#square filled: Walk the Plank

[moonsandmobilityaids]

The Fall

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You have a fall. It doesn't go over well. Warnings: Angry James and Sirius, I guess Series Masterlist

James is sitting by the fire in your room, engrossed in a book. The warm light from the flames dances across his face, casting flickering shadows that emphasise the intensity of his focus. He's completely absorbed, oblivious to anything but the words before him. The soft crackle and pop of burning wood fills the air, adding to the peaceful atmosphere.

You're by the window, looking out at the darkened grounds of Hogwarts. The ache in your legs is familiar, like an old friend you'd rather not have. But tonight, it seems more insistent than usual, a demanding presence that refuses to be ignored. You know better than to push yourself, especially with James here. But the stubborn part of you—the part that has always refused to accept limitations—decides to walk from the window to your bed. It's a routine task, one you've done countless times before, and always managed on your own.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the table for support as you push yourself up. For a moment, you sway slightly, your balance uncertain. But then you find your footing and begin to move, one slow step at a time. Each footfall sends a jolt through your body, making your muscles scream in protest. You grit your teeth against the pain, determined to make it to your destination without assistance.

The distance between the window and the bed feels longer than ever, but you're halfway there when your foot catches on something—a rug, perhaps, or maybe just air. Whatever it is, your heart lurches as you feel yourself falling.

The impact is jarring, a sharp reminder of the gravity you so often like to ignore. You hit the ground with a thud that echoes through the room and into your bones. Pain radiates from your hip where it met the unforgiving floor. You suck in a breath, trying to steady the world that spins around you.

The fall isn't the worst you've experienced—not by far—but there's something different about this one. It's not just the physical discomfort; it's the humiliation, the sting of failure amplified by the knowledge that James was watching. Your face burns hotter than any pain could cause as you press your cheek against the cool wood floor, wishing for once that you could simply disappear.

"Y/N!" James' voice cuts through the haze of pain and embarrassment. The book he'd been reading lies forgotten, pages curling slightly in the heat of the fire. He's on his feet now, every line of his body rigid with tension.

You don't need to see him to know how he's standing—shoulders squared, fists clenched at his sides. It's a posture you recognise, but it feels out of place without a wand pointed threateningly ahead or a quaffle tucked under an arm. This is the stance of someone ready for a fight, yet here he is, trapped in a war with no clear enemy.

James takes a step toward you, then stops. His hands hover uncertainly in the air, caught between the instinct to help and the understanding that your independence is sacred ground. But even from your position on the floor, you can see the anger simmering beneath his concern—the same anger that flashes behind his eyes whenever Snape crosses a line or when rules stand in the way of what's right.

With effort, you push yourself up onto your elbows, ignoring the flare of pain that shoots through your side. "I'm fine," you say, more to reassure yourself than him. Your words are muffled against the wooden planks, barely audible above the crackling fire.

But James hears them, and though his hand retreats, his gaze doesn't waver. "No, Y/N, you're not." His voice is low, almost dangerous—a tone you've only heard directed at those who dare threaten his friends.

"Look at you!" James explodes, his words sharp and accusing. "You could've hurt yourself even worse—or what if you'd hit your head? You're so bloody reckless sometimes, Y/N."

His anger is a living thing in the room, crackling like the fire that casts long shadows across his face. But instead of shrinking away from it, you meet it head-on, rising to your knees despite the protest of your body.

"This is my life, James," you retort, voice hoarse but steady. "It's been this way for my entire life. I know how to handle myself."

"Do you?" He challenges, stepping closer now, close enough that you can see the storm raging behind his eyes. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't look like it."

"Exactly! From where you're standing!" you shoot back, the words bitter on your tongue. "You don't know what it's like to be me, James. You don't understand."

He falters, just for a moment, but it's enough for you to push yourself up further until you're sitting with your back against the bed. Your body screams in protest, but you ignore it, focusing instead on the boy towering over you.

"You're right," he admits after a beat, his voice softer now, less accusatory. "I don't know what it's like. But I do know that every time I see you walking around, risking another fall...it scares the hell out of me, Y/N."

The admission hangs heavy between you, a confession wrapped in layers of worry and frustration. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots as if trying to pull the words back inside him. But they're out there now, exposed to the flickering light of the fire and the scrutiny of your gaze.

"I can't help but think about what could happen," he continues, his voice barely above a whisper now. His eyes meet yours again, searching for understanding, for forgiveness maybe. "What if next time you're not so lucky? What if..."

But you cut him off before he can finish, unwilling to entertain the possibilities that haunt him. "There's always a 'what if', James." Your tone is sharp, defensive. "Every single day, I have to make decisions based on my physical strength and capabilities. Do I risk taking the dangerous shortcuts or go the long way round? Do I try to reach something on a high shelf or ask for help? Every choice has consequences, and yes, sometimes those consequences mean falling."

James opens his mouth to argue, but you hold up a hand, stopping him mid-sentence. "But here's the thing you don't seem to get: Those choices are mine to make. Not yours, not anyone else's. Mine. And if walking—despite the risk—is something I choose to do, then that's my decision."

The door creaks open, and Remus and Sirius step into the room, their expressions wary. The tension between you and James is a tangible thing now, thick enough to choke on. They exchange glances, taking in the scene before them—James's clenched fists, your defiant posture.

"Did we... miss something?" Sirius asks, his voice cautious as he closes the door behind him.

Remus doesn't speak, but his eyes flicker from you to James, tracing the invisible line of conflict that stretches taut between you two. He's always been attuned to the emotions of others, an empathy born from years of dealing with pain and isolation. And right now, that empathy makes him acutely aware of the storm brewing in this small space.

"Y/N fell," James says through gritted teeth, not bothering to mask the anger simmering just beneath the surface.

"I see." Remus's response is measured, his gaze steady on yours. There's understanding there, mingled with concern. But unlike James, he doesn't rush to judgment or admonishments. Instead, he takes a moment, collecting his thoughts before speaking again. "And how are you feeling, love?"

You glance at him, surprised by the calmness of his question amidst the chaos. It's a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters, and you grab onto it gratefully. "Sore," you admit, shifting slightly against the bed. "But I'll be fine."

Remus nods, turning his attention back to James. "I get why you're worried," he begins, his voice low and soothing—a stark contrast to the tension still crackling in the air. "We've all seen Y/N struggle, and it's hard not to want to wrap her up in cotton wool."

"But..." Remus continues, holding up a hand when James starts to protest. "That's not what she needs. Or wants, for that matter. Right, Y/N?"

Your lips curve into a small, grateful smile, and you nod. "Right."

There's silence then, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the distant hum of conversation from elsewhere in the house. You can feel James's gaze on you, heavy and unyielding. But for now, at least, the storm seems to have passed.

"Look, James," Remus sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I know it's hard to watch someone you care about take risks, especially when they could get hurt. Merlin knows, we've all had our fair share of scares with each other."

He pauses, searching for the right words. "But part of caring about someone is trusting them to make their own decisions, even if you don't agree with them. Even if they scare you."

"Trust?" Sirius scoffs, his grey eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. "That's a fine idea, Moony, but it doesn't change the fact that it's reckless."

The animosity radiating off him is almost palpable as he steps closer to you, his tall frame casting a shadow over your huddled form.

"What the hell were you thinking, Y/N?" His voice is low, laced with an anger that mirrors James's earlier outburst. It's rare to see Sirius Black lose control like this, but when he does, it's a sight to behold—and not in a good way.

"You could've seriously hurt yourself," he continues, ignoring the shocked look from Remus. "And for what? To prove some bloody point?"

His words hit you like a physical blow, each one more painful than the last. The room spins around you, the familiar faces of your partners blurring together as tears well up in your eyes. But you blink them back, refusing to let them fall. You won't give them the satisfaction—not now, not ever.

"I was just trying to walk, Sirius," you spit out, your voice trembling with suppressed fury. "Something I've done every day of my life since I was a toddler. Excuse me if I didn't think it was such a big deal."

"But it is a big deal, Y/N!" James snaps back. Sirius has worked him into a frenzy, and you can see the worry etched into the lines of his face, transforming his usually jovial features into a mask of anxiety. "It's a big deal because you could've broken something or worse! Doesn't that mean anything to you? Don't we mean anything to you?"

His words hang in the air, heavy with accusation and hurt. And for a moment, all you can do is stare at him, stunned into silence by the intensity of his anger.

"Yes, you mean something to me, James," you finally manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Of course you do. All of you do. But that doesn't give you the right to control my life. To decide what risks are worth taking for me."

There's a pause then, so brief you almost miss it. But it's there—a flicker of doubt crossing James's face before it's quickly replaced by a hardened resolve.

“We’re not trying to control you,” Sirius interjects, his tone sharp like a blade. “We’re trying to keep you safe!”

"Safe?" Your laugh is hollow, empty of any real humour. "I've been keeping myself safe for years."

Sirius crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. There's a tense pause as he seems to weigh your words, and then he exhales sharply—a sign that he isn't quite ready to let this go.

"Come on, Y/N," he says, extending a hand towards you. "Let me help you up."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended, fuelled by a mix of pain and frustration. "I don't need your help."

But Sirius doesn't listen. He steps forward, his hands firm and steady as they slide under your shoulders, lifting you off the floor with ease. You protest, but it's in vain—his grip is unyielding, and within seconds, you're sitting upright on the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side.

"How fucking dare you?" you seethe, once you're sure your voice won't betray the tremors running through your body. "I told you I didn't need your help."

"But you did," Sirius argues, holding your gaze. His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light, and there's something hard in them—a defiance that matches your own.

"I didn't!" You push him away, ignoring the twinge of pain that shoots up your spine. "You never listen, do you? Both of you!"

Your glares sweep across James and Sirius, landing on each man like a physical blow. They flinch, but neither looks away—instead, they hold your gaze, their expressions a mirror of the hurt and confusion etched onto your own face.

"Enough!" Remus's voice cuts through the tension like a knife, and for a moment, everyone falls silent. The anger lingers in the air, though, thick and suffocating, as if it has taken on a life of its own

[undercoveravenger]

The Haunted House

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Male!Reader:

Requested: Yes

Request: “getting dared to go into the shrieking shack on Halloween (wow, a full moon on Halloween? How weird...) and finding a big scary werewolf waiting for you. Except he's really not all that scary, he just won't let you leave because Remus really likes you and his wolf form can't quite say that, just wants to keep you there.”

A/N: This is post number 4 for the 2023 Spooky Month event. Y’alls trick or treat is coming next Tuesday, October 31st. Hope you’re ready.

-----

The Shrieking Shack had well earned its name throughout the years you’d been at Hogwarts, with guttural screams and groans echoing from it each month around the time of the full moon. You’d heard dozens of different stories- ghosts, ghouls, poltergeists like Peeves. Someone from your Transfiguration class even thought it was some long-abandoned merfolk in a tank that’d grown too small.

Whatever it was though, you were going to find out.  The lot of you had had to sneak out of your commonrooms and were nearly caught by patrolling professors or prefects a couple times, but now here you are with your friends crowding around behind you clamoring encouragingly, you stand just past the fence separating the Shrieking Shack from the rest of Hogsmeade. The full moon looms ominously just over the ramshackle eaves of the decrepit building, providing just enough light for you to pick your way through the snowy yard and up to the front door.

A mumbled spell is enough to break away the locks and rotting boards holding the door closed and you’re able to force it open the rest of the way with a forceful shove. You only allow yourself one fleeting glance over your shoulder at your friends before making your way into the house and closing the door behind you, resolved to completing your friends’ dare and staying the night in the haunted house.

The floorboards creak with every step you take, wavering slightly under your shoes as your weight puts pressure on long-damaged planks as you make your way deeper into the house, each room revealing deep gashes carved into the walls and floors. Tattered strips of fabric from what might have been blankets or clothes are strewn about, stained a dark rust color in places from what you can only assume is blood. Some rooms even have shards of what would have once been furniture, a splintered chunk of wood that may have once been the arm of a couch tossed thoughtlessly against one wall of a ruined living room and the stuffing from a gutted chair cushion decorating an old bedroom, but no matter how many torn apart rooms you explore, you aren’t been able to find the source of the screams.

It finds you.

You’d wandered into what you think was once-upon-a-time a study, an ancient oak desk sitting on two broken legs in the middle of the room and its chair upturned nearby. The contents of the desk had proven uninteresting by the time you’d dug through the second desk drawer and you’ve gotten to the point of boredom that you’re considering just leaving altogether when you see it standing in the doorway. You’re not sure how long it had been watching you, but it stands, still as a shadow, with pitch dark eyes locked squarely on you.

You can see the beast’s raised hackles over the top of its head, lowered so it can fix you with a brutal stare, and a growl so low it rumbles through you like thunder fills the room as it takes a looming step closer. As it creeps forward, a brush of moonlight from the cracked window pane behind you catches it, giving you just enough light to make out further details of the creature.

At first glance, you might’ve thought it was just a wolf, but the longer you look the more your situation begins to sink in. The creature before you was nearly double the size of any wolf you’d ever heard of, back easily brushing the doorknob as it stalks into the room. Its legs are long and its paws splay when it walks like they’re not quite right, but the real telling point are its eyes. It doesn’t look away from you as it approaches, not even for a second, weaving through discarded furniture and debris like it was second nature until it stands just on the other side of the desk from you. It doesn’t look like it’s questioning whether you’re a threat like any other wild animal would, and the growl has started to subside now that it’s gotten a good look at you. The look in its eyes, while certainly somewhat wild, is too human to be anything else.

You’re not quite sure what to do at this point, not with a massive werewolf between you and the door, but being in a werewolf’s den during the full moon certainly can’t be a good idea. With that in mind you begin to move, edging slowly around the corner of the desk in order to not spook the wolf, already surprised by its calm demeanor and unwilling to test its good graces. The wolf allows you to pass by it and slip from the room, though you can hear the heavy footfalls of its paws as it follows you. You move back toward the front door, intent on leaving the same way you’d come, but you’re stopped by the massive wolf letting out another thunderous growl and shoving its way between you and the door. It bullies you on with more furious growls and pointed nips to your heels and hands, further into the house and up a narrow back staircase into a near demolished bedroom.

You obey when it gives you a pointed glare, settling down against the wall opposite the door. A satisfied huff escapes the wolf and it pads after you, flopping carelessly down to lay beside you and resting its large head heavily on your lap. The reason behind the werewolf’s behavior was confusing, certainly, but werewolves had been known to be territorial and prone to violence from what you’d heard, so if sitting here for a few hours while you waited for the wolf to shift back meant it’d keep you safe, then that was a small price to pay. 

-----

It’s not the watery morning light that wakes you, but the shift against you. The aching, tortured gasp of pain that escapes as the person curled against you moves. The sound has you on high alert straightening against your back’s own cry of pain from sleeping sitting up all night, eyes blinking open blearily and finding the now-human werewolf trying to shift away from you.

