Harry rushes to call after him. Come back! Take me with you! He wants to shout, but when he reaches the window there’s no one there to hear him, just the gentle autumn breeze whispering through the leaves.

.

(Whoops! I posted out of order yesterday, so this is 14 and that was 15. I will make corrections later.)

Read all the drabbles here

Prompt: day 14 - Fantasy AU @flufftober

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

For more of this chapter, please click the AO3 link below!

From the Seed of a Sunflower

AU Types- Fantasy AU/Flower Language

Word Prompt- Sunshine

Dialogue Prompt- “who are you?”

Summary:  Bilbo intends to go on his year-long journey as is custom of his Took family, and being six inches tall is not about to deter him. He soon finds himself in a big world, containing small people...just like him.

Bilbo finally looked up, and for a strange moment, he thought it was the ravens circling above that were speaking. Now, he had never heard an animal speak before, but to be fair, the only opportunity he’d had was with the neighbor’s tomcat, Smeagol, who was an odd creature in general. However, before he could contemplate more on the idea of talking ravens, he was able to catch the shiny glint of metal on the back of one of the circling birds. His breath caught in his throat. Was…was that a tiny knight? Someone…his size? He thought he was the only one.

“It’s making a run for it! Better bring it down, quick.”

It was at that moment he became aware of the Raven Riders quarry. A squirrel carrying a passenger of its own. Only there was something wrong with them. The squirrel was…diseased looking, matted fur, and overly sharp teeth. The rider was even more appalling. Too pale of skin with bone jutting out in odd places. It was enough to make Bilbo shiver in fear even from where he was standing. He became entranced watching the battle now that he realized that’s what it was.

One of the Raven Riders would fire an arrow onto the squirrel creature that would either be deflected by the monster or dig into its fur making it cry out. However, it didn’t seem like it was going down easy. In fact, it only seemed more agitated, something he could tell was making the Raven Riders nervous as their back and forth banter carried on above. It was like watching some sort of bizarre play which is why Bilbo never once considered the idea that he might be in danger.

[kits-ships]

more info abt my demons :3 more under the cut

Asmodeus - Pansexual / Demigender - Any Pronouns - Lust Formerly known as Samael, Angel of Death. Third/second in command of Hell Represented by crocodiles, prayed to for fertility and wealth Black, wavy hair, yellow-green eyes and slit pupils. Has fangs and a bridge piercing. Scratch on his face is from Seraphina. There's an AU with Baphomet where he's alive, and one where they killed him. Was originally created as Lilith's 'brother' figure.

Astaroth - Bisexual / Bigender - He / She - Pride Formerly known as Jophiel, designed mountain ranges and caves Represented by bats, prayed to for beauty and success. Ginger hair, purple eyes and sclera, and has fangs. Often wears purple makeup. She is one of the palest demons in Hell as she refuses to go outside, lest the sun damage his skin.

Baphomet - Pansexual / Nonbinary - They / Them / It - Wrath Formerly known as Seraphina, head of the Seraphim, designed savanna animals Represented by goats, prayed to for fertility and general protection Blonde hair, pink eyes with horizontal slit pupils. Can have horns, goat ears and a tail. They also have a septum ring, but I forgot :( Covered in scratches and bite marks from Asmodeus /neg, and also bite marks from Paimon /pos

Leviathan - Aroace / Genderqueer - They / He - Envy Formerly known as Zachariel, 'deputy' of the Seraphim, designed sea creatures Represented by the fin whale, prayed to for safe travels and for mercy. Black locs with the tips dyed a deep blue, and blue eyes. Has a few helix piercings and a nose ring. Occasionally has scraped on his human form from surfing or general shenanigans.

Lilith - Aroflux / Demigirl - She / They- Sloth Formerly known as Tamiel, personal assistant to the Archangels Represented by owls, prayed to for relaxation and peace. Long black hair, black eyes, and sparse freckles across her face. Has some bite marks and bruises on her body from Paimon /pos. Originally created as Asmodeus' 'sibling' figure.

Mammon - Polysexual / Demiboy - He/Him - Greed Formerly known as Jhudiel, lower ranked angel that worked with plants Represented by wolves, prayed to for success and wealth. Light brown 3B hair with his bangs dyed green. Has green eyes, fangs, and a septum and nose ring. Often wears gold eyeshadow, and has various cuts and bruises on his human form from bets gone awry.

Paimon - Agender / Demisexual - It / Its - Gluttony Formerly known as Barachiel, former Seraph, designed desert animals Represented by camels, prayed to for a good harvest and for prosperity. Messy, dark ginger waves. May or may not have eyes, but definitely has fangs. Can have horns, ears, and a tail. Face is often covered in crumbs or scratch marks, as its nails are rather sharp. It jingles when it walks, as its pockets are always full of odd trinkets and shiny trash.

taglist bc i love them

@selffulfillingshipper @dudefrommywesterns @sunstar-of-the-north @kylars-princess @faerie-circle-ships @knightoflove @wyndford-dekarios

[kariachi]

Okay, it’s Odaiba Day, if there is any day I am going to get a partner line together for Chosen Devin AUs it is today damnit...

So, the Aberamon line, kinda sorta. An Aberamon line.

~~

Erynmon

Stage: Baby/Baby I

Type: Seed

Attribute: Data

Description: A small brown orbular digimon with three large, round violet, petal-like wings coming from it’s top, the wings droop down, hiding much of the center from view and dragging on the ground, can use wings to float and twirl in the air and on breezes, has two large solid yellow eyes

Attacks: Sepal Swat (bats at opponents with it’s wings)

Hegrekmon

Stage: In-Training/Baby II

Type: Fairy

Attribute:Data

Description: A small, ovular, white creature that appears to be formed from smooth, shiny stone, with a jagged crater-esque mouth, two large pastel-blue eyes, and three small round feet

Attacks: Dizzy Dance (disorients enemies by circling them at high speeds)

Aberamon (Sun)

Stage: Rookie/Child

Type: Holy Beast

Attribute: Vaccine

Description: A mid-sized creature with a flat, almost square body, upper portions covered in what appears to be long, flowing, light brown ‘Pele’s hair’, skin is a very pale yellow, possesses four thick spider-like legs, one at each corner, ending in one large claw each, head is large, round, and attached directly to the body between the front-most pair of legs, possesses four large eyes- right pair green and left pair violet, mouth is large on the head and full of sharp teeth, two small black horns rest on the top of the head

Attacks: Shard Shell (tackles opponent with full force)

Dididirumon (Sun)

Stage: Champion/Adult

Type: Holy Beast

Attribute: Vaccine

Description: A large creature reminiscent of a flat-backed millipede, possesses no legs, segments all extend into solid fin-like forms, back and fins dark brown, head and underbelly very pale yellow, no antennae but does possess a pair of black antlers with two tines, mouthless head with four angular eyes- right pair green and left pair violet, segments edged in electrum, ‘swims’ through water and air does not touch ground under normal circumstances

Attacks: Solar Tribute (generates ball of fire between antlers and fires at opponents), Coils (entangles and squeezes opponent)

Oppoimon

Stage: Ultimate/Perfect

Type: Mythical Dragon

Attribute: Vaccine

Description: A massive, flat creature reminiscent of annelids with a lizard-like head, a dozen pairs of dark grey metallic claws line the sides of the body, possesses two large forelimbs similar to those of a mantis in the same color as the claws, tail ends in an screw of the same, head has a metallic dark grey skull helmet, mouth has two rows of sharp teeth, four angular yellow eyes, jagged ochor-red stripe under each eye, down each forelimb, and on either side of the ‘spine’ down the back, primary color is a shiny grey-green, typically terrestrial

Attacks: Striking Ambush (strikes out at enemies with forelimbs), Pressure Quake (causes the ground to shake violently and geysers to erupt under the enemy)

Rumalmon (Moon)

Stage: Mega/Ultimate

Type: God Dragon

Attribute: Vaccine

Description: A large Osmosian-shaped creature with a dark grey-green hide, forelimbs are massive in comparison to the body ending in heavy, skeletal hands half the size of the torso, skeletal tail is twice as long proportionally as an Osmosian tail, possesses four large pairs of eyes- four violet running down the belly and four green running down the back, head is eyeless, canine teeth are doubled as compared to an Osmosian, skeletal portions are bright yellow-orange, possesses seven four-tined electrum antlers, one electrum chain is wrapped around the base of each antler and wraps loosely around the body and limbs, can locomote quadrupedally, bipedally, and through floating

Attacks: Holy Sabre (stabs and/or slashes as enemies with claws), Calling (releases blinding light from eyes that radiates through area, damages ‘unholy’ opponents), Nightburst (unleashes a barrage of energy blasts onto opponents)

[chickenpeep77kirbyau]

Popstar and its creatures intro and part 1

Planet Popstar's shape is somewhat different in this au than in the canon. It is rounder with five enormous mountains in a peculiar mountain range that circles the planet almost perfectly. Popstar is an unusual world; not just because of its slightly flattened shape. Its weird, though its not the only planet to have environments so shaped by a high saturation of magic. Magic zones are irregularly occuring, leading to a variety of magic levels on and around the planet. Its known as a weirdness magnet. For some reason strange things are just pulled towards it, leading to an unusual amount of events happening. Interdimensional portals are unusually common here. The foliage growing here is a range of yellows oranges and reds. It has three native sentient species: waddle dee, cappy, and the woods. Here are some critters that live on Popstar:

As Popstar has a relatively high wormhole density, who knows how many of these are actually native. Earth creatures such as chickens and boars have settled here.

Noddy: Chill friend that can nap all it wants. Most predators leave it alone due to its flesh containing narcoleptic toxins. They are particularly abundant around a mysterious place called the dream fountain. It is a place rich in telepathic crystals. Many are placed intentionally and form part of what seems to be a massive telepathic relay station. Beautiful stone architecture surrounds the area, in addition to a mineral spring that is what "Dream Fountain" specifically refers to. During sleep the noddies interact via some sort of "dream space" created by the crystal structure's influence. Within the dream space there is a mental entity that feeds off of positive emotion produced there and around the mineral springs. Sometimes called the dream goddess. The noddies are kind of its emissaries. Those with the know how and ability can also link up to the dream space. The influence, strongest at its source, encompasses much of Dream Land, which is what gives Dream Land its unofficial name. Who built it? No idea, but many of Dream Land's people make pilgrimages to there occasionally. Minor dark mental entities can also be dispelled there.

Minny: A smol creature that uses its tail as a third leg.

Shelt: Uses the pointy tip of its shell to compete with each other and scare off predators.

Whippy: Uses its tail to whack prey.

Chip: Silly jumping ferret snake thing.

Wappa: Lives in snowy environments.

Dale: Cave dweller that has a light producing organ on its head.

Slippy: Semi aquatic critter that somewhat resembles a frog. Relative of the bubble head and hot head. Its hard to catch due to the slick oily substance produced from its skin.

Bubble/hot head: Two similar organisms. One produces a gross oily frothy substance, while the other produces flammable oils that it ignites with its fire magic.

Pteran: Flying critter with a long stiff tail fin.

Gip: Flying critter that can shoot small magic based projectiles at predators.

Leap: Flying critter with big dexterous lips.

Schnoz: Pig like thing

Bigger Schnoz: Bigger pig like thing with a flail tail

Dice: Comes in non magic and ice magic using varieties.

Bohboh/Fuufuu: A pair of similar species. One uses fire magic and the other ice magic. Makes big gusts of temperature altered breath using an expandable throat pouch. Can also levitate when needed.

Kapar: Semi aquatic critter whose males have a shiny crest on their head. Territorial and will attack with magic based blade projectiles.

Polof: Creature resembling a rabbit.

Bun: Rabbit resembling creature with strong ear muscles it can use to rapidly punch things.

Boxboxer: Bigger heftier ear muscles to really punch things. Ears include a pair of pseudo thumbs.

Sir Kibble: A critter in a metallic shell. A tendril on the top can spring forward, bringing a sharp blade down on what's in front of it.

