#that was meant for piling up things but like

[heliosunny]

Hi hi!! Can I request a yan! Jing yuan with an assistant reader? Like manipulative Yuanie. Thinking about how he’ll have one of the people who are your colleagues overload you with work so he can swoop in and save you like he was your “knight in shining armor”. Having you fill out lots of paperwork so you’ll have to work overtime and stay with him more is definitely something he’d do!

I think yan! Jing yuan would also take you out on ‘business dinners’ as he’d like to call it. 🤭🤭

I also wanted to ask do you take nsfw requests? Or maybe you can make a rules list too please!

Mwah ❤️ I hope you have a good day!!!

Yandere!Jing Yuan x Assistant!Reader

The workload had been suffocating lately. Stacks upon stacks of paperwork found their way onto your desk, each page demanding your immediate attention. Your fingers ached from gripping the brush for too long, eyes burning as you struggled to keep up. It didn’t make sense how your responsibilities had doubled out of nowhere.

"Ah, still working?" A familiar voice interrupted your thoughts.

Jing Yuan leaned against the doorway of your office, golden eyes filled with amusement as he took in the sight of your disheveled state.

"You're overworking yourself" he chided, stepping in. "That’s no good. If you collapse, who will assist me?"

You let out a tired sigh, rubbing your temples. "I don’t have a choice. These reports need to be done before the deadline."

Jing Yuan hummed thoughtfully, gaze flickering over the piles of documents. "Strange. I was under the impression that some of these tasks weren’t meant for you…"

His voice was light, almost casual, but something about it made your skin prickle. Before you could respond, he reached out, plucking a report from the top of the stack.

"Ah, this one" he mused, flipping through the pages. "This should have been handled by your colleague. How peculiar."

Your brows furrowed. Had you really been doing work that wasn’t meant for you? It made sense now—why everything had felt overwhelming lately.

Jing Yuan sighed dramatically, setting the papers aside. "It seems someone has been overloading you, either by accident… or design." He tilted his head, white strands of hair slipping over his shoulder as he offered a sympathetic smile. "I’ll have to look into this."

"For now" he continued, "why don’t you take a break? Stay a little longer with me. I was just about to have dinner—perhaps you’d care to join me? Consider it a business dinner, of course."

You shook your head, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders. "I appreciate the offer, General, but I can’t. I still have work to finish."

Jing Yuan’s golden eyes flickered with something unreadable before he let out a soft chuckle. "Ah, such diligence. It’s admirable, really." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. "But overworking yourself won’t earn you any favors, you know."

Still, you refused to budge. "I’ll manage."

Jing Yuan sighed, feigning defeat. "Very well, if you insist." He straightened, a small smile playing on his lips. "At least allow me to lend a hand. I can ease some of your burdens—"

"No."

The word left your lips firmer than expected. His smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze, something unreadable yet sharp.

You didn’t give him a chance to press further. With a quick bow, you excused yourself, diving back into your work before he could weave his words around you again.

By the time you finished, the lights are already on. The cool night air biting against your skin. You exhaled, finally free from the suffocating weight of paperwork.

Or so you thought.

Jing Yuan was leaning against one of the pillars near the entrance, arms crossed in an almost lazy manner.

"You’re late" he murmured, pushing himself off the pillar. "I was beginning to worry."

"General? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Working until this hour—alone, no less? That’s hardly safe."

"I can take care of myself. How old do you think I am?"

Jing Yuan tilted his head, his amusement growing. "I don’t doubt that. But even the strongest warriors aren’t invincible." He stepped closer. "If you had accepted my help earlier, I wouldn’t have had to wait for you like this."

"You—waited for me?"

Jing Yuan let out a soft hum. "Of course. What kind of superior would I be if I let my hardworking assistant wander home alone at such an ungodly hour?"

His logic was twisted, you knew that. But the way he said it, the way his voice dripped with gentle concern, made it difficult to argue.

"Come," he said, placing a hand on your back, guiding you forward. "I’ll escort you home."

-----

The moment you stepped into your office, dread settled deep in your stomach.

More paperwork. MORE PAPERWORK?

The stacks had doubled—no, tripled overnight. Piles upon piles of documents sat on your desk, some even spilling onto the floor. It was impossible. There was no way this much work had suddenly appeared unless…

Your mind flickered back to the conversation from yesterday. Jing Yuan’s words echoed in your head.

"It seems someone has been overloading you, either by accident… or design."

A sinking feeling settled in your chest, but you shook it off. You didn’t have time to dwell on suspicions, not when you were buried under all this.

You spent the morning frantically working, but no matter how fast you went, the papers never seemed to end. By midday, your exhaustion became unbearable. Your pride screamed at you to push through, to handle it yourself, but reality was much crueler.

You needed help.

And you knew exactly who to ask.