It takes you a moment to recognize him without his signature posse of idiots and the bright red Gryffindor robes, but you are able to place the jagged pink scars across his face and his curly brown hair from some of your shared classes - Remus Lupin. 

“Remus?” His name escapes you before you can stop yourself from speaking and you can see the way the tension takes root in him, joints and muscles coiling under his skin like he was preparing himself to run from some threat.

He seems to have to force himself to settle before he can speak, dark chocolate eyes examining you thoroughly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? When I was-” He cuts himself off with a clear of his throat, eyes dropping back to his lap. He must’ve managed to track down his clothes from before he’d shifted since he was using them to cover himself. “I can’t really remember anything when I’m… like that.”

“No,” you say, and you can see the relief wash over him, tension easing in his shoulders and he no longer looks like he is going to accidentally shred his jumper. “No, you, uh, well you brought me here and then decided it was a proper time for a cuddle apparently.” You try to force a laugh, though the situation is certainly still awkward, “I thought that werewolves were s’posed to be scary, y’know? Think you’re just a were-lapdog instead?” 

A startled laugh slips out of Remus and he looks almost as stunned by it as by your words, “I- I don’t know. This is kind of a new reaction? I’m, uh, I’m usually not so nice when I’m not myself.”

“Huh,” you say, more curious than ever about the wolf’s odd behavior, “I wonder why you were acting like that then? It didn’t really seem to be aggression, even when you growled at me - more like herding behavior like my uncle’s collie.”

Remus flushes at that. This close you can see the dozens of tiny freckles that scattered over his cheeks and down his jaw and neck. “I… have a theory,” he says quietly, like he almost can’t bring himself to say it. His gaze drops back to the bundle of cloth in your hands and you almost wonder if he would’ve tried to sneak out before you had woken up. You wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. “I think it’s some sort of passively shared consciousness? I can’t really connect to it at all, but maybe it can get a sense of my feelings? Like if I strongly disliked someone, it would probably act accordingly, and if I liked someone…” Remus trails off at that, flushing impossibly redder.

An amused little snort escapes you then and you lean forward, supporting yourself with your arms as you push yourself into his field of vision. “Is this you saying you like me, Remus?” You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you at the way you can already see him scrambling for a response, but you lean forward to press a light kiss to his cheek before he can find the words. “Cute,” you say, grinning as you watch the realization hit him. “Sit with me at breakfast?”

He nods slowly as he wraps his mind around your words, eventually letting you help him to his feet and back into his clothes. The two of you eventually make your way back to Hogwarts through the secret passage under the Whomping Willow that he shows you, taking breaks when he needs them and trading banter and kisses all the way.

And while your friends were curious about the shy Gryffindor sitting beside you at breakfast with his hand curled tight with yours, none of them questioned what really happened to you during your night in the haunted house.

[fungal-rot]

Something In The Orange

‘To you, I’m just a man. To me, you’re all I am, where the hell am I supposed to go?’

pairing: joel x reader

summary: joel has finally managed to push you away. his past continues to follow him.

warnings: ANGST (no comfort), DARK THEMES (implied SA attempt- from other people, not Joel- hint of dark!Joel), allusions to smut (just a memory, not really descriptive), joel drinks alcohol to cope, no description of reader. please let me know if i forgot anything!

w.c.: 1.5k

⁺˚°｡⋆♱✮˖☽𓋼𓍊◯𓍊𓋼☾˖✮♱⋆｡°˚⁺

     Joel sat on the stained mattress, unmoving, with his head hung low, body hunched over, and hands loosely clasped in his lap while he stared at the bruises and cracks on his knuckles with disgust. The room filled with deep embers of the rising sun, a sight most would find comforting or romantic, but not him, not this time. No, it was just another bitter reminder of what he once had.

He wanted to leave and start walking however far his old knees would carry him. Yet, he couldn't get himself to move. Too many memories were stored in every nook and cranny of this dilapidated house, memories shared with you. Tears pricked his eyes as he lifted his head, gaze flicking around and studying every square inch of the place. Like to the cobwebs you were insistent on keeping away, regathered in the corners of the ceiling and tinted gray with dust. Or to the flowers you plucked from the overgrown yard, now sagging solemnly in a mason jar atop the dresser.

It's too quiet.

He abruptly stood from the bed, joints crackling in harmony with the squeak of the rust-covered springs. Each heavy step of his boots hitting against the hardwood floor seemed to reverberate off the walls, a telltale sign of how alone he truly was.

Joel paused as he entered the living room, but could he really call it that when there was no trace of life anymore?

It's too empty.

He swiveled on his heels and marched towards the door, nabbing the half-drank bottle of whiskey on the end table.

Joel sat on the porch steps, tilting his head back with the bottle pressed to his lips and gulping down the amber liquid, welcoming the burn in his chest with a subtle wince. It seemed that was all he was good for anymore, inflicting pain whether it was directed at others or himself. A palm pressed to his forehead, elbow propped on his thigh, he leaned against the framing of the rail, hoping that maybe the events from the days prior were all just another one of his countless nightmares. Any minute now, he'd see that beautiful face of yours appearing from behind the trees, greeting him with open arms and that warm smile you'd always wear just for him.

Something in the orange tells him you're not done.

As the empty shell of a man sat there, his attention shifted to the markings hidden under his heel. His foot scooted inward, and the corner of his mouth twitched up only for a second as he sat his whiskey down and traced a finger over the scratching of his and your initials in the wood.

He remembered that day vividly.

For three long weeks, the two of you trekked the woods without actual shelter; but off in the distance, you spotted an old house and took off in a flash with Joel following close behind as he hollered after you.

After Joel checked the perimeter, ensuring there weren't any infected or raiders, you sat down on the porch steps with a soft grunt and pulled out your pocket knife, carefully carving your initials into the cracked planks.

You hand the knife to Joel with an eager gaze; the gruff man stands there with his arms folded over his chest, eyeing you with a light-hearted, pinched expression. You motioned the handle to him again, brows waggling slightly with a lopsided, toothy grin.

His arms fell to his sides with a sag of his posture, then he snatched the knife from your hand and sat next to you, etching his initials under yours.

'It's home now,' You told him.

Was home.

A week later, you were folding clothes on the couch and humming quietly; it seemed silly, sure. Worrying about wrinkle-free laundry amidst the apocalypse, but there was a sense of normalcy behind it. And with the area being quiet for seven days straight, you found peace. Joel had felt it, too. All he knew for the last decade was surviving and not living. So now that he had a chance to live again, well, maybe it wasn't all so bad. Perhaps you were the one who helped him see that; you always were good at keeping him grounded. It's like all the weight that accumulated atop his shoulders had finally lifted. He didn't need anything else as long as you were by his side.

He sauntered up behind you, thick arms coming over your shoulders as he pressed a delicate kiss to your cheek, making your shoulders rise while you grasped one of his hands, thumb brushing over a knuckle. One thing led to another: Mouths feed off each other, share a breath, and let passion take over while you embrace each other in a horizontal dance, bodies pressed closely together with hands gripping and pulling in the guidance of transferred intimacy before falling asleep in the other's arms, legs tangled together. Morning followed, and the two of you watched the sunrise from the solace of the blankets.

Joel wants to go back to that.

Two months later, while preparing a stew for lunch and waiting for Joel to return from the woods, a hand slaps over your mouth and pulls you back. The spoon in your grasp clatters to the floor, and you flail around, elbowing the body behind you and clawing at the hand you didn't recognize. From what you gathered based on the low, rumbling laugh emanating out of their chest, it was a man. And it certainly wasn't Joel. Then, another man slinked out from the corner, eyes narrowed and raking over your figure with a malicious, open-mouthed smirk.

“We came here to see if we’d find anything good to eat,” he calmly explained as he inched closer and closer to you.

“Didn’t think we’d get a prize at the bottom of the box, too.”

Before you knew it, you were pinned to the ground, arms tight behind your back, and face pressed into the cold floor. You yelled and thrashed about, struggling against the weight leering over you. The second man looked at you with a mock look of sympathy, jutting his bottom lip out in a pout before kneeling. His finger, caked with dirt and grime, gently brushed your cheek, making you recoil in disgust.

Joel shook his head at the memory.

He had heard your bloodcurdling yell, screaming out his name, and in an instant, he dropped everything and sprinted back to the house with his gun unholstered. The door swung open, slamming against the wall with great force, causing the knob to leave a dent in the vinyl. All he saw was you, pinned and helpless, with tears spilling from the corners of your eyes and another man with his belt undone. He didn't have to think about what he’d do next.

Did he take it too far? No, not in his mind.

You had heard of the Joel who gave his brother nightmares, the man who was ruthless, cold, and unforgiving. However, you didn't think you'd see it. Your knees were hugged to your chest, lips parted with shaky breaths as you stared wide-eyed at the tall, brooding man.

The adrenaline wore off, and he dropped the knife he didn't even remember grabbing. It fell to the ground with a thud, muted by a pool of crimson on the flooring, the wood stained with a different finish. He looked at you, saw the apprehension in your eyes, and that's when he looked down at himself and noticed the blood that soaked his hands and freckled the fabric of his clothes.

“Baby,” he hushed out and moved to console you, but you backed yourself further into the low cupboards with a flinch.

You've never flinched at him.

His heart dropped deep into his stomach, and he carefully retreated, not wanting to scare you further. Joel looked away, down at the bodies that were no longer identifiable. Faces bashed in by his own bare hands; his fists clenched, and he was now painfully aware of the sharp pain in his knuckles. He moved again, just a simple shift of his feet, and you let out a startled, choked whimper. That's when it truly sank in. You were scared of him, and he couldn't lie; it fucking hurt. But hell, he couldn't blame you for it.

Sometimes, he was scared of himself, too.

Joel would never forget how you looked at him. Like he were some wild animal, no better than the infected and somehow worse than the raiders. Maybe he wasn't any better. Maybe he was worse. Joel knows he's not a good man. When the time comes, he will be sitting directly on Satan’s lap, paying for his sins.

Old habits die hard, he supposed.

So now here he sat, a week after you left, finishing the dregs of his bottle as he watched the sky's orange begin to lighten. His lip curled, and he sucked air through his teeth before glancing down at his injured hands once more, flexing his fingers. Joel rose from the porch and went back inside, grabbing his bag and tentatively slinging it over his shoulder. When he stood out in the yard, he took one last look at the sky and exhaled a heavy sigh before returning to the woods, trying to erase you from his mind.

Something in the orange tells him you're never coming home.

⁺˚°｡⋆♱✮˖☽𓋼𓍊◯𓍊𓋼☾˖✮♱⋆｡°˚⁺

i’ve had this idea (and like three others) stewing in my head forever now (none of them are happy). in case you haven’t heard this song and would like to get your heartbroken like i did the first time i heard it, have at it! now we can cry and think about joel together <3

as always, if you enjoyed this fic and like to pass your sorrows on to someone else, give this a reblog and/or tell me your thoughts! i love feedback and haven’t wrote angst like this in a hot minute lol.

[five-rivers]

Bring Your Ghost To School Day

AO3

For @phantomphangphucker

Valerie felt pleased with herself.  Sure she would have preferred to catch the ghost dog, or Phantom (take him down a few pegs), but if she was being honest with herself, showing up to the Paranormal Self Defense class practicum with Phantom in tow would have raised way too many questions.  Most of her classmates would probably come in with blob ghosts.  

Although she has heard a few scheming to get the Box Ghost…

Whatever.  Finally catching that slimy, scaly, slippery giant ghost worm nicely straddled the line between what was feasible for her from an outside perspective and what she, personally, considered an accomplishment.  

She walked into the classroom with her head held high and set her Fenton Thermos mk. 10 (the only containment device approved for the class) squarely in the center of her desk.  

Star twisted in her seat to face her.  "Hey, Val, what didya get?"

"Giant ghost worm."

"Nice.  That'll be pretty unique.  Pauli and I tried to tag-team some ectopuses over the weekend but we were only able to get one.  Good thing I had a backup blob ghost, right?"  She sighed.  "They're so fat and cute.  I wonder if they can be domesticated."

Valerie doubted it, but she shrugged noncommittally.  The rest of the class dribbled in over the next fifteen minutes, with Danny sliding through the door just before the bell rang, as usual.

"Alright class," said Mr. Lancer, wheeling forward the class's Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™.  "As you all should know, today, your practicum is due.  You will be coming up one by one and releasing your ghost into the-" he sighed, then inhaled deeply, "-Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™, whereupon you will explain to the class how you located and captured the ghost in question.  When you are finished, you will recapture the ghost and place your thermoses on that shelf, to be picked up by the Fentons for, yes, Miss Manson, ethical release into the Ghost Zone.  Any questions?"

Dash raised his hand.  "Can I get an extension?"

Mr. Lancer turned his gaze briefly towards the ceiling.  "See me after class, Mr. Baxter.  Any other questions?  No?  Then, do we have any volunteers?"

All hands stayed down.  Hey, Valerie was proud, but not volunteering to present first proud.  That was crazy.

"That's fine, I'll just pick randomly, then.  Mr. Gregor, you're first."

Elliot stood up and made his way to the front of the classroom like a man made to walk the plank.  He stuck his thermos into the socket on top of the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ and hit the release button.  Blue-white light briefly filled the space.  When it cleared there was…

Nothing.

"Hey!" shouted Dash.  "It's empty!"

"No, it's not!  It's Youngblood!"

"I must confess," said Mr. Lancer, "it does look empty."

"You just can't see him because all of you are adults already, and I don't turn eighteen until July!"

Danny raised his hand.  "Neither do I."

Elliot looked like he wanted to argue for a moment, but then his shoulders slumped forward.  "Aw, man.  You couldn't let me have this?"

Mr. Lancer tapped a dial on the front of the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ with his pen.  "The ecto-detector would have outed you–" 

There were a number of snickers from the jocks' side of the room.  

"--in any case, Mr. Gregor.  You can return to your seat, now."  He made a note on his clip board.  "My homework is invisible to adults is a new excuse for the books, though.  Mr. Fenton, you're next."

"'Kay," said Danny, passing Elliot on his way up.  "Prepare yourselves to be amazed!"  He slotted his thermos into place and hit the release button.  

Valerie shielded her eyes from the light and suppressed a laugh.  She was glad Danny had actually gotten something, considering how skittish he was about ghosts, but that intro was–

"Daniel!  Release me this instant!"

Wait, what the heck?

Valerie looked up to see Vlad Plasmius glaring at Danny through the walls of the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™.  Vlad Plasmius.  Better known as Vlad Masters.  Mayor of Amity Park.  Richest man in the world.  Scarily powerful ghost with a great disguise.

She felt her jaw drop.

"May I introduce to you, the Wisconsin Ghost!"