Bukiset: Another shelled critter. The two holes in the top of the shell resemble eyes in their placement, but are actually the nostrils. The line underneath resembling a mouth is a single eye wrapped around the front of its face. The actual mouth is a beak right below the eye. They can use tools wow! (This is one of my favorite au redesigns)

Wizzer: A critter resembling a clam. Its single eye can project a beam attack to attack prey and encroaching threats.

Como: Superficially resembles a spider, but its not. It attaches a silk thread to a high object before bungee jumping down to grab a prey below it. It might also spit webbing.

[feynites]

Sharp and Shiny Circle AU

The latest (well, written) Aili x Uthvir AU! Co-written with @lillotte17, wherein Aili is a Circle Mage (of sorts) and the Nightmare is the tower’s resident haunt.

Aili is six when her magic first comes to her. Trapped and screaming in the dark of a small cave. Petrified and all alone. Her desperation manifests in an explosion of heat and flame that nearly kills her along with the scurrying beasts she had been trying to fend off. As luck would have it, the blast also manages to knock a fair amount of stone and earth loose from the mouth of the cavern where it had collapsed in on itself earlier when a deafening crash of thunder and lightning had sent the whole place quaking. It takes nearly twenty minutes of burrowing on her part, but she escapes, filthy and crying and slightly singed, but wholly alive.

Even if she is also somewhat scraped and bruised and terrified.

The storm that had caused her to seek shelter in the first place is still raging, though not quite as fiercely as before. She finds herself soaked through, and much farther from Clan Lavellan’s campsite than she had meant to wander, as night begins to fall in the forest. She makes attempts to find the hunting trails her mother had shown her. Halla tracks. Underbrush crushed flat by the wheels of their aravels. But everything looks the same to her eyes in the failing light of day.

Aili trudges aimlessly for a while; slathered in mud from her bare toes clear up to her knees, in what she thinks must be the direction she came from. She can hardly see anything anymore, and her teeth are chattering from the cold settling into her bones, and she wonders if she could maybe make the fire in her hands again. Just to keep warm, and help her find her way.

The first few tries yield no results, but after a while, she discovers that if she screws her face up and concentrates very hard, a half dozen or so tiny sparks will flare around her fingers. She can't quite seem to hold it, so she just keeps walking, and shooting out little puffs of fire every now and then to get a better sense of where she might be headed.

Eventually, she comes upon a road. Which is distressing. The Dalish do not typically use roads, unless the terrain offers no other safe means of travel. Roads mean human settlements. Bandits. Templars. Danger.

Aili crouches down by the foot of a tree and hides her face in her hands. Crying hard, and finally resolved to the fact that she is utterly, hopelessly lost.

Hours pass, until night has well and truly fallen, and there is nothing to see by except for the faintest pinpricks of starlight through the trees. She is stiff with cold, and her clothes are stiff with mud. Her stomach growls loud enough to rival a bear. And she finds that she is almost too exhausted to fall asleep.

Too exhausted to notice when the sound of creaking wooden wheels and a rattling cart being drawing closer to her on the road.

She jerks suddenly into wakefulness, thinking that perhaps it is the sound of an approaching aravel. Bounding to her feet with a joyful cry. A few more of her little sparks to come bursting out of her in excitement.

The horse shies and rears, making a terrible screeching whinny, that has her dashing back towards the side of the road again.

But it is too late.

A pair of figures get down from the cart. A short scrawny man, and a tall dark-skinned woman holding a lantern. They seem mostly interested in seeing to their horse, and making certain the creature does not turn their cart over, and Aili hopes against hope that if she stays very quiet, perhaps they will not think to look for her.

"Here now, Bess, what's got you all a flutter?" the man asks his horse, peering out into the darkness. He seems genuinely surprised when he catches sight of her, and Aili wonders if it would be worth it to try and run away. "Hello there, little one! What are you doing out here in the dark?"

"Raff, you don't suppose tha' flash of light came from her, do ya?" the woman beside him mutters in a deep sooty voice.

"Calm down, Vel, " Raff chides her, "It's jus' a little girl."

He turns back to Aili with a smile. As he walks a few steps closer, she can make out the pointed tips of his ears. Her shoulders relax slightly.

An elf.

Even if he is travelling with a human woman, surely one of her own people would not let anything too terrible happen to her.

"D'you drop your candle in the mud, sweetheart?" he asks her kindly.

Aili knots her fingers together, and shakes her head 'no'. Papae always told her to tell the truth, and Mamae said to respect her elders. And both of them told her not to leave the boundaries of the campsite on her own. They're going to be so mad at her…

The man makes a face, and the woman makes a sound of smug triumph.

"You can make lights with no candles or lanterns?" Raff checks, eyeing her up in a way that makes her wholly uncomfortable. She thinks that he does not want the answer to be 'yes', for some reason. She almost feels brave enough to lie to him about it, but before she can quite muster the courage, the fire poofs out around her fingertips again. He jumps away from her with a curse.

"Get back in the wagon before she sets the whole woods ablaze!" he hisses at his companion, taking her firmly by the elbow. The woman wrenches herself away from him, and gives him such a scathing look, that Aili doesn't imagine he could look more cowed if she had hit him.

"What kind of man are you?" Vel snaps in reply, "You really gonna leave some child out here by her lonesome to get et up by bears and wolves? Probably some poor little urchin cast out by them wild elves that camp in these parts. They toss em out when there're too many wot got magic, don't they? Don't even try to send them to the Circles for proper learnin'. Better off dead than with humans, or some tripe like that. Shameful is what it is."

The man gives her another assessing once-over, and Aili is not quite sure what they are talking about anymore. Wild elves? Magic? Do they think she is a Keeper?

When Raff steps over to her again, he seems wary, but also strangely sad.

"Are you hungry?" he wonders softly.

"Yes," Aili lisps out, too desperately famished to hide it.

"You come with me an' Vel, we'll get you taken care of," he tells her, reaching out to take her hand. "We'll get a nice warm meal in you, and clean you up good and proper, and in the morning, we'll make sure you end up where you belong."

"I wanna go home," Aili says in what is almost a sob, her fingers tightening around Raff's. He has very warm hands. Callused and rough, like her father's.

"It'll be home soon enough," he promises.   

~

It is not often that the Nightmare finds itself trapped, in any significant capacity.

Carelessness, it thinks. A lack of precaution. It is always a lack of precaution which leads to such things. The trick, of course, is knowing what precautions to take. It thought it had, but, time had proven that arrogant. The twisting layers of its realm had been cracked an age ago, when The Body, up above, had finally been destroyed. Blood and lyrium and torn pieces. It had rushed to try and gather what it could, before the memories were all torn away. It would be easier to forget, of course. Easier and more peaceful. But...

That is a luxury they offer to others. Not themselves.

Itself.

Regardless, past is past. The Nightmare had hurried to try and hold onto the pieces, and in so doing, had finally been dislodged from the nest it had built up across the centuries. Dragged closer to the currents of the Waking World, the place it was drawn to; the place most dangerous to it. It would need to build another nest, to go back to its waiting ways. Feeding, in the darkness, on fears and the foreboding dreams of a broken world. But with the memories it had scrambled to catch, the siren's lure of the Waking World had called that much more strongly to it.

Folly.

The mages which had tried to bind it had failed, in part. They had been easy to overwhelm. Their fears were dark, and deep, and in the throws of their terror and paranoia, they had turned on one another. Thoughts of betrayal became a reality, as the trio tore into one another. But their trap was less easily rent apart than their flesh. The Nightmare found itself restricted to a certain quarter of the Fade. Looming and lingering in it, in the shadows below a Circle. And in circles, it wandered. Never starving, of course, for the Circle of the Waking World knew no dearth of fears and dread. But it was too weak to simply break free. To return to its half-forgotten quest, of waiting and seeking safe ways to return.

So, it remained. Feasting on nightmares, growing and growing, as other, lesser demons clustered in its wake, seeking to prey upon the mages above. Seeking folly, for these demons were young, and did not understand the bite of blades, or the heavy weight of the world they sought. They had never known it.

The Nightmare had.

It remembered. Not perfectly. But enough.

It is there for a long time, before it meets Her.

Another mage. Elven. Small. She has been in the Circle for some years. Bad dreams, of spiders and shadows, and losing people. Being lost and trapped. Forgetting. Normal fears for any Circle mage. The Nightmare had not seen her fully until the Harrowing. That was when it saw most mages for the first time. Pulled into the Fade, trapped among the demons, with swords at their backs. It had made a habit of watching many Harrowings, but rarely interfered. Most of the mages of this Circle were humans. Round-eared, pale-faced, caught in fleeting years. They did not seem... right, for any opportunities beyond providing sustenance. The templars were always close, on the other side.

But this... She is different.

An elf, yes, darker and more fair than most of the others in this place, small and bright-eyed and steady as she walks into the dream. That alone would not be enough to capture its interest, and yet, the Nightmare finds itself drawn in. There is something about her face. It does not quite grasp what, but the fact that is drawn at all compels it, and brings it in further. It remembers... a woman of importance. Or women? Someone. She?

The Lady?

A beating heart. Heartbeat...?

The mage has one of those, certainly, though as with all others who come to be Harrowed, the continued beating of Her heart hangs on a thin thread.

The lesser demons move in. A demon of Anger is the most potent in this region, apart from the Nightmare, but it is still not much compared to them. Fear is the most potent resource in this place. The Nightmare is drawn into the dream as well, though. Unprecedented. The Harrowing trap is not strong enough to hold it, not like the ancient summoning, built into the lines of this Circle. But its own interest in Her is enough that they are swept up by the currents of summoning anyway.

They could leave. The Lady is dangerous, they know that. The mage does not seem to be much of a threat, but appearances are deceiving.

But...

They have seen mages killed by the lesser demons in these Harrowings. By the templars, too. Their deaths echoing through the Dreaming, as they are cut down before it is done. The fear they feel in those moments is potent. The Nightmare has built minions of it, a thousand spiders that lurk in the corners of the Circle, and gnaw at the walls of their prison. If She dies, then they will never know what has drawn themselves to her. That could be dangerous as well. A persistent mystery, perhaps bound to strike again, at a less opportune moment.

The Nightmare culls the lesser demons in the dream. Spirits drawn in of their own volition flee, before it can catch them. It calls spiders to close off the edges of the dream, and silences the summoning. Snuffs out most of the lights, until the dream is all but empty, save for shadows and the clicking of dozens of legs, crawling over stone floors. The little mage stands in the middle of a chamber, and hastily summons a light. She clutches her staff close. The Nightmare can feel her fear growing, rather than receding. Despite the fact that the lesser demons are all gone, now.

They move closer. Their wings stretch out from their back, nearly as dark as the darkness they have called, and their own many legs tap across the floor with a louder, less hurried clack-clack-clack.

The fear grows. What's coming, what's that, where did all the spirits go, why has it all gone dark, what's moving in the shadows...?

She brightens the light in her hand, and sets it onto the top of her staff. Bracing her feet apart. Her grip is white-knuckled, and her fear tastes familiar...

She does not like spiders.

The Nightmare does not know where the knowledge comes from. Not the usual place of knowing such things, although... perhaps it is? It is disorienting, for a moment. The light is brittle and too bright, and it cannot remember if it is hunting or seeking, or if it is afraid of this Lady, or if it is here to listen to the beating of her heart. It draws closer, and spreads the darkness. Swallows the light. The mage tries to make another, but they catch her before she can. Her skin crackles with magic, and her staff slams against their wing. Hard enough to hurt, but, as they touch her. the Nightmare almost knows... knows...

"Vhenan."

I don't want to die!

They let go of her.

The dream is starting to come undone. The templars are moving closer in the Waking side. The Nightmare considers for a moment, and then withdraws. With no demons to hold the Harrowing, the dream breaks, and the dreamer wakes.

~

The Circle never feels like home.

It is a cold, cramped place, with bars across the windows, and a lone flat courtyard with high stone walls. The only place Aili is permitted to be outdoors, where all the mages practice the approved fighting spells, and tend to herbs and flowers. And she occasionally slips her shoes off and wriggles her toes in the soft cool grass, and tries to recall the distant smell of forests.