Reluctantly, you made your way to Jing Yuan’s office, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. The guards outside barely spared you a glance before letting you in.

Inside, Jing Yuan lounged comfortably behind his desk, golden eyes lifting lazily as you entered. His lips curled into a knowing smile.

"Ah, what a pleasant surprise" he mused. "To what do I owe the honor?"

You hesitated. Even without looking at him, you could feel his gaze, sharp and expectant.

Taking a small breath, you finally spoke, voice quieter than intended.

"I… need help."

The silence stretched between you for a moment, thick with something you couldn’t quite place. Then, Jing Yuan chuckled.

"My, my," he drawled, resting his chin against his palm. "So even my diligent assistant has limits. How adorable."

Your face burned, and you instinctively looked away.

"I would never abandon a subordinate in need," he said smoothly while walking over to you. "But…"

You tensed as he stopped just inches away from you, his presence overwhelming.

"I have one condition."

You swallowed. "What is it?"

He smiled. "You’ll sit near me while we work. That’s all."

That was… it? No outrageous demand, no unreasonable request?

Sensing your hesitation, Jing Yuan leaned in ever so slightly, his voice a soft murmur. "Surely, that’s not too much to ask?"

You bit your lip before reluctantly nodding. "...Alright."

Jing Yuan’s smile widened. "Good."

Without another word, he led you to his desk, gesturing toward the seat beside his. The placement left little space between you, the close proximity forcing you to feel the warmth of his presence.

"Now," he said, handing you a brush, his fingers grazing yours for just a moment too long. "Let’s begin, shall we?"

As you dipped the brush into the ink, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had fallen right into his trap.

The quiet scratching of brushes against paper filled the office, the occasional rustling of documents the only other sound. You sat stiffly beside Jing Yuan, fully aware of his presence as he worked leisurely beside you.

It wasn’t just the closeness that unsettled you—it was the way his eyes would flicker to you every so often, studying you between strokes of his brush.

"You’re quite tense" Jing Yuan noted, voice laced with amusement.

You didn’t look up. "I’m just focusing."

"Hmm." He leaned back slightly, stretching. "I wonder… do I make you nervous?"

Your fingers twitched slightly around the brush, but you forced yourself to keep writing. "Of course not, General."

Jing Yuan chuckled, clearly entertained. "No need for such formalities. We’re spending so much time together—surely, you can call me Jing Yuan?"

You hesitated, but before you could think of a response, he smoothly shifted the subject.

"I must say," he mused, "this is quite an improvement. If I had known all it took to keep you close was a bit of extra work, I would have arranged this much sooner."

You turned to him, only to be met with his usual easy-going smile.

"Just a joke," he reassured lightly. "Unless… you’d rather I keep you overworked? I could make sure you need my help every day."

There it was again. That subtle pressure wrapped in velvet words.

You swallowed hard and forced a polite chuckle. "That won’t be necessary."

Jing Yuan exhaled as if disappointed. "Pity."

Hours passed, and despite his slow, deliberate pace, he finished his portion faster than you. He hummed, watching you struggle to keep up.

"You’re still working?" he asked, feigning concern. "You really should take a break."

"I can’t afford to. There’s still too much left."

Jing Yuan hummed in thought. Then, as if struck by an idea, he leaned in slightly, his voice a near whisper.

"How about this?" His tone was warm, coaxing. "I’ll help you again tomorrow�� but only if you have dinner with me afterward."

"You deserve a meal after working so hard," he continued, resting his chin on his palm. "And it’d be nice, wouldn’t it? Just the two of us, away from all these dreadful reports?"

It sounded harmless enough.

Reluctantly, you nodded. "Alright."

Jing Yuan smiled, pleased.

"Good" he murmured. "Then it’s a promise."

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting the Xianzhou Luofu in a soft, warm glow. Lanterns flickered to life as you walked beside Jing Yuan, your exhaustion weighing heavily on your shoulders. He had insisted on walking with you, his usual lazy smile in place, but there was an unmistakable satisfaction in his gaze.

You had been too drained to argue.

The restaurant he chose was far from the usual places where officials gathered for formal meetings. It was intimate, the kind of place that felt too personal for just work.

"You didn’t have to pick somewhere this… refined" you murmured, hesitant as you stepped inside.

Jing Yuan chuckled. "Nonsense. You deserve a proper meal after all your hard work." He guided you to a private table tucked away from prying eyes, his hand lingering just a second too long against your back.

As you sat down, a waiter arrived almost instantly, as if they had been expecting you.

"Order whatever you like," Jing Yuan encouraged, waving a hand dismissively. "Consider it a reward for your dedication."

You hesitated before cautiously selecting something modest. The last thing you wanted was to feel indebted.

Jing Yuan, on the other hand, ordered without restraint.

"You know" he mused, "I admire your work ethic, but I do wonder—do you ever take time for yourself?"