"It's Plasmius, you insufferable brat!"

Mr. Lancer cleared his throat.  "Mr. Fenton, did your parents help you catch this… Plasmius?"

"I borrowed some equipment from them, but that's within the rules, right?"

"Let me out!"

"Hey, you heard Mr. Lancer.  You'll be released into the Ghost Zone after school with everyone else."

"Speaking of which, you should start your presentation."

"Oh, right.  So, what happened was that I snuck up on him while he was monologuing in his evil lair and hit him over the head with–"

"You did not!  And I don't have an evil lair!"

"That's debatable, but you know what?  Fine," groaned Danny.  "Spoilsport.  Anyway, I started by baiting my trap with cheese–"

"Daniel!"

"I pretended to be the mayor of Green Bay and called–"

Plasmius hissed at him.  

"Okay, okay, what I really did was tell Mr. Lonely Cat Guy that I'd tell him my mom's number if he helped me with a school project."

"Mr. Fenton," started Mr. Lancer, obviously concerned.

"It was a lie, of course!  Guys and girls, the only ghost you should give digits to is Phantom."

"That is not what happened!"

"My man, I'm trying to make this less embarrassing for you.  Work with me here."

"Mr. Fenton, must I remind you that this practicum is a graduation requirement?"

"No, no, I've got it.  But it is, like, super embarrassing for him."

Honestly, Valerie didn't know why she was surprised at this point.  Danny never had normal presentations.  Not since the gorilla thing.  

“What are you talking about?” snarled Vlad.  

“Aw, it sounds like it was so traumatizing he doesn’t even remember it…”

“Mr. Fenton, please.”

Danny shrugged.  “I told him I’d be more likely to consider letting him adopt me if he could win a fight with Fright Knight, because, like, that’s something I could do in Freshman year, and he’s never beaten him, and when he showed up afterward to gloat I snuck up behind him and souped him.”

“Backstabber!”

“The worst part is that I didn’t even think he’d do it.  Like, I’ve made exactly zero attempt to hide the utter disdain I feel for this man.  It was a joke.  I said I didn’t expect him to do it, but apparently he took that as a taunt or challenge or whatever.  I was just going to bring Wade, but then he showed up this morning, so I was like, why not?”

“Wade?” asked Mr. Lancer.  

Danny reached into his hoodie’s front pocket and pulled out the teeniest tiniest blue-green blob ghost.  “This is Wade.  I call him that because I found him in a pool.”

Wade squirmed out of Danny’s grip and flew up to chew on his hair.  

“You know you aren’t supposed to bring uncaptured ghosts into the school,” said Mr. Lancer tiredly.  

“That’s what your focus on?” ranted Vlad.  “And you call yourself a teacher–” 

“And that’s enough.”  Mr. Lancer reached over to hit the capture button and disengaged the thermos.  “You can go back to your seat now, Mr. Fenton.  Mr. Ishiyama?”

Kwan bounded up to the Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ and gleefully slammed his thermos down into the socket.  “I caught the Box Ghost!”

“Oh, no,” muttered Danny.  

“BEWARE!  I AM THE BOX GHOST AND– Oh, my, this is a lovely box.  Is it for me?  I ACCEPT THIS TRIBUTE!  FEAR ME!”

The Fentonworks™ Ghost Glass™ Containment Cube™ began to levitate.  Valerie pulled her class-approved ecto-pistol from her bag.  Honestly, in retrospect, something like this was bound to happen.  At least, she noted, seeing all of her classmates pull out their approved ecto-pistols, she wouldn’t be the only one stuck fixing it this time.

[oncewhenalongtimeago]

Hello! I need something fluff with Hiccup, like the reader realizing she likes him, gets nervous and avoids him. But he ends up asking her what happens.

That's all! I hope you have a happy holiday with your family, and I'm looking forward to seeing "sorry, but I think I lost your plot" advance !

Sorry, but I Think I Lost Your Plot pt 12

Pairing: Onesided!Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III x Modern!Fem!Reader

Words: 1,251

You’re in denial. Hiccup is getting desperate.

Tags: Time Travel, Reader into Movieverse, half-fill

<Previous - Next>

You stared at the slightly wilted flower in your hand.

 It was a wildflower with small white petals, each a bit peach and tawny as an eggshell. One was a bit bent and smudged with what looked like soot.

“Thank you.” You said.

Toothless sat on the floor on his hind legs.

Hiccup stood in front of you, not quite looking you in the eye, possibly waiting for a response to his earlier question. You had to remind yourself what kind.

“Johannes and Mulch are feuding because Mulch lost a sheep. Johannes doesn’t believe him but he has one extra,” You said, after a moment, “Mulch paid me to smack him on the head. I’m just waiting for him to pick up on it.”

“Would you ever want to-?” Hiccup started and paused hesitantly, carefully, Toothless looking quite annoyed, shifting in his saddle.

“Yeah- Ha, ha! Okay bud, I’m- Let’s go,” Hiccup said awkwardly, voice cracking at nearly the pitch of a squeak and dipping at light intervals as Toothless nosed into him crossly.

You looked at him, face measured in normal proportion, his dragon scaled and leathered in a way that went beyond the style of animation.

You held a small package in one hand as you turned, wrapped securely with cloth in one hand as you walked up from the fields towards one of the many wooden planks lining the village, “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” Hiccup said, as you left him behind.

The morning air was fresh, and though Vikings were early risers, this time the square was empty.

You glanced back after a while, then briefly looked back at the flower again once you were sure you were alone.

You thought, and your face heated slightly with embarrassment.

You felt like electricity was running up and down your spine, though you weren’t quite sure whether or not it was the good kind. You couldn’t say it was.

Did Hiccup like you?

Flowers and nice dates. Those he could do easily.

Then there were books, and chocolate. Hiccup would have to wait for Johann to come back to ask about the second one, and books were also expensive, sort of. He could probably make one.

Hiccup crossed his arms, laying his head on them and soaking in the afternoon light as he sat along a long bench, newly made and freshly varnished, set just outside the Great Hall. he scuffed his foot into the sparse grass clumps below, toe of his boot occasionally catching against them.

He wondered what kind of life you lived before, where gifts like books and chocolate were common instead of axes or swords. Or maybe he was too used to the latter kind being one of the people who usually had to take part in making them. Swords and axes could, too, be very expensive.

What kind of books did you like?

Hiccup scrubbed the back of his head.

He thought of how you helped him work on the fin for Toothless which he did, admittedly, make in an effort to win you over.

It was so easy to just exist like that, even if it was a bit tense. Even if Gobber did reprimand him later for letting someone else mess around in the forge.

Hiccup was too distracted to notice the crunching of footsteps as he approached.

“Why don’t you just a-ask?” Came a familiar voice from behind him, causing his shoulders to jump.

“Fishlegs?!” Hiccup asked, turning around to see the large teen in all his glory. He didn’t realize he voiced his question out loud, earlier.

Hiccup knew he wasn't very intimidating, especially with Toothless out for the count, snoozing away down by the field like the lazy beast he was, yet he scowled anyways.

They were usually on good terms after the Red Death, Fishlegs was the only other guy on the island who was anywhere near as different as Hiccup, though not quite and not really in the same way. Too bad he sucked.

“I-I wasn’t writing them for her,” Fishlegs stuttered, knowing exactly what Hiccup was talking about, even without words.

Hiccup glowered at him, “Then who were you writing them for?”

He sputtered, embarrassed.

“Yeah,” Hiccup grumbled, burying his head back in his arms, “That’s what I thought.”

Hiccup liked you.

How did you react to that? Did you react at all? Could you even call him fictional, anymore? Was this your new reality?

Why was that the first thing your mind jumped to? 

Work done, you let your feet wave, sat on one end of the docks, a part hidden under and around the large, unstable-looking pillars holding up the steep ramp back up to the village. The ocean waved under your feet, roiling and crashing, mimicking the larger waves against the rocks and craigs farther out.

The idea that you might have won over a fictional character somehow was sort of ridiculous. It seemed to breach some sort of unspoken boundary, some separation between reality and unreality.

There was a level of permanence to the idea that felt weird to you.

You blinked, the setting sun glazing over the world with orange. You wondered what the rest of the world looked like out here, if everything was the same, if you could venture out into the world and find the place your home should have been standing emptied, occupied by nature and nothing.

You felt at the flower stem in your hand with your fingers, letting it fall until it rested against your tips. You had a hard time believing it was real, keeping it safely tucked away in one of your pockets as you went about your daily life.

Were you and Hiccup even friends? You would like to say that, you realized.

You and he met up more than people who had nothing to do with each other did. He had at least three scars that you could name that had something to do with you.

A friendship was something real.

It was anchoring.

You shivered as the wind blew a cold sea spray onto your face.

You didn’t think you’d ever make it back home. It seemed unreal at this point that you had come from anywhere else, the grass under your feet and the splintered wood of Berk more real and tangible than anything you could reach from your old life with just your mind and your memories. 

So, in that way, it wasn’t something you could leave behind.

It was fresh.

How could you like him if you only just realized you were friends? 

You weren’t sure you could even muster up the energy to consider it.

You had a hard time believing everything was real sometimes, even as you nervously picked the grit out from under your fingernails.

You changed things. The idea filled you with nervous, jittery energy. It was sort of dangerous, made you feel sort of unsure. It made the world around you seem stranger, a little bit more dangerous.

Did the flowers even really mean anything? How common was it to give flowers here? Sure, it wasn’t that common, but you were certain you heard of it happening at least once.

Of course Vikings gave flowers. Everyone gave flowers, for a million different reasons. You didn’t exactly have an itinerary- no, an encyclopedia- or wifi to look up a reference.

Hiccup was probably just saying thank you or something. The idea made you feel easier, anyways.

It was harder to consider the alternative.

[the-chosen-fanfiction]

Matthew | There Is Something Behind Your Eyes | Platonic

Requested: Yes

Matthew is convinced that the stranger at his booth must be an angel.

One, two, three.

Matthew turns his key three times. 

Maybe a fourth time for good measure? No, he decides against it. After all, he has to catch the cart driver lest he arrive too late and has to walk all the way to the other side of the village. He cannot risk it.

He gulps in disgust as a few rats scurry barely past his feet. Pressing the rag clutched in his hand against his nose, he tries to block out the smell.

Everything inside of him has been on edge lately. He cannot put any words nor reason to the odd and unfamiliar feeling, but it is there, and he is not sure what to make of it. For now, he blames it on the current dynamic within the fishing village of Capernaum. Things are tense and uneasy, as if something massive is about to go down. 

Matthew remembers the riot around here about a year ago, and hopes that this time around it will be extinguished before it can break loose. After all, he left the last revolt against the Romans unscathed, but this time around, he cannot be so certain.

“You there, public-anus!” The man with the cart Matthew has made an arrangement with already stands waiting for him just outside the street near his house. Attempting to not retch at the stench of sheep dung, Matthew approaches him slowly, trying to keep his sandals clean to his best ability. “Hurry up and get in!” 

Matthew does not correct the wrong pronunciation of his professional title, instead hops inside the cart with uncharacteristic haste. He does not want to risk being seen, even if it means potentially getting his expensive garment stuck on any rusty nails in the process. He pulls over the cover, laying down inside the hay that the salesman transports in spite of its dampness. Once down, Matthew feels the cart shift into motion. Neither of them speak to one another whilst the tax-collector watches the street underneath him through a gap between the planks on the bottom, the sound of squeaking wheels filling his ears.

Perhaps he could ask Gaius to become his daily escort, Matthew wonders. If his calculations are correct, people wouldn’t even try to bother him while he is on his way to work, then.

Suddenly, the cart halts - halfway through the journey, Matthew knows - right before the market square. “Get out!” the merchant hisses at him, “I can’t be seen with you. I need to drop off my goods here and I cannot take the risk!”

Matthew is momentarily blinded by the sunlight as the man lifts up the cover. “Out, taxman!”

“I-If you want to take risk into consideration, I’d say that there would be more of a risk of you being caught if I were to get out here rather than if you were to bring me directly to the booth–”

“I don’t want to hear it! Out!”

Apprehensively, Matthew exits the wagon and pulls up his shoulders, making himself as invisible as he can. His cream-coloured tunic makes it difficult to miss him. He stands out like a sore thumb. If the tax-collector wanted to remain unseen, he should have picked a different outfit.

An impatient palm appears in his field of vision, and Matthew fishes a leather pouch of money from the satchel on his hip. He pulls it open and counts the money inside, taking out a few denarii, then counting on his fingers, eyes lifted up in thought. 

“What are you doing?” the merchant queries. 

“Counting how much I owe you. Technically, you brought me about halfway through the village, so that is half the amount agreed upon. However, when taking into consideration the liability that I will now have to undergo due to me having to travel further on foot, I will have to withhold about twenty percent of the amount owed–”

“Just give it to me!” the man snaps, grabbing the pouch of money from his hand before Matthew can realise it, “You’re costing me money as you speak. Consider the extra as collateral due to the risk of being seen with you.” 

Matthew opens his mouth to protest, but he is not intimidating enough for the merchant to not just walk away with his cart. Knowing that fighting it will make things even worse, Matthew sighs and lets it go, thinking about the safest route to take through the city in order to be exposed to the public eye as briefly as possible.

Once the transaction has been made, the man grunts and walks off with his cart, muttering under his breath that this was the final time they’ve done business. Matthew tilts his head slightly and calculates the best direction to go into to avoid conflict before starting his trek towards the booth. 

He ignores the scornful glares sent his way; after all, he is so used to it at this point that he’d be more taken aback by actual kindness. Gaius is already waiting for him, his usual scowl on his face, as if he doesn’t want to be here. Perhaps that the Primi Ordines doesn’t necessarily like guard duty in a place of such regular unrest. 

Matthew greets him with a short mumble and enters his booth, laying out his necessary tools in front of him. Everything has its own place, and he enjoys the feeling of a tidy desk. It’s one of the few things he can control at all times, and Matthew takes great pride in keeping it clean.

The morning goes on as usual, with occasional displeasure from tax-payers as well as tears streaming down pockmarked, hollow faces, but Matthew stoically goes through with it. The sun is past its highest point when it becomes a little more bearable in the booth, and Gaius leans against the wall, sighing as he eats an apple. Matthew vaguely remembers the Primi mentioning that the change of guard was coming up soon, but the publicanus wasn’t sure how long ago he had said it.

The amount of customers is declining as the day carries on, most people heading to their homes to prepare for Shabbat instead. It gives Matthew a rare moment of peace and quiet in his booth, and he takes some time to sort out his ledger, checking for any errors in the calculations and–

“Shalom.” 

Matthew startles a bit at the sudden voice and looks up. A young woman about his own age stands in front of the booth, a kind smile on her face. Her (e/c) eyes slightly glitter as she watches him curiously.