She cries a lot in the early days of her captivity. Frightened of the faceless metal masks of the Templars. Of the flat-toned Tranquil with their blank expressions. Of the thought of never seeing her parents or her clan again. Of the dark spindle-legged monsters that chase her through her dreams.

Aili tries to explain to the First Enchanter that there has been some horrible mistake. She was naughty, but her parents would never simply abandon her. She tries to convince them that she is not a mage, tries to hide her powers as best she can, but her anxieties seem to bring it to the surface, manifesting in sparks of lightning and tiny spurts of flame.

There are very few elves in this particular Circle, and she is the only one not from an alienage. 'Everyone is equal here', they insist, but she find it is not true. A handful of the human mages are from noble houses, and they wear finer robes, have thicker blankets on their beds, and a few even get permission to visit with their families on special occasions. With Templar supervision, of course.

The elves have nothing, even if it is supposedly the same nothing that the common humans have. Most of them came from large families packed into tiny crumbling houses where there never seemed to be enough food to go around. The Circle is a blessing in that regard. Three meals a day, a bed you don't have to share with anyone, and a better education than any of them could possibly hope for.

Half of them don't even believe her when she told them she was Dalish. And after a while, she starts to doubt it herself. The snorts of the halla, the smell of leather and cookfires. The stories Hahren Theron taught them. Her mother's voice. Her father's eyes. All growing hazy in her mind like a passing dream.

The years roll by, and Aili grows. Trying to find her place. To balance who she is now, with who she feels she was born to be. There are not many books about her people, and the few she finds seem incongruous with the memories she has managed to keep hold of, but she holds fast to them regardless. She seeks the truth of their past, trying to align what she can remember with the skewed perspectives of human historians.

She hopes to be granted permission to leave this place someday. To continue her research into Elven histories and magic. To study the ruins that she has only ever seen in drawings.

To find her way back to her clan. Her family.

Aili is awake when they come for her in the middle of the night. Taking her to be harrowed. Forcing her to dream. To face her demons.

She does not relish the thought.

In the twelve years she has spent trapped here, she has yet to have a pleasant night's rest. Even in her good dreams, there is always something lingering at the edges of her perception. Some dark spirit. Some old wound waiting to reopen. She is never lucid enough to quite make out the shape of it, but it always leaves her with a deep sense of unease. This place has seen too much pain, she thinks, and anyone who is sensitive to it is liable to be drawn in.   

It is worse than she had imagined.

The smaller demons and spirits are all chased off, and everything she can perceive about this corner of the Fade is shrouded in inky blackness. Thousands of skittering feet all scrabbling towards her. Indiscernible shadows that somehow shape themselves into one her oldest fears. And ocean of hungry chittering spiders. Massive dark wings. Sharp grasping claws.

Aili tries to keep her head. Be brave. Make light. Take no deals. Fight back. But nothing she does seems to hinder the creature that seems to have caught her at long last.

It lifts her in its strange conglomeration of arms and claws and long, spindly hands. She draws in a sharp breath, tries not to scream. Wondering if she is about to be possessed, or eaten, or destroyed entirely.

I don't want to die!     

The thought shakes throughout her entire being, and for half a second, the dream around her disappears.

Thick, heavy manacles around her wrists, binding her magic and limiting her movements. A filthy cell far beneath the earth. A sense of impending doom.

I don't want to die!

The words had burst from her in a flash of panic, despite all her efforts to hold them in. She had wanted to be brave. There are eyes in that room. Not hers. Dark and anguished, surrounded by lines written in blood.

She had not wanted them to see her in her moment of defeat.

Run! Leave! Escape this place!  

Unaccountably, the demon lets her go. And when it does the vision disappears. The dream fades, and she is pulled back into the waking world. Surrounded by anxious Templars with their blades drawn.

They spend a long time checking her over for signs of corruption, but they cannot seem to find anything amiss. So, they let her go. Let her return to her books and her studies, and her penchant for taking naps in odd places. A fully recognized Mage of the Circle.

Aili is glad for the scant freedoms that it brings, and she certainly had not wished to be slain, or have her connection to the Fade severed, but…

The dreams are getting worse.

She is too scared to tell anyone, for fear that they will take it as a sure sign that she had not left her Harrowing completely as herself, but the vague presence she had noticed when she was younger has grown closer. A dark shape standing at the edge of her sleep. Watching her silently.

And there is more.

Faces and voices of strangers which nearly bring her to tears. Scraps of songs that she has never heard, in a language she has never learned. Brief flashes of memories that are not her own. A shinning city. Hungry golden eyes. A palace in the woods. A figure in red.

She tries to sleep less. To only doze for an hour or so at a time. Drinking strong teas, and reading late into the night.

It makes her a bit…peculiar. Twitchy and jumpy, and even more prone to dropping things. A few of the children that she tutors seem concerned for her health, but thankfully none of the Templars seem to think she is acting suspicious.  

With all the unrest brewing in Kirkwall, it is hardly surprising that they have less attention to focus on a young mage suffering from sleep deprivation.  

She can only hope it stays that way.

~

The Nightmare watches the Lady, after she leaves the harrowing dream.

She reminds of them things. Of memories, buried and broken, and long thought by them to be lost. It is like a light, shining on pale words still imprinted upon weathered, torn pages. The closer they draw, they more clear things become. But so slowly. Bit by aching bit, and they must gather up the newly illuminated text of their memories. Must secret them away, to where they will not be lost again, nor confused for any others. Whether they are their own memories, or the Lady's, or the body's, or the old, bright and burning Glory's... that is harder for them to sort out, at times.

They are painful memories, and full of fear. Yet the Nightmare cannot escape the persistent, compelling impression that they must find more. That in finding more, they will find something important. Something they have been looking for, for... ages. For long enough that they cannot recollect the start of their search.

The Lady dreams of Arlathan, and of palaces long fallen to ruin, and other places which the Nightmare can also recollect. One night she dreams of a stable. Halla mill around a verdant pen, as She lies in the soft grass beside one of them, and turns a flower over and over in her hands. Staring at petals that look like glass, and a stem that curls into a delicate bracelet. A piece of jewellery that would once have been considered modest. But She smiles as she wraps it around her wrist, and the glass petals flutter. A gift. The Nightmare thinks...

It moves. Red rather than shadow. Blood in place of darkness. She looks up at them, and for a moment, She smiles.

"You're finally back! I thought..."

At the joy and welcome in her tone, something in the Nightmare twists. Such an unaccustomed reaction to their presence. It does not know what to do, and in the moment of confusion, the sky darkens, and its form slips back into a more customary shape. Thoroughly enough so that they cannot recollect the one which they had been holding before. The Lady's face pales, and the halla rear; the Nightmare calms the illusion of them by seizing control of them. White forms and carved horns warp into spindly spider shapes, dark and hard, but easy to command. They scurry off, but the Lady screams.

The pervasive sense of danger and deception, hidden threats suddenly leaping out, overcomes the dream. The Nightmare moves, trying to find the cause of the disruption. It gathers the Lady to them, and covers her light, so that they might hide. But the sense of dread only grows, until there seems no recourse but to break free of the dream and flee. So the Nightmare does, carrying the Lady through the Fade, down into the deeper recesses where its makeshift lair has accumulated. Far enough that the tether between her mind and body begins to tremble, and only then do they recollect, and stop themselves.

If they take her too far, she will break.

Shatter, they think. Pain, and ruin, and empty husks left behind.

The Lady struggles in their grasp. Their hold on her is like heavy shackles. They have seen her shackled before. They wanted to break them, but they couldn't... but these shackles are their own doing. They loosen their grip on her, but tighten it again when she nearly strikes out and escapes it. If they leave her here, others might find her. Others will hurt her. They cannot leave her here, but they must get her free. They carry her up, back towards the Waking. Far as they might go, and they find it is further than they expected. They have not ventured so close to the Veil in centuries. Have not tested it in far longer than that.

Yet, the prison which bound them seems to hold them more tightly in the Fade than it does at the Veil itself. They carry the Lady back to her body, and find themselves filling up the shadows of her room. The small square space, with its tiny cot, and worn oak wardrobe. Half-finished tea on the bedside table, and a book lying open on Her body's chest. Her dreaming mind slips from their grip and back into her body.

The Nightmare lingers, curious. Watching as she opens her eyes, and lets out a breath of relief. As she runs her hands down her face, and then sits up, and goes still.

Staring at the shadows.

She stares at them for a long moment, fear pounding into her heart. How did it get out of the Fade? Her hand reaches, slowly, for the staff beside her bed. Eyes still fixed towards the corner of the room. The Nightmare moves into the shadow in the opposite corner, and the Lady pauses.

And then she closes the last inch of distance between her hand and the staff, all in a rush, and aims a spell directly at it. Magic flaring, wind knocking over a chair as the book slides off of her book, and a lamp beside them flares to life. The Nightmare redirects the spell with a bat of its wings, and it breaks into dozens of light motes. The flash draws notice from the hall outside. The sound of heavy boots, and the feel of suppressing spells. The Nightmare withdraws, reflexively. Pressed further down into the Fade as the door to the bedroom opens, and two armoured figures rush inside.

~

For half a moment, Aili is profoundly relieved when the Templars burst through her door and crash into her room. After all, they are supposed to be specially trained to ward off demons, aren't they? Whatever has chased after her from the Fade, they will slay it, and she may at last be able to have peaceful dreams.

The hope is a fleeting one, as they close in on her. Angry faces and drawn blades. She flinches reflexively, and she can sense the creature in the shadows shift, as though aware of her concern.

A fear demon, then. But she has never read an account of one this large or powerful. It must have been laying beneath the tower for centuries, gorging itself on the terror of those held captive within.

But why has it chosen to plague her, specifically?

"Why were you casting battle magics in your room?" one of the Templars demands, leveling his sword at her chest. An older guard, Cedrick by name, firmly Andrastian, and steadily growing more brittle and temperamental as the lyrium vials he drinks regularly slowly eat away at his mind.

The other is Hester. Young. Rigid with commands, but reasonable with her mercy.

It is she that Aili chooses to fix her gaze on when she answers, her tone just shy of pleading.

"I fell asleep," she tries to explain, "I had a bad dream, and when I woke up there was…something. The demon must have followed me out of the Fade somehow, and when I saw it was in my room, I tried to kill it. Or at least drive it back into the Fade."

"There is…something here," Hester agrees after a moment, looking around the room with a frown. The demon seems to have withdrawn deep into the shadows, pooling beneath her dresser, and tucking itself into odd corners. Aili cannot see it outright, but she can tell that it has not left her chamber.

"Only one way for a demon to follow a mage out of a dream, " Cedrick grunts.

"I didn't summon it!" Aili insists with a hint of panic.

"Even if you did not mean to, you must have accepted some offer from the creature, if it was able to leave the Fade with you," Hester says, her voice filled with a vague sense of pity, "I have heard of mages who did not even realize they had been possessed, until it was too late. The demon had taken hold of their body and used them to commit atrocities without their knowledge."

"I'm not possessed, I'm me!" AIli swears fervently, unconsciously backing towards one of the shadowed corners. "Whatever this thing is, it's been following me for years! I don't feel any different than I always do when I wake up from a bad dream. Please, you have to believe me!"

"As if you'd just admit to it," Cedrick scoffs, "Listening to all those rumors about Kirkwall, were you? Thought a little rebellion sounded good, eh? We're a smaller Circle; summon a few demons to help you out, round up a few followers, and suddenly you're free as a bird, is that it?"

"No, I promise, I haven't done-" she begins as the pair of them slowly begin closing in on her.

"Even if what you say is true," Hester interrupts, "There is a demon following you. You've attracted it somehow, and that's a serious risk. We can't just let you endanger everyone else."

"I'm not dangerous!" she shouts, raising her hands and attempting to make a barrier. If she could just call the First Enchanter…

Cedrick makes a gesture with his hand, and Aili's shield shatters around her, slamming her back against the wall with enough force to knock the wind out of her lungs. She gasps, reaching for her stave, but even as she takes it in hand, Hester begins draining her of her mana. Her body grows sluggish, dizzy, as she sees Cedrick's sword arcing through the air, aimed for her throat.