"I don’t have much choice. The workload has been… demanding."

His golden eyes glinted. "Ah, yes. It seems someone keeps piling too much on you, doesn’t it?"

You glanced at him suspiciously, but he merely took a sip of his wine, his expression unreadable.

"It’s a shame" he continued, "how easily people take advantage of you. Always so responsible, so eager to prove yourself… It makes you an easy target."

His words struck a nerve—not because they were wrong, but because he was speaking as if he weren’t the very person orchestrating your exhaustion.

"You make it sound like I’m helpless" you muttered.

Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Not at all. You’re quite capable… But even the strongest warriors need someone to protect them sometimes."

There it was again. That gentle, insistent push—reminding you that he was the only one who truly saw you, the only one who cared enough to step in.

Your meal arrived, breaking the tension momentarily. You focused on eating, but Jing Yuan never stopped watching, his gaze following every small movement you made.

"You should eat more" he remarked at one point, nudging a dish toward you. "You push yourself too hard. It worries me."

"This is just a business dinner" you reminded him, almost as if you were reminding yourself.

"Of course," he agreed easily. "Just business."

But the way he poured you another drink, the way his fingers brushed against yours with each small gesture, told you otherwise.

Jing Yuan was in no rush to leave, drawing out the meal with casual conversation and idle remarks about work, yet every topic always circled back to you.

"You should rest more." "You work too hard." "It must be exhausting, always carrying everything on your shoulders."

His voice was gentle, warm, the perfect balance of concern and admiration.

“I should head home” you finally said, setting your chopsticks down. “It’s getting late.”

Jing Yuan tilted his head slightly, his golden eyes studying you in silence. Then, he sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair.

"I suppose you’re right" he said, sounding almost disappointed. "I wouldn’t want to keep you from your much-needed rest."

Relief flooded you—until he added, “I’ll escort you.”

You tensed. “That’s really not necessary...”

"I insist."

You swallowed your protest, knowing that arguing would only drag this out longer. With a quiet nod, you allowed him to walk you home. The city was quiet at this hour, save for the occasional passerby. Yet somehow, despite the openness of it all, you felt cornered.

Jing Yuan didn’t speak much, but the silence between you was anything but comfortable. When you finally arrived at your door, you turned to him quickly, hoping to end the night before he could push further. "Thank you for the dinner, General."

Jing Yuan smiled. "No need to be so formal. After all," he reached out, lightly brushing his fingers against the back of your hand, "we're much closer now, aren’t we?"

Your breath caught in your throat, but before you could step back, he withdrew his hand with a chuckle.

"Rest well, I'll see you at work tomorrow."

With that, he turned and walked away, his figure slowly disappearing into the night.

-----

Jing Yuan had been in a good mood that morning.

You had shyly asked for his help, relied on him, and even allowed him to walk you home. His patience was paying off, you were already beginning to lean on him, just as he had planned.

So when he strolled into the office, humming softly to himself, he expected to find you waiting for him, as usual.

Instead, what he saw made his easygoing expression freeze.

There you were, standing beside another officer, chatting casually as if the exhaustion from yesterday had never existed.

Jing Yuan’s sharp eyes immediately honed in on the scene—on the way you nodded, the small laugh you let out at something the officer said.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

The lazy, pleased expression he had worn all morning dulled into something unreadable.

Slowly, he stepped forward, his presence casting a long shadow as he approached.

Your conversation stalled the moment you noticed him. The officer beside you stiffened, standing at attention.

"Ah, General!" the officer greeted with forced politeness. "Good morning."

Jing Yuan’s golden eyes didn’t even acknowledge him. Instead, they remained on you.

"Good morning," he said pleasantly, but there was no warmth in his voice. "I hope I’m not… interrupting anything important?"

"No, we were just talking about-"

"Ah, I see," Jing Yuan interrupted "And here I thought you had your hands full with work."

The officer looked between the two of you, sensing the tension. "I should get going" he mumbled quickly before excusing himself.

"Was something wrong?"

Jing Yuan chuckled, shaking his head. "Not at all," he said lightly, stepping closer. "I just found it surprising."

"Surprising?"

"That you still have the energy to entertain idle chatter… after all that work."

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Jing Yuan placed a hand on your shoulder—gentle, yet firm enough to root you in place.

"Come now" he murmured, voice as smooth as silk. "There’s still plenty to do, isn’t there?"

In that moment, you understood—he wasn’t pleased.

And he wouldn’t let this slide.

The tension from the morning never fully left.

Jing Yuan acted as if nothing had happened, his usual lazy smile in place, his voice carrying the same smooth, amused tone.

But you could feel it.

The real punishment began soon after.

It started subtly.

Your workload, already overwhelming, suddenly doubled.