“Sh-Shalom.” Matthew stutters, putting his current chore aside. “How may I help you?” He doesn’t recognise you from around here.

“Just here to have a chat.” 

Matthew grabs his ledger. “What’s your name?” 

“(Y/n).” you introduce yourself, and tell him where you are from. “So no, I don’t have any open debts to pay you.”

The way you’re looking up at him is not very familiar to him. There is a gentle expression on your face, and he isn’t sure what to make of it. 

“Then what do you want?” Matthew wants to know.

“You’re Jewish, right?” you query.

Matthew nods, looking at Gaius from the corner of his eye. The Primi doesn’t seem to mind your presence, instead gazing out over the empty streets, unbothered by the conversation going on right beside him.

“I am.”

“So, what are you doing here?” you ask.

There is no accusation nor malice in your voice, a tone regarding his profession that is quite new to Matthew. 

“My-My job.” he mutters, “If I can’t help you with your taxes, I’d like to wish you a good day.”

You let out a hum and watch him curiously. “Shouldn’t you be home, preparing for Shabbat? It’s almost sundown…” 

“I… Don’t. I-I think you should go, though… Otherwise, you won’t be home in time, either.”

Your smile is soft. “Don’t you worry about me, now. You haven’t told me your name yet.”

“That’s not important–”

“Matthew–” Gaius pipes up, “Can you get her to hurry? That change of guard is apparently not happening and I am really in need of a break, so I want to close up this booth for a while.”

Matthew sighs and you hum. “Matthew, huh? Don’t worry, Primi, I’ll be here just for another minute or so.” You turn back to the tax-collector.

“Listen, Matthew, I know a lot of people loathe you and shame you for the work you do. You chose to work for the Romans, so part of their indignation is justified. However, I crossed past your booth and was overcome with the conviction to share something with you today. A word.”

“A word?” Matthew looks at you a bit puzzled. 

You hum in agreement. “I’m with this group of people. With a Rabbi. I think you’ve heard about Him, too, haven’t you? I can feel that you have.”

Matthew feels his throat run dry - yes, now he faintly recognises you walking alongside the followers of this infamous Rabbi. He had indeed heard about Him causing quite the stir, but he had never investigated it. 

“What about it?” He tries to sound indifferent, but something wavers in his voice. You give him a kind smile and reach out through the gap in the booth. You do not touch him, but lay your hand close to him. Gaius eyes you a bit suspiciously, but when Matthew does not display any sign that you’re assaulting him in any way, he looks away again. 

“I think Jesus is going to call you out of the darkness and into the light.” you whisper. “That is His name, by the way. The name of my Rabbi.” 

For a few moments, Matthew rapidly blinks, staring at you dumbfounded. “What do you mean by that?”

“Because whenever we pass by this booth while in town, I get this feeling inside my heart to come over and talk to you. One of the other followers always hisses something under his breath about you, but I think it’s not totally justified. Sure, you’ve chosen this profession and thus betrayed our people by working for our oppressors, but…” your smile grows a bit, “I think you’re more than that.”

Matthew feels his face heat up slightly with a hint of shame. Why are you being so kind to him without even knowing who he is? Even though the sole thing you know about him is that he betrayed your people?

“I think you feel that sentiment towards me just because you’re not from around here. I suggest you leave me alone and go to pay your taxes in your own county.” Matthew moves away, but you lean a little closer.

“Matthew,” you pipe up, “Why do you think I’m meeting you here minutes before Shabbat? I am here for a reason, and I need you to know this. If… If you choose to follow Him one day, because I am convinced that He will call you one day or another… You will need a friend, someone to stick up for you. Know that I’ll be that person.”

Abashed, he shakes his head. “I don’t have friends and I don’t need them, either.” 

The smile that grows on your face is nothing short of angelic. 

“And yet, the offer still stands. Just had to let you know, okay?” You look at the sky, thinking for a long moment. “If I want to be at my friend Mary’s place before sundown, I’ll have to go now. Shalom shalom, Matthew. I have a feeling we’ll see one another soon.”

At a loss for words, Matthew replies a soft “Shalom,” as you give him a friendly nod and walk off, and he leans closer to the iron bars to keep watching you until you disappear behind the corner. 

“Well,” Gaius huffs, “Believe it or not, I think that’s the nicest way I’ve ever seen someone talk to you.” 

Matthew does not reply, instead stands in silence, his mind racing with questions. 

_ 

A few weeks later, Matthew is standing in his booth, going about his day, when a familiar group of people enters his field of vision as they pass by. A few wisps of (h/c) hair draw his attention and you look over your shoulder, making eye-contact with him.

As soon as Jesus halts, a smile forms over your lips. Matthew tears his gaze away from you to settle it on the Rabbi, Who looks at him with a determined look on His face. 

“Matthew, son of Alphaeus.” 

Matthew blinks, wondering for a second if there is another person with the exact same name standing right behind him, and he leans closer. Your eyes glitter as you gaze at Jesus, and then back at the tax-collector in the booth.

“Yes?” he breathes. 

“Follow Me.”

[koifishart]

I want to be Your Koi Fish - Nine Tails

Warning: +18 content, criminal underworld, intercourse, strong language - and so on

Fanfiction based on: "Baki" by Itagaki Keisuke

>6<

~ TAIL NO. 2 - Russian circus performer

Inari wasn't lying. The fox did bring the news. In fact, it's a letter with instructions and a glass ball to be crushed in her hand to get to Person Number 1. She sat down to do what she was told to do. She preferred not to risk breaking head in falling, though in the present situation she was not sure if that was possible. She closed her eyes, feeling the very thin material filled with something warm break under the pressure of her fingers.

She opened her eyes. Saw not the ceiling in the apartment, not the "white nothingness", but rather the motley-painted wooden planks. Something rattled, shook, and she jumped with the bed, painfully falling off it. It looked like she was in a wagon of some sort, the room didn't look large, but it certainly contained the belongings of her first person. Lots of outfits, usually shiny pearly, metallic or from an excess of sequins, a mirror, a strange stand with a pillow, hula-hoop, ... an artist? Opposite the headboard of what was supposed to be a bed, there was a poster with an incredibly flexible woman standing on her arms, legs crossed over her back and dangling over her head. The view was simply stunning.

- I'll surpass you, mom! - the woman sitting on the floor said.

Hanabi only realized that she didn't have full authority over the body. It was understandable, in fact, she was just there to help. She was chilled by the thought that in order to get the tail, she had to ... surpass the woman in the poster. Shizuka would have made it, Hana had never made a perfect bridge in her life, so there was no question of doing anything more than the figure in the photo! She was flexible, but not to that extent! The Wearer walked over to the mirror, where a filigree blonde girl with pale blue eyes and determination written on her face reflected. She placed hands steadily on the pillow stand, then lifted herself to a handstand. It was easy. It was amazing how strong her body was - she kept her balance despite the annoying shocks and faults! But as she swung her legs down, something was blocking her. That was where the problem was? The car screeched to a halt. She stood on the floor and headed for the door. When opened them, she stood in the middle of a large square paved with uneven stone. She was immediately approached by a gentleman in a suit, which she must have known, for she wasn't at all surprised by the long mustache and fur-trimmed top hat.

- Wiera, I hope you will show off! - He snapped at her, which didn't impress her at all. - The performance will be watched by the president himself!

Only hearing the last word did she shudder. Cold and unpleasant, as if she was afraid of it the most. Shreds of memories about the woman in the poster began to reach her fox self. The Carrier's inner voice was very muffled, all she heard was "gone, left us ...", "another life", "better future". Hanabi didn't understand much of it, but it was enough for Wiera to lock herself in the cart and repeat the exercises. To the fact that she was very concerned about the interest of this man. It's time to take control. She dug up from her own experiences, everything Shizuka, the most flexible of the four, had taught her, trying to guide the girl. She needed to calm down, begin to breathe properly, work her diaphragm, and focus on what she wanted to achieve. When she finally stopped tensing automatically, her body obeyed, revealing ranges she hadn't expected. If this was what the rest of the tasks were going to be like, it would go faster than she thought. In the evening, she stood at the entrance to the arena, wearing a green outfit lined with sequins, resembling tights ending at the neck. Involuntarily, she looked towards the place where the previously announced VIP was to be sitting. He was there. He was also watching, clearly waiting for the show to begin. She swallowed and ran onto the sand-covered stage, waving a few somersaults at the end, like at an artistic gymnastics competition, which aroused a lot of joy among the audience. The climax was supposed to be a poster-like figure in her room, but much deeper. She arched backwards, making a perfect bridge, then corrected her posture, dropping upper body lower and lower. The audience howled happily as she looked out from between her own feet with a smile, her chest lying on the cool sand. She was proud of herself, and the man, staring at her, lifted his thumb slightly. Tears ran down her cheeks as she stood steadily on her feet, waving and sending a mass of kisses through the air.

When she opened her pale green eyes, there was none other than Master Inari himself. She must have looked a bit shocked, but he sat down across from her, watching more closely.

- It was just a warm-up, although I didn't think it would be so easy. - he assessed calmly. - Not only did Wiera beat her mother, she got the approval of her father, whom she didn't know, and your tail grew back, Byakko. Way to go.

She turned abruptly, and from the joy of seeing another white ponytail she wanted to jump up to the ceiling ... which was not actually there. She didn't know what to expect since Inari said it wasn't going to be easy ...

- Is there any possibility that I will make a mistake? - she asked naively. - I mean, accidentally or something?

- Exactly the same as in any other life. - he replied philosophically. - The only difference is that if your Host dies, so will you. So there will be nothing left of meeting your husband.

[vid-writes]

The Nephilim Chronicles Ch. 1

This is a story I have been working on since I was 14. I've scrapped this thing more times than I can count. Right now I have no intentions for this to become romance or smut so there's none of that. There's no need for an 18+ warning but please read at your own discretion because it will still be a dark fantasy novel.

Char sat up in her bed, let out a huge yawn, and stretched her arms wide. Today was the day, her eighteenth birthday. It would finally be revealed to her what type of Angelic magic she would be most proficient in.

Sure, most Nephilim children were capable of doing all kinds of magic their whole lives, but at eighteen, they were given a series of tests to help determine which they would be the most proficient in.

As she stood and stretched, her toes sank into the soft moss carpeting the floor of her bedroom. In some spots where the moss was worn down from frequent walking or standing, she could almost feel the planks of her wood floor or the bark of the tree's branches.

Silvery wings with small spurts of dark green streaked through them and jutted outwards as she stretched them out, and they filled most of her large room.

She turned to an ornate silver full-body mirror framed in Willow branches and tucked her wings against her back as she pulled her long red hair out of the braid, which she kept in while she slept.

The sounds of her family, as they, too, woke up for the day, filled the large house that expanded many floors below her inside the enormous tree house built around a large oak tree.

Her room was on the top floor, sitting among several branches that they had gently manipulated into an almost perfect square, save for the ones that made up parts of her floor. This resulted in all four of her walls having one to two oak tree limbs in them, but she didn't mind.

She never hung decorations on the tree's branches. All the people in her town firmly believed nature was living, so before they had built the treehouse for her family, there had, of course, been a ceremony. One involved offerings to the tree that decayed at unnatural rates, according to her family.

This treehouse was built by Char's parents and their family just after her parents got married, which was also a tradition in their town. Off to one side of her room was a big sliding glass door, which was where she was headed. She slid the door open and revealed a large balcony with a moss curtain hanging around it that she usually tied up to take in the view. Still, currently, she needed to shower under the constant stream of water off to the far-right side of the balcony, which was slightly sloped so it could run off and down to the balconies of the rest of the house.

Off to the left side of the balcony was the chair she used for sunbathing and a small shelf of books she read while doing so. She stripped off her pajamas and stood under the water. Usually, the temperature depended on the sunlight exposure from their two suns, but sometimes she would fly up and boil it with a bit of fire magic.

The water flowed from the bottom of a giant tub they had built a stand for on top of the tree down a slide that ended over the spot where it poured onto her balcony.

The tub had been enchanted to never stop flowing, and the splash zone was decently negated by the slope of the balcony. Today, Char was in too much of a hurry to care and let out a small yelp as she was met with icy water. After all, even with two suns, they had both just barely broken over the horizon and definitely hadn't had any time to warm the water.

She quickly used the soap on a shelf a foot away from the stream of water to wash her body and almost waist-length hair. She grabbed a towel from one of the three hooks, which she kept for bathing and sunbathing, and dried herself off. It wouldn't be long before Elders bombarded her room: several of her female cousins, her best friend, her three younger sisters, her two aunts, and her mom.

As was tradition, they would bring her a big breakfast that they would all share as they helped her get ready for the day. After she dried off and pulled on a robe in her room, she used two large ribbons to tie back the curtain of moss over one of the more oversized windows, allowing the light to stream into her room.

The cloth curtains covering the three windows in her bedroom were closed except for the one above her bed so the sunlight could stream in and wake her each morning. She made to open those curtains, too, when her bedroom door burst open, and women, both young and old, started pouring into her room.

Her oldest cousin was the first to greet her, taking the ribbon from her hands and opening the curtain as her twin bee-lined to the other window to do the same. Both girls had red hair like Char and their mothers, but neither of them wore it the same way. Evangeline kept her straight hair braided in intricate ways, and Emeline always let her curls hang free.

"Good morning, Charamaline," she said in her bright, bell-like voice. At fifteen years old, she still refused to call Char by her nickname.

"Good morning to you too, Evan," Char teased as she stuck out her tongue at Evangeline, who shot her a dirty look for using the shortened version of her name that her sister Emeline also used for teasing.

"Well, if you never want me to call you Evan again, then please call me Char because you know I prefer it." Evangeline considered this for a moment before she nodded as her mother pushed in between them with one of the many trays of food.

"Good morning, Char darling, and happy birthday," she nearly sang out the words as she shoved the tray with the plate of scrambled quail eggs, toast, a bowl of rice, some fried mushrooms, and bacon on it in her hands, "go on eat up you'll need your fuel for the day." She kissed Char on the forehead before she scurried off to help her daughters carefully move her stuff off any flat surface in the room and out of the way so the other ladies could set down the different trays of food.

Her aunt Rebecca, the twins' mom, was her favorite, but she'd never tell her aunt Katherine that. Three of Katherine's daughters flitted about the room, helping to arrange things and set down the food. Each of Katherine's seven daughters had wildly different hair.

Katherine had ended up having more girls than Rebecca and Char's mom combined. Katherine herself was still downstairs, probably busy prepping for the other events that would take place after the tests. Just as she had settled down on her bed with her tray of food, Char looked up to see Morgana, her best friend, smiling down at her.

"Happy eighteenth, bestie. Are you ready for your tests?" She sat on the bed next to Char.