A cold gust of wind rushes through the room from nowhere, there is a terrible screeching roar, and suddenly everything goes pitch black.  

~

It has been a long time since the Nightmare fought beings of flesh and blood. Bone and sinew.

But it remembers how.

The gruff one draws his blade on their Lady, and they know that he means to cut her down. That cannot be allowed to happen. The Nightmare's own fear is potent, intrinsic to its nature, and runs down to something even deeper in it. Something that is answered in magic, and a rush of power more potent than anything it has felt since being trapped here. Fueled by a memory of chains and blood and the thought that they did not save her then, but they will not watch the blade fall this time. The shadows break, and the windows of the little room do, too, and the sword is halted with a shriek by the black feathers of an extended wing.

The world feels so heavy.

But the templars are afraid, and blinded by their darkness.

They try to make the world heavier. The fight moves quickly, as they call prayers and the second one tries to strike down their Lady. The Nightmare pulls her away, drawing her into the darkness of itself, and unfurls spiked tendrils. Like jagged legs and blades combined, they burst through the templars' armour, and pin them, twitching, to the floor. Blood runs. Power in it, power to defy the heavy nature of the world, like liquid fire. The Nightmare ignites it, holding their Lady close as the templars breathe their last gasping breaths, and the door the room blows open. Red flames licking at black shadows.

It surges out into the hall. Into the tower, the Circle cage. But on this side of the Veil, it is full of gaps and openings. If only it can find them.

There is much fear, as it races through the halls in a rush of darkness. Even though it can taste it, though, the nature of it all is harder to parse. Slower. There are screams and more footsteps, blades drawn, staves lifted. The Nightmare cuts down two more templars, and uses the rivers of their blood to burn through the floors. A spell crackles against the edges of one of its wings, and it nearly cuts down the caster, too, but the Lady cries out.

"Don't!"

They stop. Escaping is what matters. They wind down through stairwells, seeking the path that will lead to an exit. Doors are locked and halls are barricaded, and there are places where the air drags and their magic does not come as quickly or strongly as they need it to. The power is still there, but the templars can push it back. The Nightmare targets them, in turn. If they would hide away its magic, then the Nightmare will take their blood, and use that instead. It takes five templars to burn through the stone of one of the outer walls.

Breaking out through the Circle, even in the heavy, woken world, is a profound relief.

The Nightmare's wings stretch outwards, and it veers away from the rooftops of the few nearby buildings. Arcing towards the calling shadows of forest and trees, with its Lady clutched tight to itself. Its shadows cannot hold the darkness well here, in the light of dawn. Their Lady draws in a gasp as they turn beneath the clouds. And then she releases a long breath, and the Nightmare glimpses her eyes wide as it carries them both into the canopy of the trees.

It does not stop, though. It is fear, and it is running, and so it goes and goes and goes. Traversing the heavy world as best it can, crossing over streams and clearings, and open fields, and yet more trees. It needs to hide, to rebuild, to find a place to nest, but somewhere far away. The hunters are coming. In one moment it sees templars, in another, it sees elves in pelts and armour, but the ends are the same. The hunters are coming to kill their Lady.

But at length, it finds it - a hollow cave, wedged between the roots of two old and weathered trees. Surrounded by overgrown ruins, and already occupied by some creature which has not returned in at least a day. Nothing fierce enough to worry the Nightmare, however. As it tries to enter, however, its Lady struggles in its clutches. The staff in her hands gleams, and the Nightmare drops her as the unexpected burst of magic burns them.

They let out a hiss, confused for a moment. Before recollecting that it is the purview of Ladies to cause them pain. And then they relent, withdrawing themselves, and watching uncertainly as their Lady rises to her feet.

They remember something of how to act, when they have displeased their Lady.

"...Apologies," the Nightmare manages, in a voice rough from disuse, and unaccustomed to speaking in so heavy a place. It echoes around them, called up by magic until they remember the shape of a mouth with which to speak, and create one to use instead. "My Lady."

~

Aili stares at the creature that has kidnapped her, heart pounding in her chest. Gripping her stave with both hands.

It almost defies description. Wings and arms and half a dozen legs and other appendages all shifting and reforming themselves at random. Dark as the deepest shadows with only the vaguest suggestion of a mouth. With sharp sharp teeth.

She's not certain what they were planning on doing once they got her into that cave, but she's willing to bet that it wouldn't be anything pleasant. It stares at her expectantly after its strange, gruff apology. Or at least, she thinks it does. It's hard to make out any eyes in the area she supposes must be its face.

Without a word, Aili turns on her heel and makes a mad dash into the woods.

She has no idea where she is, and even if she did, she wouldn't know where to seek aid. Most of the common folk would not be willing to pit themselves against a demon for a stranger, and any Templars she might meet would likely have the same reaction to her story as Hester and Cedrick. If they even bothered to wait for her to explain.

All she can do is run. Run and run, and hope that whatever interest the monster had in her is worth less to them than the exertion of pursuit.

She can hear it behind her.

A flurry of scrabbling legs racing after her through the underbrush. The sound of their large wings snapping low branches off passing trees. A strange whine of what almost seems like distress.

Aili does not look back. She does no turn her head to see how close it is to catching her. She doesn't want to know. All of her focus is put towards the effort to keep moving. Keep hold of her staff. Keep pumping her legs. Gain distance. Get away.

Her lungs burn. Her eyes sting with exhaustion and tears. Her feet ache, and even after this comparatively brief burst of exertion, she can feel blisters forming on her toes.

Her foot catches on a root, and she falls hard. Palms scraped and lip bloodied. Too tired to force her limbs to rise.

It has been so long since she slept.

The beast comes for her, and Aili presses her eyes shut. Bracing for death. For whatever end it might have in store for her.

Instead, she finds herself scooped back into their arms. She struggles weakly, but there is almost no strength left in her after her last bid for freedom. She is held firmly against the shifting blackness of their body as they turn unexpectedly, and head back the way they came. Back to the cave.

They do not attempt to enter right away, as they had before, circling the perimeter a few times. As though wanting to ensure that nothing has happened to it in their absence. They set her down near the entrance and venture a few feet inside. Inspecting.

"…Safe," they manage to burble at her a few minutes later, as though they are still not quite used to using their mouth, "My Lady. Here…it is safe. For now."

Aili looks them over again. Still deeply unsettled, but also somewhat curious in her exhaustion and mild delirium.

They have not actually…tried to kill her? At least, not yet. And, in fact, they had almost certainly saved her life back in the tower. Although, her life might not have needed saving if they had not been stalking her in her sleep.

Still.

"What…do you want with me?" she asks, not entirely certain it is a question she wants answered.  

~

The Nightmare pauses at the question.

What does it want?

The question is a trap, probably. Ladies can trap them, can ask questions that are riddles, that need right answers. But this Lady does not quite match with that image. Even though she tried to hurt them. She is huddled by the cave. There is blood on her lip, and mud on her robes, but her face makes them think of other things. Of heartbeats, that must keep beating or else suffering will follow. Of softer touches, and a different sort of fear.

They can almost remember...

"I want you safe," they say, because that much is true. Whatever else the Nightmare might still be wrestling with, they are certain that they will get no further in any of these affairs if something should happen to their Lady. Particularly if she should die, but also if she should come to any sort of harm.

The Lady sits up a little. She picks up her staff again, and despite their assurances, moves further away from the cave. The Nightmare ventures outwards too, and lets loose a hiss of protest. It has come into the Waking World, somewhat, and it never expected to do it... like this. However it has actually managed to do it. It is not entirely certain, But, it has, and it knows beyond a doubt that the Waking holds more dangers than the Dreaming does. Here, its minions are too far to call. Here, it has no nest, no spirits to devour, nor demons to enthrall. All is heavy and harsh and resistant to reshaping.

It is also vital and bright and solid in a way that they have missed for so long, they forgot how to articulate the longing. But they never lost it, either. The Lady moves further away, watching it. Her brows are furrowed, and she is frightened. Frightened of lurking dangers, of her own confusion at the situation, and of...

...Oh.

Caves.

Their Lady... does not like caves?

The Nightmare hesitates. Caves are good to fortify, but it could find a lair somewhere else. But not quickly. It must find a place to establish itself, to make certain things are safe. But if their Lady deems this one unacceptable, then there is little for it. They move the rest of the way out, letting their shape fold down into one of shadows, and wings, and a blackened, skeletal form.

Their Lady raises her staff.

The Nightmare waits, to see what she will do. What she might command. They hope she does not run again. It is dangerous, here. There are wild things about, and hunters looking for them.

After a long moment, their Lady lowers her staff a little, and leans some of her weight against it instead.

"Why would a demon want to keep me 'safe'?" she asks them.

The Nightmare hesitates, uncertain of the question. Is it a trap?

"I... do not know all demons," they finally settle on saying. Their voice is getting better, now. Their mouth more distinct, their shape more akin to the one of the Lady across from them. "But I must keep you safe. You are my Lady. I failed you, once before. I cannot fail you again."

Their Lady is still afraid, as her brow furrows, and she regards them silently again. This makes sense - the Waking World is dangerous. But the Nightmare is having troubles grasping what she is afraid of. Too many things at once, perhaps. Perhaps she is too uncertain of the situation to know what to be afraid of. They move a little closer, and fold their wings against themselves. Hoping to help offer some clarity. Immediate dangers are the greatest concern. But as the air around them darkens, their Lady raises her staff again, and they halt.

"The cave is safe," they say, again. "For now. I can defend it. But... if my Lady knows somewhere else to go, I will take her. So long as it is safe."

~

For all that she does not want to take shelter in the cave, or any other small space that might be easy to trap her in, Aili can concede that she does not have any other ideas about places to make camp.

Going back to the tower is clearly not an option, the Templars there would kill her on sight. She is surprised at her own sense of loss at the situation. She had always meant to leave, of course, but she had a few friends there. Colleagues. Students. The institution of the Circle had been oppressive and terrible, but the people… They were the closest thing she has had to a family for the larger portion of her life.

She didn't even get to say goodbye.

Aili frowns down at her muddied boots for a moment, sucking her bloodied lip into her mouth.

"If… If I left," she begins slowly, shifting her gaze to watch them, looking for potential signs of danger in their body language, "If I tried to go somewhere else…would you follow me?"

"Yes, my Lady," the demon answers easily, "I will come with you and make certain that it is safe. If I do not go, my Lady might be injured. If the place my Lady wishes to go is not safe, we should not stay there."

Aili sighs. She had suspected as much.

"This person…this 'lady' that I remind you of…did you possess her?" she wonders, tightening her grip on her stave again.

The question seems to confuse them.

"Possess… Yes. We were possessed," it mumbles after a few minutes of thought, "The Lady possessed us, and we were hers. Yours. The body was a gift from…someone. But we gave the other parts willingly."

Aili makes a face at them. What they claim doesn't make any sense; mages can't possess spirits. Can they? Perhaps, it means that the lady bound them?

"This lady bound you in a body and you had to obey her commands?" she asks. "You were a person before?"

The demon's expression falters. Its form ripples. Shuddering and becoming more amorphous for a few moments in apparent distress.

"No… Never a person," it admits with something that almost seems like shame, "I came to the body when the other fled. Shattered. We were permitted to…pretend. To survive."

Aili swallows hard. She honestly can't make heads or tails of most of their story, but it seems to strike a chord within her all the same. She feels strangely…sorry for it.

"Is there any way I could convince you that I am not your 'lady'?" Aili asks finally, sounding as tired as she feels.

The demon tilts its head at her. It looks vaguely elfish now, which is almost more unsettling than its other shape, in a way.

"But you are my Lady," it tells her flatly.

"And you expect the two of us to just spend eternity camped out in this little cave?" she wonders.

"No, that would be unwise," it replies, "A secure nest is important, but if we stay in one place too long, the hunters will come, and it will not be safe."

Hunters… Her mind turns to the blood the Templars took from her after her Harrowing. Her phylactery. No matter where she goes, there will always be the risk of someone coming for her. After all the knights that were killed during her escape, they will be out for revenge.