Requests that would usually be divided among the other assistants somehow all ended up on your desk. Forms, reports, urgent documents—all requiring immediate attention, all piling up at an alarming rate.

By noon, you could barely breathe under the pressure.

Still, you pushed through, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you struggle.

But just as you were starting to make progress, Jing Yuan’s voice interrupted your focus.

"Ah, this one’s incorrect." he mused, holding up a form you had completed earlier.

You blinked, frowning. "But I—"

"Fix it for me, won’t you?" he cut in smoothly, placing it back on your desk.

You stared at the document, confusion creeping in. You were certain you had filled it out correctly. But when you reached for another, you saw that the one you had submitted before, the one he himself had approved, was suddenly filled with minor errors.

Mistakes that hadn’t been there before.

Had he… altered them?

Before you could question it, he spoke again, his tone light and teasing.

"It’s unlike you to be so careless" he mused, resting his chin on his hand as he watched you. "Are you perhaps… distracted?"

He was toying with you.

And yet, what could you say?

Accusing him directly would only backfire.

So, you swallowed your frustration and forced yourself to keep working.

By the time evening arrived, exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. You could barely think straight, your hands aching from the relentless writing. Just as you were about to gather your things to leave, a shadow fell over your desk. Jing Yuan.

"You’ve worked so hard today" he said, his voice like silk. "Why don’t I treat you to dinner again?"

Your body screamed for rest, but you knew—this wasn’t an invitation.

It was a test.

And you already knew what happened to those who disappointed him.

So, with a quiet nod, you accepted.

And just like that, he won again.

-----

I think I'll update some rules if I have time.

For now, I don't receive NSFW content, it's a bit challenging for me in that field. :3 I rather focus on what I'm capable of doing rather than accepting all requests and giving you unwanted results.

[naffeclipse]

Tusks

Reader x Yeti!Sun & Moon

Commission Info

The lovely @divinit3a requested their Frostbite AU with their cryptid Arctic boys, which was an absolute delight! There's snow, there's local legends, and there's the fellas themselves! I had such a great time writing them, and I'm so glad for the chance to write Sun being so extra monstrous and Moon as soft and sweet. Enjoy!

Content Warnings: Animal death, blood, gore, and fear.

———

The evening light slants golden over the frozen tundra, the sky softening to a popsicle pink hue. Trees and jagged mountain outcroppings alike cast shadows which turn the snow blue and the rocks and bark of willows dark and thick. You cheerfully continue deeper along the expansive land, hiking in snug boots and thick layers of clothing that loudly rub in a high pitch zip with each stride you take. 

This journey is very ill advised—but that has rarely stopped you from chasing after what you wanted. Vanessa, the one who strictly told you not to leave the town set on the frozen edge of the sea at the North Pole, warned her to wait for either her or an official crew before you started chasing after myths and folklore in the region. But one night in and hearing about the local abominable snowman propelled you forward into a solo day trek into the frigid wilds just beyond town. 

Yeti. Local legend. Tall tale. “The ice devil” is too great of a story to pass up. You set out to find a hook, a real, captivating myth to jot down upon your notebooks and preserve on your voice recorder, and you are not going to disappoint yourself. 

Stories are as important as reality, as nature itself. Stories are how people keep themselves alive. You continue the tradition by writing reports for a renowned wildlife and wilderness journal. Nothing would give you more pleasure than to witness first hand the places and conditions which swirl the rumors of a creature so inexplicable lurking along the edges of the town. 

It was once thriving too. Even before the tourism died down, the town hushly boasted of the local cryptid that were said to roam in blizzards after dark. You’ve walked between the frozen houses and down the thin strip meant to behave as the mainstreet—it is struggling. 

Perhaps a new, fresh story could bring attention back to such a place. It could do good to remind the world that there are still stories here, waiting to be heard, wishing to inspire awe and fright and imagination. 

You slide between two giant boulders slick with frost and reach a fantastic overlook at the top of a crag. The town seems so small and far away. The sun is setting low, the perfect golden hour setting upon you like a caress from a loved one saying goodbye. You brush a gloved hand against your nose. It drips slightly, and you can already imagine how bright-red and cold-bitten you must look. 

It’s going to be a trek back down. You frown slightly, studying the distance. Maybe the town really is far away. You have… less than a perfect amount of time to return to your shelter for the night. You simply don’t have the gear to survive a night in the Arctic tundra without additional aid, but that’s no matter. You’re on your way back to your rental room.

Ignore the slight ringing of Vanessa’s voice in your mind, terse and firm, telling you to wait for her, you turn around to find a way to slip down the mountain. You couldn’t help but be allured by the beautiful tundra and the rising mouths of caves and caverns alike. Icicles hang thick as harpoons from the mouths of openings in the mountain and snow piles are so thick in some areas, it would bury you alive to step in them.