"Honestly, I really am, though I'm sure it's fire magic that I will be the most proficient in today. I will confirm or deny that flat-out," Char said almost casually as she started to eat. She watched as the women in her room scurried in and out for a little while, bringing in more stuff.

There were boxes of makeup, boxes of hair pins, and boxes of clothes because, of course, the outfit had several layers. Thankfully, each outfit was tailored to each person who wore them but in the traditional style for males or females.

For Char, that outfit meant she would be wearing a dress with many layers for the skirt, a corset, high heels, and a robe with a fifteen-foot-long train. She finished her tray, and Mor took it out of the room, probably down to the kitchen if she had to venture a guess before she could object.

Once again, before she could object, Char herself was pulled up from the bed by her mother with a sheepish smile on her face. Char had been listening to the busy chatter among the women but had been more focused on the idea of the tests.

"Come on, time to get that hair dried and then styled," her mom said, leading her over to her vanity. There, an Elder female Nephilim proficient in air magic, as denoted by the small silver pendant with swirls inside a circle of silver around her neck, stood waiting for them. The woman introduced herself as Flora and then got to work using her magic to dry Char's hair.

Mor reappeared behind her in the mirror as the Elder woman left. It seemed that was her only job.

Traditions might be silly sometimes, but this one was long honored and had been since the first few Nephilim children were born fifteen hundred years ago. Mor and her mother oversaw weaving her hair into the intricate traditional style. She watched as her hair was pulled up with several small bright purple jeweled hair clips.

Once finished, the style rested on her head, seeming to weave her hair into a crown dotted with jeweled clips.

Her pointed elf ears, which she and her siblings got from their elf father, were covered by silver earcuffs adorned with a few tiny bright purple jewels.

Luckily for her, even though purple was the traditional color, it was her favorite. Another Elder woman roused her from admiration for her hair and ears. According to what she told Char, this woman was apparently in charge of the traditional makeup and would be until she trained her apprentice.

The woman also told Char her name was Anwen, and then she didn't speak again other than to direct Char to move her head one way or the other as she did Char's makeup. Char took note of Anwen's silver pendant with lightning strikes inside the circle. So, she was an electrical Nephilim.

How interesting that one must be, Char thought.

She had never once been able to produce even a little spark in electrical magic. Not everyone in their town was a Nephilim, nor were they all Elven Nephilim.

In fact, many people in town weren't crossbreeds, so to speak. When it came to the traditions of the Nephilim magic tests, only Nephilim were allowed to be involved until it was time for the party to celebrate successful tests for the child or children who turned eighteen that day, at which point the whole town was invited.

Anwen finally stepped back to look at Char's face, studying it like she might be tested on the exact shade of red her cheeks were. With a decisive nod, Anwen packed up the makeup and left the room, simply wishing Char luck on her way out. It was starting to feel a little impersonal in here, and she was relieved to see the older of her two younger sisters step in front of her.

"Wow, Char, have you even looked at yourself in the mirror?" her sister Anaphiel asked. Little Ellie, at eight years old, was wrapped around Ana like usual, and there were almost stars in her forest green eyes. Char really loved that little Ellie had gotten green eyes like she had.

With a huffed-out sigh, Char spun around in her chair, and her mouth dropped open. There she was, staring back at herself, unrecognizable and almost tribal. The light purple eye shadow and silver eyeliner brought out her green eyes. The shadow started in a big, elegant swoop on either side of her face by her ears, came across her eyelids right above the lashes, and met in an uninterrupted line on her nose.

Under the silver swirls on her cheeks, she had light red blush, and on her lips, purple lipstick matched the eyeshadow. On her forehead, more silver eyeliner started in a more minor swirl near the ones by her ears and connected across the middle, just like her nose and eyes.

The leaf-green skin she had gotten from her elven father made it all really come together instead of making her look like a clown, as she had thought it would. Between the makeup and the hair-jeweled crown, Char was almost regal.

All that was left was the dress, and that was going to take the longest.

Everyone left the room except Char's mom, Hazel, Ana, the twins, and the last Elder Nephilim, who, according to the pendant around her neck, was proficient in fire magic. Char suddenly became aware that all these people were going to be seeing her in various stages of undress, and her natural blush crept in underneath the foundation of her makeup.

She stood up and walked over to the enormous privacy screen on the far side of her room from her vanity, which was positioned on the wall across from her balcony. Once she was behind it, she pulled off her robe. Someone tossed her underwear at her over the top of the screen, and she quickly pulled them on.

Once those were on, the last Elder in the room rounded the privacy screen with a plain white slip dress. She helped Char pull it on and then walked back around the privacy screen, motioning for Char to follow.

Back in the middle of her room, Char was helped into an ankle-length petticoat. Once the petticoat was on, a heavy purple skirt was lowered over her head and tied around her waist snugly. They pulled a top over the top of her white slip and then a corset over that. They would save the robe for when she was entering the testing area so it didn't get messed up or dirty.

She was informed that since the outfit was custom-made, she would get to keep it, though Char needed to figure out when or if she would ever wear it again. Every bit of the purple dress had silver swirls on it, matching the ones on her face.

Once she was dressed, she was instructed to let her wings out and fold them against her back instead of leaving them magically tucked into her skin.

An hour later, after being all but paraded through town, she literally walked directly from her house to the testing place, but the streets had been lined with well-wishers; she arrived at the testing area. Or arena, she should say. A massive stone structure stood before her and her entourage, which made Char come to a stop. Ivy vines were twisting all over the round front of the grey stone structure, and Char started to feel a bit nervous.

"Don't worry, dear girl, it's not as intimidating inside. This place was once used for glorious battles amongst heroes and men who dared challenge them, but it's since been repurposed. Who doesn't love a good dramatic front to a building, though, eh?" an Elder who almost suddenly appeared explained to Char.

Char had to look down to find her as the woman was only tall enough to stare Char directly in the chest. She was leaning against a walking stick and admiring the building herself.

"It is quite gorgeous," Char agreed. The woman and her wrinkly brown skin stood out the most against the grey façade. Almost looking like she belonged here but also didn't. She motioned for them to come forward, and Char noticed the doors on the stone wall. Two giant doors made of redwood stood open before them.

"Oh, and before you go inside these doors, best get your robe on," the woman muttered, but somehow, they all heard her loud and clear.

There was a rustle of movement behind Char as she stood in front of the doors, and then her shoulders sagged a little bit. She looked back to see the robe for the first time.

It was more like a cloak, really, but it also had sleeves, though she wouldn't get to put those on. It was decorated almost as a mirror to her dress, and she took a deep breath. Her heels clicked on the stone beneath them, soon joined by the sounds of other heels and boots.

The woman had been right. The entire inside of the stone arena had been completely converted. Where there was once a long tunnel that led to an opening in the area, there was now a long, carved-out, very modern hallway. Eight doors were set in the walls on either side of the hallway, and the whole thing was lit by torches next to every other door. Char knew, of course, that the torches had been enchanted.

The walls were still stone and gray like the outside, but everything else had been brought into this century. When she got to the end of the hallway, a smaller set of large wooden doors opened on their own. She stepped into a vast, open, and nearly empty room and stopped in her tracks.

"Yeah, that's the usual reaction; come on, dear, we've got a schedule to keep," the older woman said, appearing at her side again.

She gently tugged Char forward by her arm. Char looked around the now enclosed coliseum area they were in. There were rows and rows of empty stands around them leading up almost higher than the eye could see. She could see here that some of the spaces that had probably been used by monarchs to view sporting events had been converted into grand workspaces.

She strode to the center of the arena, where she noticed it was covered in clean marble flooring. She didn't imagine this had been the original flooring; after all, fighting for sport had been held here, so there had been bloodshed. She really hated that this place was only permitted to be used for the testing ceremonies.

In the center stood a raised marble stage and, on that stage, two tables. At one table stood a short and stout but regal woman, their village's current Chief Elder and current test giver. At a more extended table behind her sat fifteen other elders who weren't already occupying the offices in the surrounding seating area.

There was one empty seat, and Char noticed that the only other person who had followed her to the stage was the Elder woman who had a knack for appearing out of thin air.

She walked over and sat at the Elder's table while Char stopped at the smaller table across from the woman who gave the tests.

"Welcome, Charamaline and family," a female voice said inside Char's head. She looked around confused and saw her family in various stages of confusion as well, save for her parents. They must have dealt with this before, though neither were Nephilim.

"I can see by your confused faces you've never encountered a thought magic user. Rest assured, the voice you hear comes from the individual across the table from Charamaline. And no need to worry. I can also speak out loud, though, after four decades of speaking with my thoughts, this feels a little weird." The voice from the woman's mouth sounded the same as in Char's head. Clear, slightly deeper than most females, though not unusual to Char, considering the woman was an Elder, but with such grace, it was like the woman was always speaking around royalty.

Char took in the woman before her and noticed she was the youngest of the Elders, even for a Nephilim and especially for the Chief Elder. She had long light green hair she had woven around her head and then tied back into a tight braid that hung to the backs of her knees, but Char was sure if the woman let her hair down, it would reach to the floor and then some.

She had clear blue eyes that were almost white, light orange skin, and brown freckles across her cheeks and nose. They almost completely covered the orange of her skin. It was then that Char noticed her wings were different from everyone else's in the building. They seemed to have claws at the topmost points and looked far more bird-like than most angelic individuals.

"Ah, I see you're curious about my lineage," the woman's voice interrupted Char's admiration of her wings. Char blushed, so much so that she knew it probably made the makeup blush look silly in comparison.

"Yes, I am, but mostly because of your wings," Char muttered just loud enough that the woman could hear her.

"This is the first time you've seen a Harpy Nephilim, then, is it?" the woman's question filled Char's mind. Char nodded and looked back at her parents for a second over her shoulder. She turned back to the woman who was smiling and noticed her mouth was full of canine-type teeth that looked incredibly sharp.

"Don't worry; you'll get used to the other kinds of Nephilim that exist once you get to the Academy. Not that our own village doesn't have its share of diversity, but this is a massive continent on a giant planet. My name is Phynethe Ratzuma Andromeda Petwynn; you may call me Phynethe. Now, as for the tests. First, we have a brief explanation of what you are going to be doing, and then you will take the tests. As you know, Nephilim are more versatile in the types of magic they're capable of, but because of the mixed blood, for lack of a better term, they're only capable of being proficient in one kind of magic.

So here today, you will demonstrate several types of magic, and we will rate how strong you are at each. This place is massive for a reason, so there's no need to hold back. You will clearly have never heard of some of these types of magic before, and you might not be capable of doing them. That's okay, but you never know. Thought magic tends to not show itself until the tests are given, and honestly, none of us have any idea why, not that we haven't researched it, believe me, we have." The woman paused and gave Char a minute to think freely. She must know how overwhelming her kind of magic was for people experiencing it for the first time.

"First up on the docket is fire magic. Please demonstrate your level of fire magic to us, if any," Phynethe said in Char's head again.

"May I move around the stage?" Char asked.

"You may move around the whole arena, including in the air," Phynethe replied. Char smiled and turned to walk off the stage. She noticed then that her family had been shown to some seats in the lowest part of the arena seating area.

Her parents smiled at her before she turned around, now a reasonable distance from the stage, and held out both hands. Warmth bloomed in her palms, and seconds later, two pillars of fire, stretching nearly as high as the arena ceiling, appeared in her hands. The flames danced in a controlled spiral that never got any wider than six inches across.

"Are you capable of changing the color or temperature of the flames?" Char faltered for a second as she considered it. She had never tried, but there was literally no time like the present. Char focused on making the warmth in her palm hotter, but it wouldn't change. She tried to imagine the flames changing colors, but they continued their spiral dance and remained red, orange, and yellow.

"It appears I cannot," Char said. Phynethe nodded, and the flames disappeared from Char's palms.

"That's alright, dear, no matter. How about lightning magic?" Phynethe's voice was soothing to Char. Char felt herself blushing again.

"I've never so much as produced a single spark," Char said, making her voice loud enough to be heard from the distance she was at, even though she wanted to mumble.

"Can you please try? We have to see an attempt before we can move forward, traditions and such. Plus, you never know some people are late bloomers in all kinds of magic," Phynethe explained.

Char knew that if you hadn't shown signs of any kind of magic by twenty-five, then you'd never be capable of it. She nodded and held both hands up again, this time in front of her with her fingers carved towards each other.

She focused on the image of a spark jumping between her fingers like she had seen Anaphiel do so many times.

Anaphiel had once tried to describe how the magic felt, but all she could manage was "sparky and electric," which was incredibly unhelpful. After a few minutes of nothing happening, Char dropped her arms back to her sides.

"That's alright, Charamaline. Thank you for trying. Up next, we have wind magic."

On and on the tests went. Some of the magics Char had never heard of, she had managed to get one or two things to happen from, though only a few. She was good at most basic magics and surprised even herself when she created a tidal wave that almost wiped out the inside of the arena. Thankfully, a fire magic Elder had hit it with an equally sized wall of fire, and it had turned into a giant cloud of warm steam.

They had had to crack open the roof of the arena to vent the steam and repeatedly brushed off Char's apologies, assuring her this happened all the time.

"Okay, now we will move on to the rarer magics," Phynethe declared once the arena was steam-free. "Please demonstrate your levels of light magic, if any at all."

Char hesitated before she raised her arms once again. She had never heard of light magic, but she had learned by now it was easier to just attempt something than it was to get an explanation for how to do the magic.

She focused on the space between her hands and gasped softly when it started to glow. As Char concentrated on it, the glow got brighter and more prominent.

The whole room was silent, and even the Elders who had been working quietly had gone still. Char spread her arms wide, and the magic nearly exploded outwards. The ball of light grew massive and started to change colors, all while Char just stared in amazement.

"I've literally never done this before," she said, her voice full of astonishment. Phynethe smiled widely and actually spoke out loud this time.

"It seems to me that for the first time in nearly five hundred years, we have a Nephilim who is capable of light magic. Most of the Angels that were capable of light magic were tragically wiped out in the Great War those five hundred years ago, but standing before us, we seem to have a fresh new bloodline for light magic." Her voice was loud and proud. The ball of light disappeared, and Char felt her own pride welling up.

"Now, normally, we would continue the test from here while a youngster stands here unable to do any of these rare magics, but you're capable of light magic, which means you won't be capable of any of the rest of the rare magics. See, those are rare for many reasons, one of which is that two or more cannot coincide in one person. It simply doesn't happen," the Elder who had led Char and her family into the arena spoke up from her place at the Elder's table.

Char walked back to the stage and climbed the stairs, feeling taller than before. Once she was back on the stage, Phynethe motioned for her to face her family. She turned and saw their faces all light up with pride.

"Now presenting to you the first light magic Nephilim, let alone user, in nearly five centuries," Phynethe's voice rang out loud and in Char's head at the same time.