"I…didn't exactly get a chance to pack for this trip," Aili points out, "I don't have any spare clothes or supplies. I haven't held a bow since I was six, and hunting with magic tends to end up with things sort of…exploded. Or so I have been led to understand."

"I can hunt," the demon says with an air of confidence, "I can keep my Lady safe."

Aili lets loose a gusty sigh. Resigned to her fate. For now.

"Do you have a name?"

~

The question gives them pause, again. They have been called many things - mostly the things that they are, or have been. Sympathy. Fear. Demon. Doll. Pet. Hunter. Abomination. Nightmare.

But these things are not names. They have had a name, and they think they can remember the shape of it. The sound of it. It was theirs for a very long time, though, not in terms of years. A long time in terms of forming themselves. They had forgotten the name for a time, but it had been waiting for them in the ruins of the body that was destroyed. In the memories they scavenged, written in defiance. I will endure. They are still here; the promise has wavered, but not broken.

"...Uth...vir," they manage. "Uthvir."

Their Lady blinks at them.

"...Your name is Uthvir?" she asks. She seems surprised.

"You do not have to use it," the Nightmare assures her. "If it displeases you. I am called other things. Nightmare. Terror. Fear. Demon. Monster. My Lady once called me..."

Vhenan

They do not say it, though. They feel a lurching moment of confusion, for surely their Lady never called them that. But also, She did, unquestionably. The Nightmare recedes, as their Lady watches them. They consider the situation again instead, shying away from the matters and the memories which they are struggling to parse. They will have to acquire things, to make certain their Lady is safe and well. Shelter and the nest are good, but bodies have needs that must be met. Food, warmth, weapons, books. Things of that nature. The Nightmare will have to acquire them, and if they cannot leave Her to do so, then She will have to come along.

So, rest must be had first.

"Uthvir sounds like an elven name," their Lady notes.

On her tongue, the syllables feel familiar. The Nightmare pauses, as an odd ripple passes through it. Uthvir.

They have not heard it spoken aloud in a very, very long time.

"It is elven," they admit.

Their Lady ventures a bare step closer.

"Did an elf give it to you?" She asks them.

"No," they say. Somehow, she feels dangerous, but not in the way of physical threats, or a looming strike. She is too bright and near, they think. Near to something that feels fragile, that could break with only a whisper. Something they are only tentatively grasping - something they are afraid will shatter, before they can fully understand it.

"Where did you get your name?" She presses.

"Myself."

"Do you speak elven?"

This question is easier. The Nightmare tilts its head, and realizes for the first time that they are not speaking elven. It had not consciously noted the shifting of languages. In the Fade, meaning is more important, and linguistics was never something it had felt inclined to take note of, before. Nor really even consider much of a subject. While there had been variations, there had only really been one prevalent language in the days before the Veil. Though it knew of others, eventually, and had managed to work the concept into its understanding, it had not stopped to truly consider all of the implications.

"I speak it," they confirm, discovering how to shift their voice back to the language they had first learned. And yet, cannot ever really recall learning.

Their Lady's expression turns towards one of startled happiness.

"That was elven!" she exclaims. "What did you say?"

"I said that I can speak it," they admit, switching back to common. For some reason, this makes their Lady let out a long breath, and close her eyes for a moment longer than a blink. She does not truly let down her guard, though. Which is good. They are still in the wilderness, though nothing dangerous is nearby now.

"I must make this place safe," the Nightmare asserts. It gestures towards the cave again, using four limbs and a wing for emphasis, even as it bows deferentially. "Please, my Lady, it will be safest in there. I will not go far. I will find you food." They can detect the persistent, low-grade fear of prey animals, near enough that they are within range of the cave. That will change, once they know the area is dangerous. They will have to take their Lady with them to venture out, past a certain point. But at least, for now, there will be sustenance, and safety.

"Please," they ask again.

They must keep her safe.

~

Aili glances over at the cave warily.

“You’re going to leave me in the cave…alone?” she wonders.

“I will not go far,” the demon promises, “I can put a barrier over the front of the entrance to ensure that nothing gets in.”

“It would also ensure that I could not get out,” Aili notes dryly.

“It is safe in the cave,” it blinks at her in confusion, “Why would my Lady need to get out?”

"Oh, I don't know, all sorts of reasons," Aili shrugs, "Fresh air, exercise… Maybe needing to go to the bathroom? Just to name a few."

The demon tilts its head at her and she sighs.

"I see humor is not something they teach people in the Fade," she huffs with a brief quirk of her lips, "Look…Uthivr…I am willing to…compromise. In this instance, anyway. I will go into the cave, like you want, but I will set the barriers, so I can get out if I want to."

"If…that is what my Lady wishes," Uthvir replies, sounding doubtful at the prospect.

"And my name is Aili, not 'my lady'," she asserts firmly, keeping a good amount of space between them as she edges her way just past the lip of the cavern entrance.

"…Aili," Uthvir repeats slowly, as though turning over the shape of her name in their mouth. It sends a strange trembling shiver down her spine. She clutches her staff tighter as they take a few steps closer to her. Looming. "My Lady Aili, please stay where it is safe. I will not be gone long."

So saying, they move farther back from the cave, and shift into some sort of monstrous black bird. They hover for a few moments, inspecting the area, and perhaps waiting to see if she will make another attempt to run. When she raises her barrier across the mouth of the cave, however, they seem to decide that it is safe enough to leave her to her own devices, and wheel around towards the surrounding trees.

She waits until they are out if sight before pulling her barrier down again.

Aili doubts she could make it very far if she made another run for it. She is still physically wrung out, and lost, and the demon seems to be capable of sensing her somehow. It is a notable list of detriments to her plans of escape.

But she also has no intention of standing around in a cold damp cave, of all places.

She wanders around the outside of what is potentially going to be her home for the next little while, checking around for any good hiding places in the crumbling ruins and large roots of old trees, in case her new 'friend' decides to turn mean, or she finds something worth secreting away. Perhaps she should make a private stockpile of rations, just to be prepared for when the opportunity to get away presents itself. It would probably help if she could remember a bit more about which varieties of plants were safe to eat.

Eventually, she starts gathering up twigs and branches to make a fire. She's not likely to have anything soft to sleep on tonight, so she might as well be warm if she can't be comfortable. Besides, she's not about to eat whatever wriggling thing they bring back for her without cooking it first.

The wood is damp, and it takes her a few tries to really get the fire going, and when it does, there is enough smoke to make her sputter and choke for five whole minutes. And yet, when it is finally done, and she can sit just inside the cave and be warmed by the heat of the fire she built herself, she feels…oddly proud of herself. Even if it is a bit…haphazard.

Aili curls into herself and lets her mind wander. Turning over the events of the previous night, and the day that had followed. She does not trust this demon. This Uthvir. Not by a long shot. But she can't quite shake the feeling that they don't want to harm her.

Whether or not they might harm her unintentionally is another matter entirely.

Still. If she can be clever and cautious, there is a potential for enormous intellectual gain to be had here. A demon fluent in ancient Elven! If only she could convince it to translate some of the texts that had been found scattered among the ruins of her people. Or better still, if she could get it to teach her how to read it. She has always felt that if she returned to her people, the Dalish, she should bring some sort of tribute. A token of her intentions and her loyalties, to prove that she had never forgotten them.

Her joints are stiff, and her muscles are sore, and she has not slept for a full night in so long. And the fire is warm, making her eyelids heavy. The light in the forest is fading. The wind whistling through branches, as though the trees are whispering to one another.

Stirring up old memories.

Halla out in their pen. The sails of aravels rustling in the breeze. A hunting horn. Her mother's hands, slender and callused, fletching arrows and humming to herself. The light scent of citrus and spices and leather. A warm kiss pressed into the curve of her neck.

…Uthvir.

~

Their Lady Aili needs food.

It has been a long time since they hunted for things of flesh. How much is enough? They do not remember. Their memories can offer feasts and halls. The food from the Circle kitchens, served in a long dining hall. The food on older tables. Vast spreads of venison and goat and rabbit, Beasts of Best Parts, and other foods, too. Not just hunting, but foraging as well. The Nightmare... Uthvir remembers this. When their name was theirs, and their duty at times was to fill tables. Their Lady must have feasts.

The forests are not as replete as they could be. It takes long and at first they catch only two nugs, but then they track and find a herd of wild goats. The one with the biggest horns they take, in a snap of talons and magic. A clean break to the neck, and a single bleat before silence. The rack of horns will look impressive, for their Lady. They shift forms and use black threads of themselves to tie up their kill, and remember more of the shape that walks with fresh prey carried on its shoulders. The scent of blood follows them.

But so does the heaviness of Waking. So does the scent of pine, and the curl of the wind. Leaves, and bark, and bushes. Wild trees. They find some berries, but they are only the kind that is good for birds. The bushes lead on towards others, however. Tangled shrubbery and trees, and near a clearing, closer - but still not close - to the dangerous flat farmlands, they spy fallen fruit on the ground. Worm-eaten, but only just. Uthvir looks up and sees several fruit still on the branches. Ripe.

Aili likes apples.

They... think?

Their hands hesitate for a moment. Something is whispering to them, memories and dream-things. Their Lady is calling for them - they have taken too long, she is impatient, perhaps. They reach with clawed, grasping limbs. Up into the tree, to where the fruit is. They pull down as many as seem fit, and then begin to make haste back to the sanctuary. The wind grows stronger as they speed through it. Their shape more formless, as they adjust, and try to hurry. Sprouting wings and scurrying legs, to climb over logs and flit across narrow animal trails. They move faster, sharper and more focused when they see the flickering of an unfamiliar light.

Enemies?!

Uthvir bursts into the clearing. Flames flicker, from a small space outside the cave.

Their Lady is lying down. Lying down and not in the cave, with no barriers. No protection. They call up shadows and seal away the whole clearing as best they can, tired and uncertain. Their catch is dropped. The flames flicker, and their Lady Aili curls up more tightly in on herself. But the movement permits them to calm, at least a little. She is still alive. They can hear her heartbeat, and her breaths. Warmth that is from her as well as from the flames.

Why fire? It draws attention... but, they remember. Banquet halls. Fires to prepare food.

Their Lady Aili fell asleep waiting for them. They took too long. Uthvir hesitates for another moment, unsure of what they should do now. The memories prod - prepare the kill. Keep Aili safe.

The cave is safer.

Uthvir moves to where their Lady is sleeping, and lifts her up into their grasp, to carry her there. A soft breath escapes her, and her arms wrap around them. It... reminds them. They have held her like this before. Their shape changes again, as it did when they were carrying their catch back to the clearing. An elf-like shape, the shape of the body they once had, solidifies. It is still imperfect, they think. But they cannot pinpoint the specifics; whether they have put sharpness or softness in the wrong places, whether they have too few or too many limbs. It suffices to carry their Lady Aili to the cave, but then they encounter a new problem.

Their Lady will not let go of their neck.

Uthvir attempts to put her down several times, but her grip is too thorough to break without disturbing her.

Safest is with me.

Perhaps their Lady is wise. The cave might be the safest location, but their grasp is still a more immediate refuge from danger. Uthvir carries her back out again, and gathers up their offerings, and brings it all back to the mouth of the cave. They set about cleaning their kills, extending new limbs to the task as they keep their arms around their Lady.

And, unbeknownst to them, they begin to hum.

~

Her dreams are washed in reds.

The dark auburn of her father's hair falling into his eyes as he bends down to inspect one of the halla's hooves. Brushing the stray curls away with the back of his hand as he speaks to the creature in a low steady voice. Sweat on his brow and dirt on his clothing. His face is harder to make out, but she can tell he is smiling. Content.

The leaves in the forest turning, as though the cool autumn air has ignited them into a great roaring fire around their clan's campsite. Her mother takes her hand and guides her through the twisting secret paths that only the hunters seem to see. Aili picks up the vivid leaves from where they have fallen, and brings them back to show her mother her treasures. Her mother's smile is a thin white curve, a sliver of waxing moon, as she takes the offerings in her hands. Turns them over carefully to show her the differences in their shapes. Telling her the names of the trees they came from. What uses their barks and roots might have. Which wood might be the best for crafting.