You’ve been careful. You’ve traveled slowly and mindfully, and stopped to jot down your notes in a notebook before pulling out the voice recorder to wander aloud about how the environment has crafted a perfect abominable snowman for the locals to chat about. 

Of course, you’re convinced there is no such thing. Stories are born for the need of understanding. One night, a long long time ago, someone saw something in the snow and it seemed larger than reality and taller than life, and then they never saw it again. The understanding of it drifted perfectly into place as a monster. One can wrap their head around a spooky thing when it fits the criteria of horror within their mind, and it becomes a way for people to warn others from wandering too far or staying out at night when the temperature drops to lethal negative digits. 

A new understanding was born. The story of the yeti thrives. 

You drop down towards a sprawling of trees. The mountain still looms tall and dark behind you, its pale face darkening with the change of the light. You almost lose sight of the sun over the sharp slopes and peaks—but you’re sure these are your own foot tracks you’re following back.

And Vanessa was so worried about you. You grin only for yourself to know.

A tempting ice cavern opens up along your side. It’s yawning mouth is towering and the inside is deep and dark. You stop a moment to gaze within, picturing a monster lunging from its depth at a poor, unsuspecting victim. Quickly, you pull out your recorder and make a few vocal notes about the textures and impressions of the cavern. Could more ice be inside, thickly burrowing underground? 

Something to return to later. Vanessa will have to explain more to you, and you’ll ask if she’ll deign to take you on a tour inside one of them. She’s so severe about anything—it can’t simply be the lack of light in half the year or the weather. No, that’s just her disposition.

Around a bend of willow trees, thick with snow clinging to its dangling branches like an umbrella beaded in white, you walk without care. Striding forward, followed the edge of several smaller caverns, still impressive but not comparable in size, your eyes fall to the ground you tread. 

The snow is disturbed. Long and lengthy strides of something small, and there are multiples of them. You slow your rush to peer closer under the deep shadow you’re caught within. Paw prints. Large, impressive animal tracks. 

Wolves.

You slowly straighten, intrigued. Did they pass through here? Perhaps they caught your sense and curiously lingered. You trek through the little patch of willows, studying the strangeness of which the snow is disturbed, markings that are too thick and long to be from wolves, but could perhaps come from them falling into the snow and rolling. Why would wolves roll around here? This couldn’t be a local resting spot for them, could it? 

The division between shadow and brilliant, bright sunlight glittering on snow is a stark threshold. You reach it, stepping from the trees’ shelter only to stop in the golden glare of a sunset. 

Further ahead is a wolf in the path. It lies upon the snow, terribly still. Your pulse pricks up along your throat as you stare. The beautiful, thick coat of the creature is ripped to shreds, stained with blood which languidly spills out around it. 

Your skull empties of rational understanding. As if compelled by morbid curiosity, you step closer, reaching its unmoving side.

Its tongue luls out of its mouth. Eyes, wet and open, stare lifelessly. The hide is decorated with severe gouges, exposing its entrails. Heat ever so delicately rises in misty wisps into the frigid air. The carcass, missing pieces, is not even cold yet.

Something was eating it. 

A crunch of snow echoes further down the path. You startle. An instinct, animalistic and wild within you, scratches at your heart. Go. Hide. 

You obey. Flinging yourself back from the clearing of the dead, eaten wolf, you hunker behind a cluster of frosted rocks. Dropping to your knees, the light barely glancing off the icy edges of the stones, you throw yourself into its shadow. 

The crunch of snow shifts into footsteps, heavy and quick. You press a glove over your mouth, afraid the smoke of your breath could somehow give your position away. 

The footsteps stop. The stillness turns your blood to slush. 

“Oh my,” a curious voice singsongs. It’s high and bouncy with a strange, radio-like static underlying its tone. “Friend? Come on out. I can share.”

The demand is too cheerful. Friend you are not. You hold your breath, terrified as you lean your head against the cold, unforgiving rock. 

“Reveal yourself before I find you,” the voice still is strong, but a strain hits its cords. 

You are doing no such thing. 

“How rude,” the voice pouts. 

The crunch of snow becomes a rapid sharpness of footsteps, and then silence.

The back of your neck prickles. You lift your head back, back, back—

A face of gold and rust stares back down at you, a crown of sharp, splayed icicles framing the creature's head, with a grin stained in blood just behind two golden, metallic tusks. Thick white fur clings to the monster’s frame.

The ice devil.

“There you are,” his voice deepens into a growl most dreadful. A hand, large and clawed, dripping blood, reaches over the rocks.

You throw yourself to your feet. Almost knocking into a willow, snow falling from the branches and catching like dozens of wayward diamonds in the sunlight, you run. 

The creature snarls and quickly strides behind you. Your heart thunders in your ears.