Char had been mildly disappointed when she hadn't been capable of thought magic, but Phynethe had assured her it was more in line for Harpy Nephilim to know that Elven Nephilim. Her family cheered and rushed down out of the seating area.

Char noticed all the Elders who had offices in her had stood and were bowing to her. Heat filled Char's cheeks again, but she didn't have time to register it as her family swept her up.

She was hugged, kissed on the cheek, forehead, hair, patted on the shoulder, and told congratulations over and over again. Once her family let her go, a male Elder walked from behind the table and handed Char a spiral-bound book.

"This is everything you'll need to know about Marble Hills Academy. If you feel you need someone to explain, please don't hesitate to ask any one of us Elders or another member of the town who has graduated from Marble Hills Academy," he explained with a gruff, deep voice.

He congratulated Char and then left the stage. The rest of the Elders congratulated Char one by one and then left the stage.

She wasn't the only one who would be tested today, so she assumed they were taking an intermission between her Glissith Wrapmoth Tiedreene Wrannan, one of her friends from school.

A young woman who was probably interning at the arena led Char and her family out of the arena. Once back outside, Char noticed that it was early afternoon. Commonly, she was supposed to walk back with her family, but Char wanted to tell Mor first before she told anyone else.

"Mom, can I please go find Mor?" she asked. Hazel smiled sweetly and nodded.

Char pulled off her robe and handed it to her dad. Screw tradition; she needed to tell Morgana this news before she personally told anyone else, let her family tell the town.

She stretched out her wings and pushed off the ground. Flying was freedom. The wind rushed all around her, the sensation of her wings beating and carrying her forward. It took her a few minutes to find Morgana since the town was still crowded and milling about, waiting for Glissith to take his test.

Once Char spotted her, she folded her wings to her back and allowed herself to free-fall headfirst down toward Mor. When she was just about to hit the ground next to Mor, she unfurled her wings again and stopped herself from crashing. The motion jerked her upwards, and her feet hovered a few inches from the ground. She beat her wings lightly to stay hovering.

"Holy shit Char you know I hate when you do that," Mor practically yelled, drawing more attention from people passing by than Char's divebomb.

"And the way you jump and yelp every time is why I still do it even after 13 years of protests from you," Char teased as she landed and folded her wings.

The first time Char had divebombed Morgana was when they were six. Char had been flying for a week by then and was showing off what she had learned. She thought it would be funny to make Mor think she had lost control and then save herself at the last second.

The resulting reaction from Mor was the same as it is now. She jumped, yelped, and cursed at Char.

"Hey, wait, aren't you supposed to be paraded through town and show off which magic you tested highest in?" Mor looked at her with suspicion.

"Tradition can be broken when you're the first light magic user in five centuries," Char said in a matter-of-fact tone. Mor's face went from suspicion to confusion. Char held up a hand and produced a small floating ball of light that lasted a few seconds before flickering out.

"Okay, that's definitely new," Mor's voice was full of amazement. Neither of them had heard of light magic before, and Mor's reaction almost mirrored Char's. Char nodded and started to bounce in place.

"It was better at the tests, but I must have exhausted myself more than I realized. I had to come tell you first," Char explained, still bouncing with excitement.

"I can see that," Mor said and stuck out her tongue. The two girls laughed and hugged. Soon, Char's family passed by, and she and Mor were swept up by the crowd who were so eager to hear Char's results that it hadn't registered she wasn't with her family; after all, most people didn't break tradition as Char had done. After a little bit of pushing, the girls end up right next to Char's dad.

"Oh, hey there, Char. I was wondering when you'd get pulled back in," he murmured just loud enough for her to hear. Morgana, who had grabbed Char's hand when the crow pushed them towards the procession, squeezed Char's hand.

"Would you mind if I tag along since this all ends with a giant party for you and Glissith tonight?" Mor whispered in her ear. Char shook her head, indicating she didn't mind the company, and they all continued walking down to the lake where the party would be held.

Once they were there, Char was basically put on a pedestal where a nice, almost throne-like chair sat. They announced she was proficient in light magic, and Char's roar of approval from the crowd was so loud that she covered her ears for a few seconds.

She noticed there was another chair on a pedestal meant for Glissith and couldn't help feeling a little lonely. A scraping sound made Char look to her right, where she noticed Mor heaving a chair up onto the foot-tall pedestal.

"As if I'm going to let you go through this weird process alone," Mor smirked. Char smiled and thanked her.

Since Glissith's test would take a while, people milled back towards town, though plenty stayed. Some people still had jobs to do, while others just wanted to rest in their homes before the festivities truly kicked off.

Char and Mor were offered a plate of food each and a glass of wine. They ate and made small talk while they waited for Glissith.

After Glissith arrived and was declared most proficient in water magic, the party really started. Char and Glissith were showered with gifts and food.

Mor made sure to keep things from piling up too high around Char as more and more things were given to her. Sure, she had had birthday parties before, but never like this. She had been to a few of the testing ceremony parties but never stayed long.

She had always wondered what it was like to sit up in the chairs and be showered with attention. Now she knew, and she liked it more than she thought she would.

The party raged on late into the night, and Char ended up drinking and dancing so much that she knew the memories would be a blur the next day. The whole thing ended with fireworks that a lightning Nephilim and a fire Nephilim had invented.

As the sky was painted an assortment of colors over and over again, Char felt strangely that her life was about to change far more than she had been prepared for.

Buy me a coffee?

[pavor-noctvrnvs]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔫'𝔰 𝔊𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔢𝔫

Géza Csáth

ᏖᏂᏋ ᎷᏗᎶᎥፈᎥᏗᏁ'Ꮥ ᎶᏗᏒᎴᏋᏁ

Translated by Judith Sollosy

Two tall, slender fellows passed through the station gate and headed towards the square. I recognized them the moment I laid eyes on them. They were the Vass brothers.

We went into town together, a pleasurable experience on that mild June afternoon. We had been inseparable in school, but had not seen each other since our graduation four years previously. The Vass boys were studying abroad, and now were as glad to see me as I was to see them.

Their features had not yet hardened into men’s. Their aquiline noses and lively eyes were typical of men of late-maturing intelligence. Their manners were as worldly and genteel as ever, highly unusual in school boys, yet somehow attractive to us all.

We walked down Main Street and across the square. Having but two hours to spare, the brothers were pressed for time.

“To tell the truth,” the older Vass boy said, “we have come only to take a quick look at the Magician’s garden.”

“The Magician’s garden?” I asked. “Where is that?”

“You wouldn’t know, of course. We never told anyone about it. Will you come with us? It is not far.”

From the main square we headed for the church. We crossed the park. Our old theology professor was planted on his usual bench, his nose into a book. We hailed him. He responded with a friendly wave of the hand. Next, we circled the church. The boys led me into a dead end street which I had no idea was there. It was narrow and about two-hundred paces long. How very peculiar! Never had I seen houses like that in our town before! They were low and crude, yet there was something quaint about them – the molding of a window, or some carved detail, or the shape of a gate. Hoary old men and pale, sad-faced women were lounging on stools and benches, and diminutive little girls were sweeping and sprinkling the ground. There was no sign of carriage wheels anywhere.

When we reached the last house, we halted. The house itself was not visible except for the fence, a high, unpainted affair put together of planks so closely slatted you couldn’t stick your hand through it, and you had to lean very close to see what was on the other side.

I was immediately struck by the heady fragrance of flowers. There was a garden on the other side of the fence no bigger than a room, a tiny room, a plot of ground raised by fill to the height of our waists. But the whole garden was replete with a great profusion of flowers!

That garden was a strange, luxuriant world of flowers with long stems and horn-shaped petals of black velvet; in one corner a white lily bush stood drooping from the weight of its giant calyxes; and scattered throughout the garden were short, thin-stemmed white flowers, each marked by one pale-red pedal. It was these, it seemed, that were giving off that unfamiliar, cloying smell which made your head reel when you breathed it in. In the middle of the garden stood a tall cluster of corpulent, ruby-red flowers. Their fleshy petals, smooth and shiny as silk, dipped down into the tall, poison-green grass. This small garden of wanders was, indeed, like a kaleidoscope; lilac irises opened their petals in front of my very eyes, the scent of a hundred different flowers combined to produce an intoxicating perfume, and were resplendent, too, with every color of the rainbow.

In the back of the garden, across the fence, squatted a tiny house, its two green-shuttered windows nearly touching the ground. There was no door to be seen. Above the windows the roof came to a peak, hiding what must have been a large attic. In front of the windows I spotted some blue carnations. We must have gazed, awe-struck, at this tiny, ten-by-ten realm of wonders for four minutes at the very least.

“So then. This is the Magician’s garden,” the younger Vass boy said.

“And the Magician lives in that house,” his brother added.

“Not to mention the thieves.”

“What thieves?” I asked.

“The thieves. The Magician’s slaves and followers.”

“They go into town to steal things. They take off just around now, sneaking through underground tunnels. They reappear in the church attic and let themselves down the bell-tower rope. They have small oil lamps hidden under their brown cloaks, and they carry masks and daggers and pistols in their belts.”

“They sneak into the houses, or climb in through the windows. Quick as a wink, they scale the walls with their small picks, then heave themselves through the dark upstairs windows the people of the house have inadvertently left open.”

“Then they hide inside the closets.”

“Nobody in the house spots them as they sequester themselves among the clothes and boxes. They light their tiny oil lamps, and wait.”

“They wait until everyone is asleep. Then they come out of hiding, stalk through the rooms, break open the locks, cut off the children’s heads, and plunge their daggers into the fathers’ hearts.”

“And they haul their treasures back to the Magician.”

The boys related the secrets of the Magician’s lair as if reciting some ancient, long-forgotten ballad, and all that time, we never once averted our eyes from the garden.

“Are you thinking of what’s going on in there right now?” the younger Vass boy asked.

His brother replied for me. “There, behind that shuttered window, is where the thieves sleep. It’s a low, plastered hovel. There’s a flickering lamp on the wall. To the right and left, six straw mattresses are lying on the floor. Six thieves are sleeping on one side, huddled close together, their faces hidden from view.”

“On the other side, the six beds are empty.”

“The thieves have set off through the underground tunnels to go about their bloody deeds.”

“When they wake up, they have to climb out of their room on all fours. The place is too low. They can’t stand up.”

“The Magician feeds them. His wicked black eyes seem to say, ‘Go on, eat your fill, and bring back untold riches, much silver, and much gold.’”

“The thieves feed on live toads and lizards. For a special treat, they get aged May beetles that the Magician keeps stored in glass jars in the pantry.”

“Then they set off. The Magician lights a lantern, which he keeps in a skull, and waits up in his room. He reads. He keeps an eye out, lest his thieves get into a fix.”

“Lest the dogs or the children should awaken.”

“And when the eastern sky begins to turn dull gray, he comes out here, and lies down in the garden.”

“And then the flowers are transformed into beautiful girls, and he rolls around among them.”

“He frolics with them until the thieves come home, and then he takes their treasure and stores it away in subterranean storerooms. Then they all go to sleep. And then the house is still and quiet, with not a soul stirring, until the night comes once again.”

“Of course, the neighbors don’t know who lives here.”

For some minutes, we gazed at the Magician’s garden once again in complete silence. Then one of the Vass boys glanced at his watch.

“Our train leaves in twenty-five minutes,” he announced, heaving a sigh.

“Time to go,” the other Vass boy added.

By now the stars were up in the eastern sky and the street was as still as a graveyard. Except for us, there was not a living soul anywhere to be seen.

We headed back, the two Vass boys gazing ahead, deep in thought. None of us broke the silence until we reached the church. We circled the park, where three servant girls were drawing water from the well. They were pretty, and their laughter was light-hearted.

The oppressive perfume of the Magician’s garden was slowly lifting from our lungs. A hansom passed by. The Vass boys hailed it, smiled, and hopped on. The driver cracked his whip, and the boys took off for the brightly lit main street of town.

1907-1909

[fandom-madness69]

An excerpt from the first chapter of my original story/book

I'm never publishing full chapters to Tumblr simply because I'd like to make money off of this. The full first chapter can be found here on Ko-fi or here on my Etsy. Excerpt begins under the break.

Char sat up in her bed and let out a huge yawn and stretched her arms out wide. Today was the day, her 18th birthday. It would finally be revealed to her what type of Angelic magic she would be most proficient in. Sure, most Nephilim children were capable of doing all kinds of magic their whole lives but at 18 they were given a series of tests to help determine which they would be the most proficient in. Her toes sank into the soft moss that was carpeting the floor of her bedroom as she stood and stretched. In some spots where the moss was worn down from frequently being walked or stood on she could almost feel the planks of her wood floor of the bark of the tree’s branches. Silvery wings with small spurts of dark green streaked through them jutted outwards as she stretched them out and they filled most of her large room. She turned to an ornate silver full body sized mirror framed in Willow branches and tucked her wings against her back as she pulled her long red hair out of the braid, she kept it in while she slept. The sounds of her family, as they too woke up for the day, filled the large house that expanded many floors below her inside the big tree house that was built around a large oak tree.

Her room was on the top floor sitting among several branches that they had gently manipulated into an almost perfect square, save for the ones that made up parts of her floor. This resulted in all four of her walls having one to two oak tree limbs in them, but she didn’t mind. She made sure to take care to never hang any decorations on the branches of the tree. All the people in her town firmly believed nature was living so before they had built the treehouse for her family there had of course been a ceremony. One that involved offerings to the tree that decayed at unnatural rates, according to her family that is. This treehouse had been built by Char’s parents and their family just after her parents had gotten married as was also a tradition in their town. Off to one side of her room was a big sliding glass door which was where she was headed now. She slid the door open and revealed a large balcony with a moss curtain hanging around it that she usually tied up to take in the view but currently she needed to shower under the constant stream of water off to the far-right side of the balcony which was slightly sloped so it could run off and down to the balconies of the rest of the house. Off to the left side of the balcony was the chair she used for sunbathing and a small shelf of books she read while doing so. She stripped off her pajamas and stood under the water. Usually, the temperature depended on the sunlight exposure from their two suns, but sometimes she would fly up and boil it with a little fire magic.

[youvereachedthebadend]

Ooh what does your bra- mind look like???

'You can say brain, we get what you mean,' Jackie says.

The group walks through a small, misty corridor. Eventually the mist fades away and the dark brick walls become regular white plaster. The corridor ends in an open doorway, which they all walk through.

'Oh nooooo.' Chase goes pale.

They end up on a rooftop of a tall building. Around them is a cityscape. It doesn't look quite real. The buildings are tall black pillars with squares of yellow light as windows. Above is a black sky lit by a myriad of stars, way more than would usually appear in a light-polluted city. These buildings are impossibly tall, extending down hundreds of feet into a red mist that hides the ground. The rooftops are linked by wires and wide metal planks. There are no railings.