The scarlet robes of the senior enchanters. The emblems of flaming swords blazing on Templar armor. The red ripe apples hanging in the Circle's small garden.

And then there comes a figure swathed in bright crimsons. A warning, and a signature, of sorts. Small, but strong, she thinks. A contradiction of sharp and soft. Danger and safety. Love and violence. They are…very far away from her. Facing in another direction. Beyond reaching.

If she called out to them, would they turn? Would she see their face? Would she know them?

She distantly feels arms around her. Warmth and comfort. A familiar voice humming a familiar tune. It makes her ache, but it is a strange, pleasant sort of ache.

Her voice speaks words she does not understand. Something in her chest thrums briefly. A chord plucked by careful fingertips.

Vhenan?

The figure turns, but she finds herself blinded by a flash of golden light before she can see them. The vision breaks, and her body trembles. Dropped into a sudden darkness.

She can smell something burning. Flesh sizzling at contact with heat. Between her lungs. Along her wrists. Around the base of her neck. The taste of something metallic in her mouth.

The red of blood.

She feels warm and heavy. Drugged, perhaps. The arms that had been holding her are chains now. Pinning her in place so that no precious parts will be lost in her struggling. The blood must flow into the proper channels to fuel the magic needed. To serve, as she is meant to serve.

There are golden eyes. Cold and calculating. Picking her to pieces. Cutting and slicing and burrowing deep. Making and unmaking her over and over again for all of eternity.

The gaze shifts to other eyes in other rooms. Blue as a winter night. Icy and possessive. Furious.

You love me! You are mine. You were built for me. Every part of you is a celebration of my greatness. You love me and only me! Say it!

Hands move to her throat, grasping and clawing. Tightening the leash. Her vision blurs, and the world feels as though it is melting around her. Her whole body spasms, desperate for air.

She screams with all the strength left in her.

And wakes in the multitude of Uthvir's arms.

~

She wakes in violence.

The scream ripples through them, as does the flare of her magic. The lashing of limbs. Uthvir tenses and tries to react, to perceive the danger that they have missed, or the error that they have made. The fire spits and their Lady strikes them, pushing and struggling until they realize that it is their grip that she objects to. They let her go, and let their being flare backwards and out. Shape distorting as they fall into the fear of the moment, and can only tell that something dangerous is happening. The cook fire snuffs out, as they lift a barrier around the clearing.

Their Lady is moving. Running. What is chasing? They look for hunters, for predators. Danger, danger, no, no, no... something twists inside of them, and echoes through old, broken memories. Like a different sort of light, flaring before eyes that have not seen it in centuries. It hurts, in a way that no lashing nor spells so far have. It pulls at them from the inside and drags them down, as their Lady reaches the barrier and smacks her fists against it. The magic is sharp. It lashes back out.

For a moment, then, everything goes still as Aili is repelled through the air. As she hits the ground in a heap, with red on her hands.

Bleeding.

No.

Uthvir grasps her and pulls her, drags her into the cave, and ignores her struggles as they set a firm barrier before the entrance. Closing them both off into the darkness, and verifying the thrum of their Lady's pulse. They hold her until her struggles and her spells have stopped. Until the only sound they can hear is the ragged in and out of her breaths. The two of them, safe in the total darkness, as Uthvir's form aches from bruises and burns, and the scent of her blood grows no stronger.

When she has stopped moving, they grow another set of limbs, and begin to check her over. Feeling for damage. The skin of her hands is split, and she has bruises of her own. But only superficial. The fear in her is stronger than the pain. But they do not know what else to do for it; they have no safer place to take her, no better spells nor barriers to offer. They wrap themselves around her, and try to offer that shield, too. Yet, it only seems to make things worse. And after a time the fear breaks into sobs, and Aili's voice, shaken in the dark.

"Please, stop," she says. "Please, just let me go. I want to go home."

There is more to the words than just themselves. They ring deep, as Uthvir holds her. As they see caves and towers, the Circle and the darkness. Templars and demons. Chains, always chains, binding and constricting, holding fast against all strength. Too heavy to escape. Even when they are invisible. Cages of all kinds, and trapped, so trapped, I want to go home, Mamae, Papae, I want to go home please I'll be good I'll never wander off again I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to...

Understanding slots into place with all the fervency of their being. Fear. They know what she fears; they know why it is not working, now.

With a thought the barrier in front of the cave drops. Uthvir carries Aili out into the evening air again, as she cries, and then lowers her carefully down to the ground. If she runs, it will be dangerous. But they can follow. They will keep pace. It is the caging she fears; it is them, and that will not do. They are not chains. They did not mean to do this to her.

"I am sorry," they offer.

Aili sucks in several long breaths, and does not respond, at first.

After a moment, when they are sure she does not mean to immediately get up and run, they relight the campfire. No new dangers seem to have presented themselves, in the midst of their chaos. And the prevalence of fear in the air at least makes them strong, as they gather up their things again. The meat is not finished yet, but it is still on the spit that they managed to make. They consider Aili for a moment, and then scoop up some of the apples.

Very carefully, they extend a single limb, and set one onto the ground in front of her. It is too ripe, perhaps. But a moment more and their Lady's breaths have calmed. And then she reaches forwards, and carefully picks the offered fruit up. She does not wipe it off or bite it straight away. Her eyes stick to it, and though her unease does not suffuse the air, it feels as if it should.

"I am very tired," she says, at length. "I know you probably don't understand, but nightmares ruin my sleep. If you give me bad dreams, I won't get any rest, and I... I can't keep going without it."

Uthvir hesitates.

They do not want to refute her, but they have conjured no bad dreams for her.

On the other hand, they know how to prevent such things. They should have considered that; but it has been so long, and they had forgotten. Had not considered. The oversight is theirs - so perhaps it is still their fault, in that sense.

"No more bad dreams," they promise. They will safeguard her against them - as they should have done before.

~

Aili nearly begins crying again when they promise to let her sleep peacefully. It feels as though a millstone has been lifted from her shoulders. Potent, visceral relief. The Fade is never truly safe for mages, but at least she can be assured that nothing will be actively seeking to torment her dreams.    

"Thank you," she manages to scrape out, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Uthvir nods, and returns to their task of roasting whatever dead thing they have dragged back to the clearing. A goat or a sheep by the looks of it. And either a pair of nugs, or some very large rabbits.

Silence hangs between them for a time, as Aili observes them quietly, turning her apple over in her hands. She's covered in bruises and the scrapes across her palms still sting, but she doesn't have the energy to do much about it now. As she looks them over, she sees that Uthvir is not quite free of wounds themselves. Nothing serious, but still, it must be at least a little painful for them. And she caused it.

Aili sucks her bloodied lip back into her mouth, worrying it nervously. If they don't trust her, it will be likely be much harder to get away from them later on. She cannot really be held accountable for her reaction to a dream, especially not if they were the reason she was having it, but… The incident had seemed more like a misunderstanding than anything else. Perhaps Uthvir cannot help but cause bad dreams when they are near someone who is sleeping. It is their nature, after all.

She rolls the apple between her palms; thoughtful.

"I'm…sorry," she begins, not quite meeting their eyes, "I'm sorry I hurt you, I was just…afraid."

Uthvir tilts their head at her.

"I know," they reply, sounding a little nervous themselves, as though uncertain where this conversation might be heading, "My Lady Aili was afraid because I was careless and did not find the proper means of keeping you safe. You were right to punish me for it. I will do better in the future."

"N-no, that's not-" she stammers, shaking her head in a strong negative, "It was an accident! I wasn't trying to punish you, I just needed to get away from… From something. Someone. It…was not a happy dream."

"No more bad dreams," Uthvir reiterates. Aili nods in agreement.

"No more nightmares for me, and no more accidental singeing for you," she says, hesitantly extending a hand for them to take, "Sound like a fair deal?"

"Yes, my Lady," Uthvir agrees simply. They extend one long shadowy limb with something vaguely like a hand attached to the end. She does her best not to shudder when she takes it, but she does. She shakes it once and quickly lets them go.

She glances at the food they are cooking.

"You brought a lot back for just the two of us," she notes, trying for a more casual subject, "Do demons need to eat that much? I thought you subsisted on the energies of dreamers and weaker spirits. Although, I don't rightly know what a spirit thrives on when they aren't in the Fade anymore…"

The nightmare pauses, considering their meal.

"Is it too much?" they wonder after a moment, sounding unsure, "Do you not wish to eat, my Lady?"

"It's fine!" she assures them hastily, "I am very hungry, as it happens. I just… Well, I don't think I could manage to eat all of that on my own, that's all."

"You did not eat your apple," Uthvir points out slowly, "If that one is unsatisfactory, I brought others that might be more acceptable."

"Oh," Aili remarks eloquently, stopping to look down at the fruit in her hand, "I just forgot I had it, I guess. There's nothing wrong with this one though, really. I like apples."

"Your favorite," Uthvir hums, nodding once in agreement.

Aili blinks in surprise.

"…yes. They are."

Uthvir's form ripples slightly as they fix her with a look that she supposes is somewhat expectant, seeming oddly pleased with themselves.

She wipes off the apple on the cleanest corner her sleeve the that she can find, and takes a bite. It is a little soft, but the taste is still good. Sweet with just a hint of tartness.

She offers them a thin smile.

"Delicious."  

~

Lady Aili approves of the apples, which makes things much better.

Uthvir cooks their kills for her, as she finishes her apple, and then has another one, too. She seems dubious of the meat for a moment. Worried about the quality, which in turn makes them concerned that they may have prepared it incorrectly. They do not have seasonings, nor any sauces to serve it with. But roasting is good, they think? When Lady Aili ventures a bite, however, her worry ebbs. After a few moments she begins to eat ravenously, and then mentions thirst. Uthvir ventures far enough to find clean water, and brings it back to find their lady still devouring a haunch of goat. She glances at them uncertainly for a moment, before murmuring thanks at the drinking vessel they offer her. It is conjured. She examines it extensively before her thirst seems to override her interest in it, and then she drinks until there is no more left.

"Are you going to eat anything?" she asks them, afterwards. There is roasting grease on her face, and her voice and movements have grown more sluggish.

Uthvir considers.

They are supposed to eat with their Lady, they think. And they remember eating. But that was back when they had the body. The body has since been destroyed, and with it, the need for food. Except... they are in the Waking again, now. And there is something corporeal about them. The specifics elude them, but they can feel a change.

So... perhaps they should?

They leave the apples for Aili, because they are her favourites, and instead pick up a segment of goat. Meat and bones, juicy and burnt towards one end, where the heat had been uneven. They recollect eating, and what they witnessed from Lady Aili's own recent actions, and they make a mouth. Sharp teeth and an open maw splitting the void of their face. Lifting the bone and meat, they shove the entirety of it into the opening. It feels very heavy, and hot, and it crunches and cracks as their teeth gnash through it. Juices spill down something like a throat. Shards of bone settle in the approximate middle of their being, along with shredded meat. For a moment, they think that they have made a very bad decision. But then something in their being interacts with the food, and they feel it all begin to disintegrate.

As it does, the rest of them starts to feel just a little bit heavier, in turn.

That seems to keep in line with their memories. Somewhat.

Lady Aili's eyes are wide as she regards them, afterwards. There is a fixation in her that they can pick up on for several moments. Teeth and crunching and unease, but after a few moments it passes, and they do not follow it very well. A nebulous fear, perhaps. Those are very common, and often do not linger much beyond a single situation. They decide to do a sweep of the clearing again, just to be certain that things are safe. Lady Aili settles next to the fire, as they do.

By the time they have finished, she is asleep again.

Uthvir settles down next to her. Now, they must attend her - properly. As they should have done before. They rest a limb against her, and pull a barrier over the space around them. It is not so secure as the cave, but it will do. As Lady Aili's breaths fill up the silence, along with the steady crackling of the fire, they let some of themselves sink into her - and into the Dreaming, in turn. It is not possession. Nor is it a crossing of the Veil. It is only a pathway, through fear and a sleeping mind, and they would be easy to dislodge if she wished to be rid of them. But it is also the best way for them to call their minions on the other side of the Veil, and to ensure that her rest is undisturbed.