You almost trip over a rock and the creature tuts a sharp sound of rebuke, calling for you to stop. Breathless, fighting the tightening of your throat, you race back towards the ice caverns. A hapless thought of losing it in one of the caves crosses your mind. You step towards the fine division between shadow and sunlight upon the ground, and pump your legs with all your might.

A large hand closes on your shoulder, twisting you back to face him while throwing you to the ground. It knocks the breath from your lungs. In a split second, the creature of wild white fur and golden plates is upon you. He pins you down neatly, as if you were a small toy for his hands to enjoy shaking about. 

“Friend,” he beams, tusks decorated in red, “There’s not enough time!”

You struggle, your boots sliding against snow while you panic without air in your body. Your head spins. The yeti crouches over you, far too close for comfort. One eye is wide and pale, icy blue. The one is damaged, scratched, with a star-like prick of blue deep in its black center.

His claws squeeze your shoulder. His other palm sits on your chest, keeping you in place.

“I won’t get to play with my friend,” he pouts and snarls the next, “How naughty of you to run from me.”

The air trickles slowly back into your gaping mouth. You scramble, clutching at his arms in a vain attempt to push him off you, but you only succeed in smearing blood onto your coat.

The shadows stretch deeper. The monster tilts his head, the impressive icicle jags upon his head spinning like crystals in the air. He releases your shoulder to drag the back of a claw down your cheek, leaving you to whimper with precious little breath.

“We can play,” he decides. “You can run and I’ll hunt you down.”

You frantically mewl, trying to push out from underneath him but he cages you in his long and looming figure. He laughs, bordering on maniacal. 

“Keep struggling, little hare,” he growls, “It’ll make you taste all the better—if you don’t behave.” 

You suck in a sharp breath at the first cool brush of shadows on your face. The yeti snarls a guttural, temperamental sound. His claws sink into the front of your coat, pricking the fabric. 

“No, no, no!” His other hand flies to his face, covering it as the evening gives way to twilight, and the gold upon his particular face fades to a silver and black.

Unhanded, you push yourself out from underneath the monster before bolting straight back into the thicket of the willows. You dash madly. Your footsteps remain in the snow, calm and steady, now smeared with your backtracking as you rediscover the great opening of the ice cavern from earlier, and toss yourself inside with all your might. 

You race into the darkness. The coldness turns your breath into thick smoke before your lips. Your heart pounds while your fingers and toes grow numb. You ignore the paint of red upon your clothing, left on your cheek.

Stories are understanding. A warning. A way to survive.

The ice devil should have been a story.

The rounded walls of the ice cavern grow narrow. Panic hooks into you, sharp and cold, as you push yourself against the wall. The cold bites at your nose. Your head swims as black stains the edges of your vision—or is it that dark?

You slip down to your knees. Clutching yourself, your body shakes violently with shock and icy temperatures. This is too dangerous for you to lie low in—you won’t make it through the night.

Footsteps click into the icy entrance. You lift your head, staring at the large figure taking up the entrance with a thick, wild coat of undisguisable white. Shrinking closer to the frozen ground, you bite your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

The figure draws near. The low light of the deepening twilight barely reaches inside. Your heart struggles in your ribcage, clawing at your sternum. You can no longer hold your breath. A faintness takes hold. 

A head snaps towards you, two sharp and icy horns upon the crown of its head, paired with two dark tusks. Something long and fluffy sways behind its head—a nightcap. The creature lumbers towards you upon lethargic steps. You yelp as it stands over you, eyes blue and piercing, but his expression is far less bloody. 

A sluggish hand reaches for you. Fear strikes so thick in your mind, you freeze without any adrenaline to protect you. The hand lifts you off your feet and pulls you against its body. You briefly struggle.

“Stop,” a voice comes, low and raspy, and exhausted, “Hold still.”

You obey, if only due to being struck dumb by the difference in the voice from only moments before. 

Long and thickly furred limbs wrap around you. A cloak, white and heavy, drapes over you until you’re snuggled against the creature’s chest, held secure in lithe arms.

Surprisingly gentle, the ice devil ensures every part of you is coated in the warmth of his attire. The fluff is wild and warm. The relief it brings is instant despite your shaking limbs, and you stare, wide eyed, up at the mysterious face of silver.

“Sun…” he mutters, shaking his head. His tusks cut through the air before he looks down at you. “It’s alright now.”

You don’t know if you believe him, but your body sags, and the blackness flanking your vision engulfs you entirely. The last fleeting sensation is a claw touching your cheek, wiping away blood.

[clementine-thedestroyer]

What about Raccoon! reader and bear! price. I think that would be a funny play on the usual prey hybrid reader.

Like this trash panda keeps leaving berries and cool junk outside Prices cave. He doesn't think the trash is as nice as you do but when he finally catches you and you have to try and explain Raccoon courting to him, he gets to decide if he wants to accept your offering or not!