'Oh no no noooo why is it this?' Chase backs up, turning around. The corridor they came from isn't visible. Instead there's only a mist-filled stone doorway, suspended in nothing.

'Oh god this is your worst nightmare, isn't it?' Jackie comments, putting a hand over his mouth. 'I'm so sorry. I know it sounds strange, but I didn't choose it to look like this.'

'I don't think you can really choose what your mindscape looks like?' JJ says.

'Surely there's magic that can do that, right?' Chase asks nervously.

'Well we don't know how to!' Jackie says. 'Again, sorry.'

'No, it's fine, i-it's not your fault. I just gotta remember it's not real.'

[quamisty]

Melted Ice Cream

~ a Quamisty story written for theflamesofsorrow2 ~

about 2.5 k words, enjoy

TW: Magical fire, burns, and intentional harm

Stepping carefully amongst the loud twigs, Silver Night quietly crept her way up to the small cottage on the outskirts of Ponyville. The pale light of the moon illuminated the treetops of the Everfree Forest, casting a silvery glow on the cold, damp grass. Dewdrops clung to Silver Night’s mane. The peaceful sounds of crickets and cicadas were the only disturbance on this still, cool night. The quiet pony adjusted the satchel tied across her waist and flanks.

“Should be easy,” she muttered softly to herself, studying the house, “Should be easy peasy, even.” 

The house was a short, one story building. The stone foundation was neat and sturdy, and the wooden walls were clean. This was a well taken care of house. The windows were dark, the chimney wasn’t smoking, signaling to Silver that whoever lived here was probably asleep. The thieving Silver Night made a plan:

She would sneak through the garden –maybe grabbing a snack if anything looked fresh– and try to open the back door. With a place this close to the empty forest, she hoped that the doors wouldn’t be locked. If the back door didn’t work, she’d try the front door. The chimney is a last resort.

Silver Night crawled to the stone fence encompassing the garden, it was short and easy to climb over. The barrier’s purpose was to keep woodland creatures out, rabbits and such. A unicorn was not a suspected intruder. She kept her footsteps light on the dirt path, weaving between the garden beds. The only thing in bloom was the tomato plant. 

‘What would I do with a tomato?’ she thought, continuing at a steady pace. Lowering herself further, she arrived at the door and used her magic to wiggle the handle gently. It took concentration to keep her horn from glowing too brightly… click… The latch opened, unlocking the door.  

With a gentle push, the wooden door swung open. The floor was covered in a large, ornate rug, which would muffle the sounds of her footsteps. Tiptoeing through the entrance, she glanced around. A small couch, a coffee table, a few large bookshelves… It was just a living room. She glanced quickly at the books, but lost interest.

‘Just old magic school textbooks. Nothing that interesting.’ She walked forward, unaware that the corner of the rug was flipped upwards. It caught on her hoof and she fell face first with a dull thud. She stayed as still as a statue, splayed out on the floor. Her heart was pounding as she listened for any sign of an awakened, angry pony. It felt like an eternity until she decided it was safe to continue her quest. 

Silver noticed that her chin was… cold? Cold as if it was touching metal. She picked herself up and glanced back and forth. ‘What was cold?’ she wondered. Bending her front legs down, she looked closer at the floor. It was too dark to see any detail, so she used a gentle bit of magic to illuminate the wooden planks beyond the carpet.

Aha! Metal! A metal handle was sitting in an indented section of the floor, unusual seams in the wood created a perfect square around it. A trapdoor! Surely good things were to be stolen from a basement, Silver Night always had good luck in basements… well, except that one time… and that other time.

“This is nothing like either of those times,” she whispered to the empty air. As she lifted the trapdoor up, it was surprisingly heavy. Sitting on the stairs beneath it was a long, thin piece of wood, most likely used to prop it up. Silver Night precariously leaned the door onto the stick, and made her careless way down the steps.

The bottom of the staircase was pitch black. ‘Surely there should be a light in here somewhere,’ she thought. With a deep breath, a magical glow began to fill the room. A large candle chandelier hung in the middle of the room. With a precise flick of her head, Silver Night managed to light it, filling the room with a beautiful blue-tinted, magical light.

To her left were even more bookshelves, stacking from floor to ceiling, filled with textbooks, scrolls, and manuscripts. The light flickered against the deep mahogany wood, polished to perfection. To her right was a beautifully carved stone table, intricate details lined the legs, carvings of heroes, gods, and wars. bundles of sticks were stacked next to the table, wrapped in off-white cords. A wicker box of scrolls sat atop the table’s smooth surface.

In short, total garbage to a thief.

“Mrrph!” she grumbled, stomping her foot on the staircase wood in frustration. BANG! The trapdoor slipped off the prop, crashing onto the floor. Silver Night jumped, shocked and alarmed. She bolted underneath the table as quickly as possible, holding her breath, ears perked up to detect any noise. 

It was silent for a few moments. If the sound of the clumsy unicorn tripping and falling didn't wake anyone, surely this would. She let out a long, gentle breath, and inhaled slowly, trying to keep her heart rate under control… 

Nothing, no sound at all.

~

A quiet thud awoke the owner of the home from her dreams, her eyes snapped open. 

‘It's normal for noises to happen,’ She told herself. She lived by the Everfree Forest, it's completely normal, even expected, to hear a scary sound in the night. Yet, the creepy noises and bumps spooked her every time. 

The spooky night called for some soothing, warm tea to lul her back to a dream-filled sleep. Throwing off the covers, she slid on some fuzzy house slippers, and opened the door. She was debating whether she would have either green or lavender tea when she heard an enormous crash behind her

Spinning around, she saw nothing out of the ordinary, just a dark living room. What had made that awfully loud noise?

~

This awful misadventure was getting to Silver Night’s nerves. ‘I should just leave and try a different house,’ she thought, ‘there's nothing for me here.’ She galloped up the wooden steps until she reached the top. Using her magic, and all the strength of her arms, she pushed the trapdoor open. 

The foolish thief didn’t bother to look around before she began using her telekinetic abilities to grab some books off of the living room shelves. ‘It’s not much but it's something,’ maybe she could use the textbooks to learn more magic, or sell them at a discount to struggling students. She floated them one by one into her satchel.

Suddenly, the lights flickered on, and an unusually warm sensation began flooding the thieving pony’s body. Shame? Fear? No, it was something more real, something tangible. The warmth grew. Silver Night was paralyzed in terror from being discovered, unable to turn her head to search for the pony who had found her in the midst of a heist. The warm feeling kept growing. The fear, the shame, it became hot on her flank, almost too hot. Then suddenly, it was scorching.

A hot tongue of flame lapped at her buttcheek. Shrieking in pain, Silver Night leapt forward to escape the sensation. She slammed her head into the bookshelf. Books fell down like rain, pouring down and pummeling her. She reached her arms backwards to try and slap away the fire, her efforts proving futile overall. 

The pain on her left flank was extreme, even the throbbing of her book-beaten head was nothing compared to it. Her face contorted into a wince. Quicker than it had arrived, the flame extinguished.

Finding her footing, silver night turned to look down the hallway. A sleepy mare stood at the end of it, her red horn glowing bright in shock. Silver needed to get this pony off her ass, literally.

“You… I… I’m a… vision!” She stumbled through her words, her throbbing buttcheek derailing all trains of thought. “Yes! A vision from the, uh, great, um, Princess Celestia, a dream about… about your… studies! You’re, uh, scholarly… scholarly studies…” 

She was failing miserably, and embarrassing herself in the process. Studies? Dreams? Princess Celestia? What was she even talking about? This method of distraction would never work!

The brick-red mare was growing angry. A small flame lit at the top of her horn as if it was a menacing candle, threatening punishment. Silver shot her an anxious smile, mentally begging her to reconsider the actions she would soon take. 

Without a huff, the red mare’s horn caught entirely on fire, and Silver Night’s right flank along with it. She yelped with the feeling of singing heat, the smell of burnt hair stung her nose. Her eyes watered in pain, as she began slapping at the flame once more, her hoof connecting with her flank over and over. The magical flame was too strong yet again, and the desperate pony found no solution.

“You can have your stuff back!” she whined, frantically wriggling out of the satchel harnessed around her, “You can take your stupid books, just- ahh! I’m sorry- ahhhh!” 

The flame grew bigger, the fiery fingers lapping across her rear, creeping under her tail. She threw her back end onto the floor, slamming her butt onto the wood. The shocking impact ran up her spine, but it was nothing compared to the agony of the flames. She bit her tongue hard, trying to cope with the pain. 

The smoldering fire inched around her bottom, singing her tail, spreading over her skin. The heat felt almost internal, the flames were poking at her holes, down her legs, up her lower back. There was a full blown fire beneath her. She wiggled her butt, trying to smother it, her eyes welling up with tears. She was an incoherent mess. Her words tumbled out, begging the mare to stop in whichever ways she could, “I’ll- ahh ahhh- I’ll do- sto-op - anything at all- oww- ahh, please- ahhh” She whined. The harsh crackle of the fire filled her ears. 

“Hot enough for you?” the mare asked, her voice deep and contempful, filled with as much fire as poor Silver Night’s bottom.

Silver night lifted her rear from the floor, and slammed it down once more with a dull thud, trying to extinguish the magical flames. ‘Get off, get off!’ she thought, her mind flooding with the scents and sounds of the fire, the pain enveloping her entire back half. Through her watery eyes she could see the mare, smirking, enjoying her discomfort. This is what she gets for being a thief, this is her punishment. With a venomous smile, the mare lifted her head, and made the flames grow larger and hotter. 

Her rump was entirely on fire. The red fingers of flames poking and scratching at her bottom, filling her muscles and bones with the searing sensation. She leapt up, shrieking, frantically slamming her butt against every object she could find. The fire mare was cackling, enjoying the sight of this foolish panic. Escaping a magical flame was a futile effort. You can’t outrun what is attached to you.

Silver looked around, searching for a solution to ease the flames. She sprinted down the hallway at rapid speeds, nothing but a flame engulfed blur as she dashed through the house. She found the kitchen, connected to the front door. Her eyes fell upon the fridge, she could practically see the coldness emanating from it. She flung open the doors and grabbed the first thing she could see, and shoved her burning butt inside of it.

A cold chill dulled the pain of the fire, but the solid, frozen contents of the bucket quickly turned to a cool, sticky liquid. She pressed her bottom further into the container, covering her lower back and crotch in the cold mess. Her legs were splayed out, propped straight up. She used her hands to stabilize herself, shoving herself as deep into the bucket as she could go, aching for relief. 

With a content sigh, Silver Night slowly stood up, bottom dripping with the melty substance. She looked at the carton that was once underneath her.

‘Ice cream!?’ She thought, ‘I sat inside of ice cream?’ She twisted her head around to take a lick of the melted dessert. The sugary liquid coated her tongue. ‘French Vanilla,’ she thought, ‘delicious.’ She licked again, the cold treat distracting her from the situation at hand. She lapped up drop after drop, enjoying the succulent taste.

She was too fixated on the sweet, sticky relief to notice that the magical mare had followed her. The red unicorn’s smirk turned into a face of shock. Her ice cream! That stupid pony shoved her thieving, boiling butt into her brand new carton of vanilla ice cream! Silver Night finally pulled her mind away from her own bottom enough to notice the fire unicorn. She was angrier than ever, eyes piercing, horn glowing, stamping her feet with rage. The noise shook Silver Night out of her delicious distraction.

“Oh no,” Silver whined, her hooves began to move, legs pumping to take her to the first place her eyes landed: the fireplace. The backup plan would come in handy! Kind of….

She dashed like a madman again, sticky melted ice cream flying everywhere. She shoved herself past the dried wood pile and began her ascent. One foot after another she struggled for traction, straining her flank muscles to push herself up through the brick chimney. 

An angry scream rang out from below. Looking down, she could see a beam of fiery magic lighting the dry wood. Almost immediately, the fireplace bellowed with enormous, blue flames. The powerful fire whipped across Silver Night's aching butt, the smoke and power shoving her out the top of the chimney, her braided tail ablaze like a candle wick. As she flew through the air over the forest, the blue fire crackled hot against her again, boiling the melty cream still sticking to her blistered flanks. 

Silver night descended rapidly, wiggling and maneuvering to aim for the large lake beneath her. She broke through the chilly water with a splash. The cold water made her red, hot skin tingle. The lake bit against her sensitive wounds, bringing quick relief with a side of shock. 

She swam to shore, propping herself up and leaving her lower half floating in the chilly blue lake. As the waves lapped at her skin, bringing her blisters relief, Silver Night promised herself she would be more careful in the future. She took a deep breath, it was over.

‘I want ice cream,’ she thought. 

[jacks-tracks]

Barrio

Barrio -- MEX March 15 2024

Just 2 blocks from the busy Benito Juarez airport, behind the big expensive airport hotels,are backstreets. Double parked cars clog the road, taco stands and tubs of boiling pig fat fill what little sidewalk there might be. shady looking characters lounge predator like on filthy corners.

This is the route to the Hotel Casita del Arbol, an off street set of cement rooms($25 canadian single) fronted by a tall full steel gate that opens into a surprisingly large gravelled courtyard filled with a blooming Jacaranda tree dripping blossoms and filling the sky with a cloud of purple flowers. Planters made of old pallets line the walls, carefully filled with succulent sand trailing vines. there seem to be lots of staff who sweep, water, and clean carefully. this is not the hotel for the fastidious, but it's a conviently located, clean and cheap overnighter right at the airport.

Getting to the Casita from the terminal is made safe by calling and having a young man come meet the guest at the #5 exit. In my case he humped my 25 kilo suitcase up to the second level, across the pedestrian bridge far above the 3 lanes of speeding airport traffic, down more clanging iron steps and onto the littered pavement. 50 feet up to the right, then left 2 blocks past the curious vendors and loafers, then turn right 50 feet to the entrada.

Room 108, right at the back ground level, 10 by 12 cement room bright LED overhead light, double lumpy bed, with a shelf over, an old executive leather chair(reclines abruptly),a shelf for miscellaneous bits, and a useless old pouf in the front corner.The glass windows and door are screened by mesh and privacy curtains that are pale and thin and do little to block the all night courtyard light. Sleeping masks, earplugs for the jets, trickle hot shower in the spotlessly clean next door bathroom. there a re 6 rooms down and 2 more up a rickety steel fire escape. The shared kitchen is well equipped with a microwave, all dishes and utensils, all very well scrubbed, and a shared refrigerator.Even free filtered water.

I tanked upon water, showered and answered all my mail (WI FI).Had my cheese bun, cookie and granola bar for supper.