For their own part, it is a bit like dreaming, too.

Rooms with pelts and trophies, pieces of armour and weapons settled on racks by the walls. A wide bed and a private bath, and doors that lock and seal. Windows that can close out the world, so many safeties written in blood and rune and sigil, alarms and warnings and barriers. None will get in without permission, save one person, and if She comes then it will be warned of. Night has fallen. Moonlight is pooling on the floor, and the lamps glow softly. They sit at a desk. Papers and books around them. On the bed, Aili turns in her sleep, and lets out a sigh. She stretches her arms, and then pats the mattress next to herself.

"Vhenan?"

They move. Somehow they know she is calling for them, as they cross the room, and settle onto the bed beside her. The mattress dips. Aili turns again, and settles a hand onto them. Her eyes gleam in the moonlight.

"You're wearing armour, still," she murmurs. A glance down, and they see it is true. Hard coverings. Sharp spikes. They think that they are supposed to take it off - or at least some of it? - but they do not remember how. Aili does not seem to know, either. Her fingers fumble with latches and buckles for several minutes, trying to take off their gauntlets, and then moving to the more obvious prospect of their belt. But none of it will give way. She frowns a little, and then sighs at them.

"Not taking it off?" she asks.

"I forgot how," they admit.

"Hmm. Well, I guess we'll just have to manage," she says. And then she pulls them down to the bed. Lumping the blankets between them, and using a pillow to block off several spikes, until she can wrap her arms around them. Then she makes a sound of satisfaction. Uthvir brushes the points of their fingertips through some of her curls, and finds the arrangement pleasant. Warm. They linger in comfort until the light begins to shift, and the silver moonlight turns to a grey morning. As it does, the window grows larger. The bed beneath them becomes a grassy meadow, and the walls become a cluster of tree trunks, with long, sheltering branches.

They slip into the ground. Not horrifyingly; it just sort of happens. The grass folds around them, and they are still there. But they are no longer in Aili's arms. She looks around, puzzled for a moment. They worry over the unhappiness in her expression. There are no untoward spirits to chase off, however. And after a moment, her displeasure gives way to the dreaming, again. Her eyes land on some small flowers, growing in abundance around them. She begins to pick them, and starts weaving them together. Forming a crown, as she hums softly to herself.

By the time Lady Aili wakes, the flower crown is finished.

~

Aili wakes to the light of a new day to find that being well-fed and well-rested have worked wonders on her mood. She's a little stiff from sleeping on the ground, but the demon doesn't seem to have maimed or terrorized her at any point during the night, so it seems like a small grievance in the grand scheme of things. She can't remember the last time she saw a sunrise that wasn't through the barred windows of the tower.

Her situation is still a precarious one, to be sure, but the evidence seems to be mounting that her kidnapper has no plans for harming her. At least not immediately.

Uthvir is sitting close to her, but not so close as to be alarming, tending to their small fire with one set of limbs, while another puts the finishing touches on what seems to be some sort of floral wreath.

"Good morning," Aili greets them quietly, scooting a little closer to the fire in order to warm her hands. Her palms sting as she stretches her fingers, reminding her of her injuries from the evening before. She takes a moment to look them over before murmuring a healing spell and effectively seals the wounds shut.

While she is still looking downwards, she feels something settle lightly over her ears.

"Good morning, my Lady Aili," Uthvir returns, pulling their now empty hands away from her.

A quick brush of her fingers confirms that she has most definitely been adorned with the flower chain they had been working on earlier. It tickles a little, but there don't seem to be any thorns or bugs in it. It's strangely endearing, and she finds herself feeling more surprised than anything.

"You…made me a flower crown?" Aili wonders, adjusting it a bit so it sits a little further back on her head. "Why?"

Uthvir pauses, uncertain of what answer they should give perhaps.

"My lady dreamt of flowers, and I suppose…I thought you might want some when you awoke," they explain slowly, "I apologize if I presumed too much…"

"I'm not upset about the flowers," she assures them hastily, "Though looking in on my dreams is a bit…odd."

Uthvir blinks.

"But…my lady bade me to fend off bad dreams," they remind her hesitantly, "I cannot protect your sleep if I do not watch."

Aili sighs, she supposes that having them watch her dreams is better than having them meddle in them.

"Did you not sleep well, my Lady Aili?" they wonder.

"I did," she confesses, "Thank you for letting me rest."

"And…you are not displeased with the flowers?" they continue curiously.

"…No," Aili reassures them, smiling a little despite herself, "They're actually sort of…sweet. How do I look in my new fancy headdress?"

"My lady looks beautiful, as always," Uthvir replies easily, their form rippling slightly. In pleasure or amusement, it is difficult to say.

For her own part, Aili can't help but laugh, knowing full well that she's completely mussed and covered in mud and likely looks like she lost a fight with an especially crabby tree.  

"Well, then, you should have one, too," she decides, picking at a few scattered clover flowers and little daisies that happen to be blooming near her, "I haven't been good for much else out here."

"Lady Aili is skilled at many things," Uthvir states with a surprising amount of certainty, "It is best that I should hunt and gather. My lady should stay where it is most safe."

They begin cooking the nugs that did not get eaten the night before. She watches them silently for a while as she continues her task of braiding a multitude of tiny flowers together. Thinking over all that has happened.

"So…how long are we going to stay here?" Aili asks them.

"Until it is no longer safe to stay, my Lady," Uthvir hums in reply, picking up another one of the apples and moving it so that she can reach it easily, if she likes.

"And where will we go?" she presses, taking an absentminded bite out of the offered apple.

"Does my lady have a place she wishes to go?" Uthvir asks instead, turning slightly to look at her.

"Well…sort of," Aili hedges nervously, getting to her feet with her newly crafted flower crown in hand, "But I'm not sure how to get there."

"If it is safe, I will help my Lady Aili find where she wishes to be," Uthvir promises.

Aili reaches up on her tip toes trying to place the wreath of flowers over what she assumes must be their head. They are a little more firmly elf-shaped this morning, but it is still hard to tell. Uthvir bends slightly to accommodate her wishes, and she finally plops the garland around the vague shapes of their ears.

"I want to go back to my clan," she tells them quietly, "I want to go home."

~

Uthvir pauses, as Lady Aili explains that she wants to go home. Home is... what? It is not the Circle tower. It is a clan? They cannot fathom that concept, however. Clans are distant things. Stories and whispers, and dreams of their Lady's. Fogged over and old. Clans are old things. Home is an old thing, too, and for a moment they think of a dangerous place. A place full of hunters, and hiding, and fights. Always fights, to keep from becoming the weakest, to try to be the strongest and to serve their Lady.

"...Home?" they repeat, carefully. They know where the place is, in a sense. The palace. They know the parts of it that are in the Dreaming, and they think they could find it in the Waking World as well. Is the clan there? Are hunters there...?

It is far from here. They can tell that much.

"Yes, I want to go home," Lady Aili confirms, however, with a long sigh. She reaches up, and her fingers brush the flowers they have placed on her. Their own flowers feel heavy. But, pleasant, in a way. Like an anchoring weight. A gift, from Aili. They think they like gifts. To receive them and give them both. The flowers are a success, because that has happened in each case.

"I don't know where my clan is," their lady admits. "I was very young, when I got lost. Humans found me, and took me to the Circle. But I know I didn't travel that far. I didn't cross the sea. The wilderness is wide, but, if I could just find a campsite I could find... there are signs, sometimes. And the clans come back to the same places when it's safe to, because they have what we need. Even if no one was there, eventually, someone would come..."

Uthvir considers this.

"Does my Lady Aili's clan have Hunters?" they wonder.

They do not think they should take Lady Aili to the palace. It would not be safe.

Lady Aili blinks at them.

"Um... yes?" she says, as if she is not sure of the answer. Except that she seems to be. "Not like the Templars, though. They don't hunt mages. Or demons. They're just... like this kind of hunting." Moving her arm, she gestures towards what Uthvir has provided. "They hunt food and things for the clan. And they protect us, and sometimes find lost people. I'm sure some of them tried to find me, when I..."

Lady Aili swallows, and trails off. She stares into the fire.

Uthvir does, too, though they can see nothing particular within the flames.

"I will try to find the way," they offer. "But if they are too dangerous, then we will go."

Lady Aili looks surprised. She moves a little closer to them, and stares intently at their eyes. There are only two of them at the moment, so it is easy enough for her own pair to manage.

"You could find them?" she asks.

Uthvir inclines their head. They are a hunter. They find things, just as she described. And there are ways to find persons in the Dreaming, and in the Waking, too, though they are less versed in the latter state. With the Veil, it is much harder. But, not impossible, perhaps. They try to explain this. They are not certain that they do it correctly, as their Lady Aili seems hesitant over many things. She does not seem to know what they mean, when they speak of a palace, or the ways in which hunters and magic and old currents of belief can weave themselves together.

"There's a... palace in the Fade? Where you think you can find hunters?" she surmises, after several attempts.

Uthvir supposes that is the best explanation.

"It is a dangerous place," they say.

Lady Aili bites her lip.

"I couldn't ask you to go somewhere dangerous," she tells them. Then her brow furrows, and she taps one of her apples with the tip of her finger. "But if it's a place in the Fade, then there must be a correlating place on this side of the Veil? Right? What if we went there together?"

Uthvir shakes their head, and hisses in displeasure. Lady Aili pales, and the fire goes out.

"No," they say. "Much too dangerous."

"But-"

"No."

They cannot take her there. She will die. But if she commands them...

Lady Aili only raises her hands, however, in a gesture of placation.

"Alright, it was just a thought," she replies. "I guess we will have to find another way. If... you want to help me?"

Uthvir waits, to see if there is some trap or reprimand waiting to fall. But when Lady Aili only regards them for several minutes more, they tip themselves forward, in a bow of agreement.

"I will help, to find Lady Aili's home," they agree.

[witchofthesouls]

OH MY STARS! WE TOTALLY NEED SOME WRITING OF BIRB JACK WITH SOUNDWAVE. :000

More AU of a Cyber!Earth!Au with the Darbys directly under Soundwave’s care.

The being that was once June Darby was a dangerous creature.

That ferity hadn't disappeared once he managed to coax her out of that endless dream. Within her, old human sensibilities of civilian life and civilization warred with the new instincts that were capable of devouring everything in its path.

Nor had Soundwave wanted to suppress those instincts fully. To tame them. No; it would serve them both well among the Decepticons and the strange, new world they were navigating. They needed to simply nurture the bridge and guide the process. Ease it.

The inhibition collar had done little to quell the microtransformations as she armed the edges of her robes with serrations, masking it with a deceptive gentleness as the sparklings hid by her legs whenever one of the more foolish mechs attempted anything.

(If anyone was stupid enough to think that June Darby was any less dangerous in a femme root-mode. That the collar was enough after her rampage across the ship as she hunted after her stolen child. It was their own passage to the Unmaker.)

Her son, Jack, echoed it.

Optics blown wide with the white pupil mechanisms drowned out everything else, the sparkling's frame shifted and rippled between the metal of shadowed hull and his own physical body as he mimicked the crooning birds perched upon his shoulder.

Croaking and chattering. A mix between organic ruffling feathers with metal plates sliding and soft transformation seams. It was difficult to discern between the sparkling and the birds. Only the multiple optics popped out of the seamless blend.

In the gleam of those dark, shiny optics, Soundwave saw the reflection of that strange robed figure.

Jack's mouth moved, but it wasn't words, just a spill of noise. Not even birdsong or a close mimicry. A mix of pattering rain, distant rolling thunder, and a gentle breeze through swaying branches.

The boy met his visor and seared into his mind was yellow robes standing within a clearing where many of the mining operations had disappeared. Something writhing behind them, dissected limbs with peeled musculature and fuel lines neatly entwined with one of the metal trees.