(idk anything about Raccoon courtship btw I made that up💀)

I’m obsessed. I love this so much.

Maybe you’re bringing him what, in your eyes, isn’t even trash. Anything shiny, soft, or remotely interesting will catch your interest- one man’s trash is another man’s treasure and all that- and of course you want to share your greatest treasures with him.

So you start brining him your best finds as little gifts. The first thing you bring to him is an old disco ball ornament meant to dangle from a rearview mirror (it’s got a few of the reflective tiles missing, but they’re no great loss).

The second gift you bring is one of the reflective, crinkly cat toys that looks like little balls of tinsel (shiny and crinkly!!), and the third gift is a section of shiny copper pipe you found about to be thrown out.

You bring him other, smaller gifts too- those were just your favorites. You bring him some of the little minnows you snatch from the creek’s shallow banks and every pretty rock that catches your eye. If you don’t mind bugs, maybe you even bring him a butterfly with pretty wings or a shiny beetle to enjoy.

And all the while, John is convinced someone is fucking with him. Why is there a pile of 3 flopping, still alive and actively suffocating minnows in front of his den? What’s he even supposed to do with them? Eat them? They’re not even half the size of his pinky finger. Unsure of what to do, he ends up picking them up and taking them back to the water, perplexed by the situation.

But as more and more “surprises” of the like show up, he’s only getting more and more confused. Within a month, he’s found piles of junk in front of his send and he’s had to escort multiple sets of minnows and even a few frogs back to the stream. What’s he supposed to make of all this? What possible reason could someone have for leaving a broken pencil for him to find. Was there some sort of message?? Was that metal pipe supposed to be a threat???

So eventually he gets tired of being messed with and has a stakeout, hiding back in the underbrush and watching the entrance to his den as night falls, hoping to catch the perpetrator in the act.

He falls asleep on watch, only waking up at the sound of light, cautious footsteps near the entrance of his den.

He doesn’t hesitate. He knows this must be who’s been messing with him for the past few weeks.

He shoots out of the bushes, tackling you to the ground and ignoring your shrieks and squawks of protest as he wrestles you onto you back, pinning your arms down and glaring down at you.

“Alright. Jigs up. You had your fun messing around with me, but I’m tired of waking up to crap or half dead animals on my doorstep. Time to fess up.” He growls, looking at where he has your wrists pinned, noticing the mangled, bent metal fork in your hand.

Yep. It’s definitely been you.

“Christ.” He grumbles, plucking the fork from your hand, inspecting the twisted metal. “What the hell even is this? Where do you find this crap?? How much effort have you been putting into messing with me?”

“You don’t like it?” You say, your voice cracking.

John looks down at you, taking in the look of hurt in your eyes and the small, light grey and almost oval shaped ears sticking up from the top of your head.

He sighs, resigning himself. Of course you were a raccoon hybrid. He should’ve realized he was being courted… just the gifts and offerings of food didn’t quite line up with what he considered to be typical courting gifts.

He releases your wrists, sitting back on his heels to take his weight off you and taking a deep breath in.

“No… it’s… it’s fine. I love it…. Why don’t you come on inside.”

(Then like a week later after the two of you talk it out and he starts courting you back he just asks why the fish always had to be alive when you left them there and you just told him to prove that they were fresh)

[fallenclan]

Do you think you could add Sleepydawn’s Journey to tumblr to make it easier?

sure :)

Sleepydawn's Journey

“This is it.” Tangletail turned to look at him, her green eyes glossy but unsympathetic. “End of the line, Sleepydawn.”

A thousand rebuttals bunched on the end of Sleepydawn’s tongue. For you, maybe. Or This won’t be the last time you see me. Possibly even something as simple as, You’ll regret this.

Sleepydawn said nothing. Tail dragging on the ground, he turned away from his clanmates and stepped across the border. 

He felt their eyes watching him as he went, as the ground turned from soft grass to hard dirt to even harder black stone. He itched to turn back, shoot them a glare or just soak in a final look at his clan. It’s in his nature to be impulsive. But where had impulsivity gotten him?

He rounded the corner of a twoleg nest, and then he was gone.

It was then, and only then, that he stopped, sitting hard on his rump in the narrow gap between structures. It smelled there--like rotting vegetation and some unique twoleg stench, but he had bigger problems than whatever odors he’d have to wash off his fur later. 

What would he do now?

He wasn’t a Fallenclan cat anymore. Not even a warrior. Maybe he could be, if he traveled around the territories--to Cricketclan, Gooseclan, Shallowclan, even. They weren’t even far, all things considered, and most of them would probably accept a new warrior, but the idea of belonging to a different clan, a clan besides his own, soured his stomach. He wasn’t meant to live in a swamp, or a dense forest, to live in nests made of reeds and moss. 