That rickety old fire escape leads to the cement roof top cluttered with old lumber, broken chairs and former shelves. The hotel and all the street front buildings back onto what was once a big courtyard, now in filled with hovels. Close to me was a 2 story cement building , perhaps 10 by 10 feet square, with access to the roof by a ladder from the obscured yard. 3 Pomeranian crossed dogs yipped about on the roof of the next building. A plank walk led to a ragged curtained doorway on the second floor. A young boy climbed the ladder , carrying a food bowl,pushing through the interested Pomeranians,and crossed the single plank bridge to deliver the food. A furtive man popped out of the curtain, snatched the bowl, and ducked back inside. The dogs settled, then had a fit as large cat crossed slowly across the roof of the next hovel, slid through the roof top clutter, and , knowing he was safe, turned and insolently regarded the frantic Poms. Dog free zone. Now cats can tell when something is watching them, and this one repeatedly looked up at me, and nonchalantly inspected his usual space.

Beyond these crumbling buildings the entire interior block space was jammed with tin roofed one story shacks, jumbled together in no discernable order. Every roof was piled with an mass of junk, rusty bed frames, old broken bicycles, rotten lumber,and garbage sacks of?? All crisscrossed with sagging clotheslines. There must be access past the streetfront buildings and pathways between the shacks cramming the airless interior.What about garbage? Sewage? Even the roof tops of the street buildings had 2 storey tiny rooms no bigger than a bed facing into the squalor.Dark , dirty, noisy, and probably unsafe. this is where the poor live, no doubt paying a fee to the controlling gangs, and living crammed together like rats. this is where the poor of Mexico city live, unseen from the looming luxury airport hotels.

I was glad to have a safe clean place, screened from the barrio by razor wire,and happy to have overnighted in an inexpensive friendly casita. Up at 6:30 to shower, shave and eat my granola, repack,(again). Another friendly fellow escorted me through the trash filled streets where vendors were yawning and already setting up for another session of day to day living.Looked a lot safer in the daylight.

So: A cheap overnight crash as close to the airport as you can get. 5574519610 whatsapp or 18887411010 Booking.com $18 us$

[ducknotinarow]

CC Rasey 🍷💖

| send 🍷💖 so my muse drunkenly flirts with yours

Casey was being Casey worrying over a small little injury when it was really nothing to worry about. Just a minor accident in the barn when a plank of wood feel loose and landed squar on Raph's bald head. It hardly hurt though. Raphael was always told he had a thick skull after all if anything the point was just being proven. Trying to insist he was fine but Casey was worried about concussions and head or even brain damage. That's cute. Raph? he had concussion before he knows how it feels and despite the insisting he was fine Casey didn't seem convinced and still instited to take turtle gback to the house to rest Raph tried of fighting blew Casey off and walked back to the house. Trying to prove some point that if he could walk he was clearly fine. Even if he was in a way still doing what Casey felt best.

Huffing once inside as he makes his way to the fridge and grabs at a good few cans before plopping himself down on the couch. Raphael had his own ways to handle his pains, and that method was? To drink it all away and drown it out till the pain was numb away by the buzz of the alcohol. Worked better then pain killers not that they always had the access to them so other method tend to be more favorable. Raphael skin was tough from years of taking blows for his brothers. So a loose board was nothing but an annoyance at best for the turtle.

He lost count of the cans he drank through waiting for Casey to make his way back even with a small snip between them they went looking for Raoh right away calling out his name. Raphael tried to stand but he had a good guess he had more than two can by then as he opted to fall back into his chair a moment. "Couch!" He calls out instead.

Of course, Casey first action is checking to make sure his heads fine cause drinking with a concusion didn't seem wise. Raph sat there semi listening to his boyfriend watching their face crack with worry and concern for his well being despite the clear scolding there was nothing but a clear worry behind those deep blue eyes of Casey's. Maybe it was the alcohol but Raphael wasn't really a mean drunk anyway. As he just learned back on the couch happily finishing his can.

As he just smiles to himself. Most of what Casey said falling on deaf ears happily content in the moment they may look more as an act of defiance. He lowers the can once it's empty and just contuines to grin at Casey. "Ya gonna make all 'hat hair go Grey if ya keep stressin' out. Though ya worry lines are already sexy as fuck? Might just define 'em mkre if anythin' be twice as hit 'han" Raph throws out there "what can' be 'hat surpised Case. I clearly 'ike 'em older." Nit that Casey was that much older but it was fun to push the guys buttons over it.

"Relax Bud 'm fine." Leaning forward to grab ar their wrist and get then to just sit. Beside him on the couch as he moves to rest his head on Casey's shoulder letting them look at where his head got hit. "Just a small scratch no relax before ya blood pressure gets worked up." He chuckles a little. Rolling a though through his alcohol filled mind before he moves to swing a leg over and bring himself into Casey lap.

Generally it was kind of a pleasant shock that Casey could support his weight so easy. And kind of hot despite all his bulk and shell. Smirking at Casey "see I move just fine" Moving to set his hands on to Casey face slightly turning thier head here and there as he taps his fingers against their skin. "Uh oh" He says waiting for a sign of there attetion as Raphael simply leans in forward. His tail slightly thumping against Casey's knees.

"Seems ya worry lines are gettin' deeper aww ya 'hat worried 'bout me?" He smirks a bit "I be more worried 'bout youes though, cause was right dose make ya look hotter." He happily tells them with a faint churr on the end of the sentence "help me up to the room an' promise show ya my head jus' fine to take some knocks against the head board." The turtle showing no care about his suggestion in the moment. Yeah he may have take too much of his own so called pain killers with how he was getting so quickly.

[ordersreality]

Mjǫðvitnir ‘Wolf’

Against the Cult of the Reptile God

2023 April 09 Mjǫðvitnir .Wolf Vlad. Rogue Level 1 XP 18

The young smuggler interrupted a badly remembered nightmare of fire and wind and a lot of green djyp blood and bone. Gore covered everything. A stiletto of strange material dominated everything. The break came in the sound of little feet scratching the dirt. The scratching had a rhythm reminiscent of knocking.

He looked around and watched that ferret, I mean, weasel studying him.

The air told Wolf the sun would rise in a few hands1, though the clouds would likely keep him from enjoying it. A quick dip in a nearby stream might be a delight. Then, onward to fortune and obscurity.

Before he could pull his bedroll out he heard a voice. It sounded like a child pleading for mercy.

Wolf2 watches from behind an elm as a man, ugly even for a human with a long, badly healed scar across the right side of his face, rattles a boy like a rag doll. Something is said of an old and senile woman at the other side of the pond. All the boy had to do was sneak in, find the treasure, and get out.

The boy speaks of ghosts, and the woman talking non-stop about a world before his mother was born.

The ugly one suggests offering to clean the place, a charity offered by the town’s mayor. The ghost was just the wind in the trees or eaves.

The man drops the boy none too gently, and growls. Then walks away.

To wolf’s special eyes it was with little surprise that he watched the boy weigh a small purse that clinked as he juggled it between his hands.

Something3 interesting is going on in the town that isn’t big enough for it.

A4 voice jumps out at him from behind. Wolf spins and lands with his flint knife in hand to see a scrawny old human. He is dressed in a threadbare shirt and britches, both clean enough. His gray hair is gathered to the back and tucked under a gray, wool hat, his beard tucked into his shirt. He steps back, securing his wicker basket against spilling or pilfering.

That weasel pops her head out and hisses at the djyp.

Wolf realizes quickly that no harm was meant, and relaxed. The words, Shame that, finally processed itself.

The djyp stood, stretched, restored his knife. He salutes the elder, who added, “Care for breakfast?”

Accepted.

Wolf comments, “Interesting friend, you have there.”

“Interesting phrase you have there”

The old man traveled well enough, though one leg seemed misshaped. Was the man weighed down by age or worries?

The basket smelled of dandelions and yarrow. He watched as the man harvested rhubarb leaves, setting them into a canvas sack. Looking into that basket he noticed a bowl filled with hawthorn berries. The weasel, still in the basket, ate nothing there.

Wolf began to suspect this weasel is not an ordinary one.

They5 passed a shrine. A square stone-mason platform with a triangular slab, carved with floral petals suggested a goddess. Clean and the ground well groomed, yet no token would suggest what spirit it served.

They came upon a hut several tils6 north-west of that shrine. Set into the dirt it had turf for thatching. Rotting elm logs and a clay pipe might keep rain water from flowing into the short door. A good thing as the floor inside sat another four feet down. Stone-masonry of a quality similar to the shrine lined the walls and floor, with wood planks and a rug covering that same floor. A box filled with fresh elm leaves had a fur atop it, and a wool blanket atop that. A wicker basket rested from a hook between the head of that bed and the grain arch sitting against that wall. The simple room had no tables or chairs. Meats hung from the rafters, drying. A stone oven had a wood door, closed, and the smell of bread baking met the djyp’s nose. He sighted the hand mill sitting next to a mortar and pestle. A horseshoe hung, open side aimed at the door it graced. A stone7 triangle rested within. The token clearly resembled the shrine. The talisman over the door felt protective, gave the djyp nostalgia for when he’d toddle into the kitchen, mostly for the company, maybe a small snack.

Wolf set his ruck at the door, just on top of a stack of elm branches aging for the fire. He pulled a sack of salt out. News and a story would pay for more. The salt and chores might pay for breakfast.

He watched as the leaf was pared from the rubarb’s stem, each set into different bowls. The dandelions added to the stems promised an interesting wine or some soup, depending on your palate. The berries went into another bowl. The weasel watched both men doing what they might. Every offer to help with this chore or that act was kindly rejected.

Sorted, the old man retrieved three bowls and filled each with barley seasoned with goat fat and acorn meal.

Meanwhile he prattled on about the town’s business. That lady is indeed senile but not so far gone she’s left her treasure to be found just by looking. The mayor is pompous and greedy and sure would never offer a charity unless it granted him something worth more. Both inns are trouble, though the Slumbering Serpent seems homelier, but is sure to be only a lesser trap than the Golden Grain, soley from letting your guard down.

The hermit hit upon the story of Merikka, a local goddess governing agriculture and related details. He rambled on about her calendar and started in on detailing it when it occured to him the djyp might not find it so interesting. He concluded only with his fear that her temple had been usurped by the scion of the Reptile God. His final complaint, cultists often embarrass their gods with minutia and games of power.

When the story moved on to the cult devoted to the Reptile God Wolf’s attentions were wholly dedicated. Though the god, themself, remained obscure in the telling, the cult, at least in this area, seemed rather busy. They often disappear travelers to the town. Should they be seen again, several weeks later, they will seem hollow and dim. Though alive they might waste away while doing chores for folk native in town. The hermit complained that many people in town use the name of Merikka, yet seem to refer to another spirit.

While Wolf sipped his tea he listened to the telling. [8] The words were adroitly chosen to maintain interest and school a memory. He felt sure this was a briefing. Though the request might never be spoken, the man felt guarded, the hermit hoped for a cure to the imbalance of the town.

Though he didn't like plans when he had them, he still wanted another perspective. This man might be nuts, after all, or be setting a trap. One choice had been made. One more day to investigate the story, see what might be unsaid.

· • ° • ·

1 20 minutes each

2 Initiative 7+4 Encounter 5XP, information; Derek [C 16] 2+2

3 Insight 3+4 2xp

4 Encounter 5xp

5 Religion 20+3 8xp

6 1 rod, 16.5ft

7 Investigation 11+5; arcana 14+3; 8xp

8 Insight 19+4 xp10

.

[wearesorcerer]

ALL RIGHT! Having gone through every spell in the game, I've narrowed down my selection. I'm giving you two honorable mentions because they're cool but a bit strange. I've come across several spells that I have questions or thoughts™ about, but I'll save those for later.

#5: Walk the Plank

As create pit, but it's filled with water. And sharps. Hashtag piratical nonsense.

(I really wish Tumblr would get over the "sharks are smooth" meme because I like calling them sharps, 'cuz they are.)

#4: Chains of Light and Shadow Trap

These are higher and lower (respectively) level ways of rooting a target, which is very nice.

Chains of light is pretty much the ultimate root, combining full paralysis with a dimensional anchor effect. However, it's fairly high level.

Shadow trap tethers an opponent to a square, preventing them from moving more than 5 ft. from it. It's significant because it's an anime/ninjutsu reference (if at lower power) and (more importantly) it's one of the few 1st-level roots.

#3: Temporal Regression and Akashic Form

Despite the names, these are essentially the same spell: create save state. They both have you note the condition of your body when you cast the spell and then let you reset to that body later on.

Temporal regression sets your save state to a save point (a location you return to when you trigger the effect). It only lasts one round/level, has a costly material component, and only works at close range (25 ft. + 5 ft./two levels).

Akashic form triggers when you die (well, are reduced to 0 or fewer HP) from something non-mental. Your old body is destroyed once you create your new one. You get the option of returning to the spot where your body was (and having all your gear on you) or to another spot within 500 feet (completely naked).

These are only listed here because I love timey-wimey and the idea of getting to restart from a save point (complete with universe reset) is tremendously appealing, even if that's solely within the purview of wish/miracle.

#2: Bilocation

"Isn't that how project image works?" Well, kinda. This literally lets you occupy two places at once, rather than creating a shadow duplicate. The downside is that it's overly, needlessly restricted in how it works -- much like how time stop is not as good as ZA WARUDO! because you can't interact with other creatures.

#1: Death Candle

This is just cool. It works like death knell, but instead of siphoning life from a dying creature all vampire-like, it conjures a fire elemental that looks suspiciously like their screaming ghost. That last part is key: the spell does not interact with any other spell that affects corpses or souls.

In short, it's kill opponent - gain minion.

The one downside is that it's a Racial spell for Ifrits (PF Fire Genasi), meaning that in theory it's a closely-guarded secret that casters of other races have to jump through hoops (i.e., get DM permission) to take. I think that's stupid, especially since the mixed fire and necromancy themes suit Tieflings and several other races equally or better than Ifrits. I'd figure a sane DM would ignore the requirement.

The metamagic feat Fell Animate works similarly (but with animate dead options), so I'd love to turn this into a feat. On the other hand, a fell animate death candle would be quite kyuul (and the only better version would be one that also binds the soul somehow, but I don't know any metamagic for that).

Honorable Mentions

Blazing Rainbow: This is here because it lets you make a rainbow bridge (that dazzles anyone on it; blargh) or conjure a bow that fires brilliant energy arrows. These were two separate spells in 3.5. I feel like they're only merged because someone couldn't decide on which they preferred and wanted to equivocate.

Vengeful Comets: Everyone loves things orbiting their heads (dancing lights, Melf's minute meteors, crown of stars, ioun stones, etc.), so have this one. The downside is that you only get to fire the comets against enemy casters that affected you with a spell.

Top 5 Pathfinder spells?

Oh dear, this will take a minute. Pathfinder introduced nearly as many spells as 3.0 and 3.5 combined did -- and many of them are weirdly niche spells which no one in their right mind should ever take (because other spells do the same thing). Gimme, like, a day to go through all of them. I can already think of two.