Soundwave quietly filed away the abomination that was Silas. Breakdown's paintjob, no matter the degradation, was a custom one by Knock Out's hands.

The spymaster kneeled down. He ignored the hissing birds as they ruffled up. What mattered was Jack's reaction, and Soundwave had poured so much work into ensuring his charge was comfortable in his presence. A careful prod to allow their EM fields to overlap. Jack didn't pull away as Soundwave anchored into his space, circling the sharp, bizarre notes as the birds became more distressed.

Jack's main attention was pinned to the distant figure calling for him (and his mother), but a small part still focused on Soundwave.

"Jack." Soundwave played out the haunting recording of June's many-layered voices of her monstrous alt-mode. "Jack. Jack. Jack. Where are you?"

The sparkling finally blinked. Connection severing. That grey-blue hue returned as he tentatively stepped into Soundwave's reach. He ignored the shrill squawking and crash of teeth and data-cables as Soundwave crushed the blackbirds and their foreign influence as Jack curled into his hold. Like a puppet with severed strings.

Luminosity hissed from the corner before barreling over, clambering across Soundwave's back-plating as she pushed her own quelling danger senses into them. She spoke in rapid squeaks and chirps, punctuated with hard flaps of her wingspan as Jack pressed himself deeper into Soundwave's hug. His mind jumbled in strange breaks as Jack attempted to reorder himself, and Soundwave gently reinforced the lowered mental defenses, sweeping away the scent of ashes and the boiling-freezing imprints.

Of course, the birds weren't real. Even with his speed and the sensation of crushing them, Soundwave felt only the walls of the ship.

[portalhan]

──⠀۪ ♡ ۫ 23 : 21 ୨୧ ( hyunjin )

pairing: ghoul!hyunjin x gn!reader

synopsis: you begrudgingly attend a halloween party your best friend, chan, is hosting, and cross paths with a mysteriously beautiful stranger.

format: timestamp

themes: fluff, halloween things, supernatural au

warnings: ghooouls

word count: 1.5k

fae's notes: spooky season is upon us!!! it's my favourite holiday so i'm so excited. starting to write halloween themed drabbles and timestamps for the following week, please stay tuned! this is my first time writing a fantasy au fic, let me know how i did ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

it's the halloween weekend, and you have somehow found yourself in the middle of a college house party for the holiday. you've been shifting around chan's lake house for about 30 minutes now, dressed in an incredibly uncomfortable costume of an ambiguous fairy that he basically forced you to get last minute for said party. "c'mon, you're my best friend. do this one thing for me? please?" chan whined the day before. he was being way too annoying and embarrassing for you to refuse – you knew he would probably continue to whine till you agreed, anyway.

the place was the picture of your typical frat party, except chan isn't a frat boy. cheap halloween decor hung from the walls, spook-themed disposable cutlery littered every surface you could see, hoards of sexy nurses and pirates roamed the halls everywhere you looked. chan being the host, he wasn't exactly able to stick by you the entire night, plus he did want you to meet new friends and expand your social circle beyond just him, jisung and seungmin – who weren't even at the party because they were "busy" – so you agreed to wander around on your own for a while as he welcomed other partygoers and socialised with guests.

after maybe half an hour of idle wandering, engaging in small talk with acquaintances in dark corners and sneaking to the snack bar to steal more chips, you decided to take a break from the chaos of a night time party and retreat to one of the random guest rooms on the second floor. this was actually the first time you've been to the bang family's lake house – they vacation here at least twice a year, but it's usually reserved for family time. since chan's parents are out of town to visit relatives this weekend, chan decided to take full advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and host an extravagant party for all his friends (and their friends, and their friends of friends).

you didn't turn the lights on once you entered said room, because your eyes were so accustomed to the dinginess of the party. so you just plopped yourself on the bed and took a sip of your drink in silence. you looked out the window and take in the view: it was a full moon tonight, you note, and the way the moonlight reflected on the ripples of the lake was beautiful.

after a brief moment of admiring the scenery, you suddenly felt the mattress on your other side sink, as though someone had just taken a seat next to you on the bed. your heart nearly burst out of your chest from the sudden movement – you were sure the room was empty when you came in. unless someone entered while you were preoccupied with the view outside?

you quickly spin your head to your side, only to be greeted by a guy you don't recognise. you gave him a very quick scan: the first thing you noticed about him was his shoulder-length jet black hair, luscious and shiny; locks of hair falling over his eyes; glowing, porcelain skin (he is really pale, but you write it off as the gleam of the moonlight illuminating his face), rosy lips and sharp yet gentle eyes; a simple white peasant blouse; neck and fingers adorned with vintage jewellery while his ears had simple jade earrings hanging off the lobes. he was actually really pretty, maybe even the prettiest person you have ever laid eyes on.

he notices you looking right at him. his eyebrows raise and eyes widen before he begins blinking rapidly, facial features morphing to form an expression of shock, almost. you were puzzled to say the least – why would he be shocked if you were sitting here this whole time?

"sorry, i didn't see you before i sat down," the mysterious guy mutters at a volume almost indiscernable. "i can leave if you want."

for some reason – maybe it was because of how pretty he is – you didn't mind him that much. "no, it's okay, you can stay if you want," you blurt out before your brain could process it, quickly looking down at your feet as you begin swinging them back and forth, as a means of avoiding eye contact. "i-i'm y/n," you splutter, shooting your head back up to sneak another peek. you immediately beat yourself up in your head for saying that; why the hell did you stutter like that?

a brief pause hung in the air before you heard him speak again. was he hesitating? "my name is hyunjin."

"nice to meet you, hyunjin."

the two of you just kind of sat there in more silence, under the moonlight, while you twiddled and fidgeted with your thumbs. then he suddenly spoke up. "i hope you don't mind me being candid," he says, voice slightly louder now. "but your dress and wings are really pretty. are you supposed to be a fairy?"

your ears heat up upon the compliment. "thank you," you mumble. "yeah, i guess i am. obviously a fake one though." now why the hell did you say that? obviously he knows you're not a real fairy – you're at the same halloween party, after all. hyunjin chuckles softly, and it might be the loveliest sound you've heard all night.

"i never would have guessed if you didn't tell me. you look like a real fairy," he gushes. you thank god for the relative darkness right now, because hyunjin would have absolutely been able to see the redness colouring your cheeks. you laugh to yourself a little bit, before calling him a flat-out liar. "these wings are so plasticky," you point out to him, reaching behind you to shake the material. "no fairy would ever have second-rate wings."

"i wasn't talking about your wings, silly," hyunjin giggles. "i was talking about you."

"that's not fair, we just met like two minutes ago."

"and it's been a resplendent two minutes."

the two of you just continued to just idly chat about whatever — from how the moon looks tonight, how impartial you are about halloween ("i've always hated the colour orange," you tell him, much to hyunjin's amusement), to what hyunjin's costume was (he asked you to guess, and you concluded it was howl, although not entirely accurate). it felt like your conversation went on for forever, yet somehow there still wasn't enough time for the two of you.

"i really like talking to you," hyunjin tells you earnestly at some point in your conversation, eyes never breaking contact with yours. you were sitting a little too close to each other now, the soft, brief brush of his hand against yours felt like a soft gush of wind. you could almost feel his breath on your cheeks from how close his face was to yours. "i haven't conversed with someone else like this in a long time." you look at him in pure disbelief; no way this gorgeous, sweet man hasn't talked to someone else in a while? "thank you for showing me i'm still capable of feeling these emotions."

you didn't know how to respond, so all you really did was gaze back at him. you clear your throat after a while, before breaking your gaze to fumble around your pockets for your phone. "can we keep in touch? i'd love to be friends, maybe hang out for some coffee sometime. could i grab your number?"

"i-i don't have that."

"you don't have a phone?"

"no."

that's weird, you think. just as you begin to part your lips to ask why that is, you hear chan's voice calling out for you from the hallway. you pause, look towards the door and sigh. "give me a second, i'll be right back. my friend's calling for me," you tell him in haste, before waving goodbye and rushing out the door to find your friend. hyunjin just gives you a quiet, almost bittersweet smile as he waves back.

you spot chan – who was dressed as prince charming from shrek – halfway up the stairs and called for him. "where have you been? i just wanted to introduce you to some of my friends from college, if you don't mind," chan yells over the throbbing techno music and chatter. you nod in agreement, although you tell him you want to introduce him to hyunjin first. chan is a bit confused about who hyunjin was, he supposes he was someone's plus one he didn't know about or something. you grab his arm and drag him towards the guest room.

"hyunjin! mee-"

then, the strangest thing occurred. the moment you stuck your head through the gap of the door, hyunjin was nowhere to be seen. you begin calling out for him and checking every corner of the room and the adjacent rooms but to no avail, as chan stands by the side, face visibly even more confused than before. he was sure there wasn't a hyunjin at his party tonight, he would have greeted and briefly talked to him if there was. but he instead chooses to keep his silence and watch you as you frantically search for him.

you flit your gaze back to the bed where you last sat — you could clearly see the dent your butt had left on the bed from sitting there for so long, but there wasn't anything where hyunjin was sitting. you could feel your heart drop as you stood frozen, eyes never leaving that specific spot on the bed. you gulp silently after a while, before turning to chan with what can only be described as an expression of panic and slight horror adorning your face.

"let's get out of here."

[gakriele-lvs-blog]

What if Camila didn't go looking for Luz to personally take her to camp at the beginning of the series? (AU idea #1)

As a consequence of Camila's decision, Vee wouldn't be taking Luz's appearance because she didn't have to immediately disguise herself to fool any other human. Now realizing she is in an entirely different dimension, Vee's focus would be in laying low, conserving her magic, observing the world, and learning from the people from the shadows

Meanwhile, Camila's life would go as normal, from buying groceries to working at the clinic, distracted by her own thoughts, questioning herself if she took the right decision for Luz. After a little over a week of Luz leaving to camp, rumors would begin to circle, which eventually became reports from all around town: from broken vending machines, to vandalized garbage cans, to stolen clothes. And while the rest of town believes that some delinquents are just having way too much fun. Camila would start to notice a pattern, leading her to the conclusion that whoever was doing this, was close to her house.

Allow me to present to you a summarized possible first chapter:

One night, while arriving home late after dusk. Camila slowly realizes something was missing. One of her jackets, the very same one she left to dry outside this morning was gone. And just before anger and frustration started to dominate her, she notices a trace, a very subtle set of small bare footprints in the still-wet dirt, and they were leading to the forest.

Although at first hesitating, Camila was determined to find out who was behind this, she equipped herself with Luz's metal bat and a flashlight, deciding to follow the path that eventually led her to the entrance of the old shack. Hearing movement inside, she braced herself to find a dangerous and potentially drunk homeless person wielding a broken bottle as a weapon. But instead, she finds a random sleeping child wearing not only her jacket but at least another four, with a half-eaten candy bar in hand, showing signs of hypothermia and malnutrition.

After gasping in horror, Camila's first thought was to bring the kid inside her house. She did consider taking them to the hospital but quickly decided that the kid needed help immediately.

Her first decision was to search for any recent injuries, but as she made direct contact with the kid's skin, they immediately start trashing around trying to break free from Camila's hold, resulting in the kid biting her hand, with a mouth crammed with a least six rows of razor-sharp fangs. Not letting the injury distract her, Camila tries to calm down the child, whose focus was solely on attempting to escape the house, forcefully trying to open the doors and windows with no success.

When the kid got themselves cornered inside the kitchen, Camila got the chance to properly see the kid's body, which was now illuminated by the kitchen's light. White spots covered some portions of their exposed body, their hands and feet exhibiting black claws, and shiny, yellow eyes which somehow were brighter that the artificial light of the room. But when Camila's focus properly returned to their faces, she realized they were now brandishing one of the kitchen's knives, looking directly at her, wearing incalculable fear and courage in their face, borderline hyperventilating, and trembling as if they were soaked head to toe with frozen water. But what truly woke up Camila from her trance was the kid's first words: "I-I will not go back!"

Wasn't expecting this one to be this large and so filled with angst. But hey, that is the power of inspiration for you.