He wasn’t meant to be a loner, either, and yet…

He could wait for Levi. Levi, who was Ravenstar’s right hand, his deputy, should by all accounts be Sleepydawn’s leader now, even if he wasn’t Fallenclan’s. He could wait for Levi to join him, and Patchback, and whoever else as an outsider (If Wolfbite doesn’t kill them, first), and then… what? Start a new clan? How was that different from joining one that already exists?

Fallenclan was Sleepydawn’s home. That was who he was. Did Levi really mean anything to him outside of that?

Perhaps it was a question for a better day. Now, Sleepydawn was tired, and he was going to need to eat soon, even if he wasn’t hungry. Wolfbite had offered him a piece of prey from the fresh-kill pile before he left, and he’d refused, blinded by anger and despair and grief. He didn’t know what he’d be able to find in twolegplace, but there was no harm in looking. Hunting might help clear his mind, anyway.

Sleepydawn stepped further into twolegplace, and began his first day as a loner.

. . .

Twolegplace was. Different.

He’d been there before. As an apprentice, in any of his spare time he didn’t spend training, he liked to wander. Not far, of course, usually not more than a tree length in, knowing that twolegplace was dangerous and not for clan cats to explore, anyway, but enough to get a decent look at what the place had to offer.

Or so he had thought, anyway.

The place seemed devoid, at first, of anything but twolegs and monsters. They stalked around their flat, grassy patches of land outside, peered at him through the holes in their nests. Very few spared him more than a glance--just a couple of kits that crouched their long legs and made noises like a broken hiss-- pspspspsps.

He ran off quickly after that.

And the monsters, of course. They were everywhere. Mostly asleep, thank the stars, either resting on those patches of smooth black or silver stone, or tucked inside perfectly sized nooks in the twoleg nests. The ones that were awake slowly prowled up and down the rocky pathways, growling and rumbling all the while. Sleepydawn gave them a good berth, knowing that they wouldn’t stray from their marked walkways, on edge despite his knowledge. If nothing else, their constant noise made it difficult to listen for other dangers.

After a long while of aimless wandering, though, he found that perhaps twolegplace wasn’t as devoid of life as he thought. 

There were birds everywhere. Just as abundant as they were in the mountains, maybe more. They seemed drawn to these odd little twoleg structures that seemed to be filled with seeds and nuts--perhaps something to lure them out of hiding so that the twolegs could catch a meal? It was smart, but if that was the case why didn’t he see any twolegs hunting them? Rather, most twolegs seemed to give the things a decent berth, as if perhaps they didn’t want to frighten the birds away. The birds didn’t seem too startled, anyhow, like they were used to the twolegs wandering nearby. Probably they were.

There wasn’t a lot of ground prey, besides a few lizards and squirrels, but those all scattered before Sleepydawn could get close, not yet trying to catch something now that he knew it wouldn’t be too hard to find a meal when he was ready. 

There were other animals too, not just twolegs and prey. Cats--a not-insignificant amount of them, lounging on sunny rocks, or inside twoleg nests, but more importantly…

Dogs.

Inside twoleg nests. Bound to twolegs by long tethers. Barely trapped in big, wooden enclosures. The fur on the back of Sleepydawn’s neck raised, the old injury on his leg aching. 

He didn’t like dogs. Hadn’t for a long while now.

He did what he could to avoid them, and began to look in earnest for a meal.

. . . 

Sleepydawn knew the story of his grandfather, okay?

Otterslip. Born an outsider, adopted by the clan leader and the deputy, raised a warrior. Adopted kits of his own. Lost one. Lost his mind. Killed the medicine cat. Got exiled.

Sleepydawn was not his grandfather. But he’s not his father, either.

His father, Sleepycloud. His namesake. Born to Bluefern, Evie, and Newtscar, grew up to be one of the greatest warriors the clan had ever seen, scarred in valiant battle in the war against Shallowclan, drowned trying to save Foxdust. Spent every living (and dying) moment being a hero.

Sleepydawn wasn’t like him. Maybe it wasn’t a good thing, like he’d always told himself it was.

He wanted to be different. He wanted to be different in a good way. Stronger, more heroic, more valorous. Maybe he could make deputy, where Sleepycloud never could.

Looking at himself, trying to sleep uneasily in twoleg territory, belly full of outsider prey, exiled from his clan, perhaps Sleepydawn was more like his grandfather than he realized.

. . .

Sleepydawn rose with the sun the next morning, leg aching from an uncomfortable rest underneath a bush, and began to walk. 

He didn’t have a destination, really--he just knew that with each breath he took so close to Fallenclan territory, yet forbidden from entering it, he felt sick. Like he ate something rotten, and he couldn't get his mind away from the heavy, nauseating feeling in his stomach. He needed distance, now, more than anything.

Maybe not more than food. Despite his nausea, he was starving.

If he were still with Fallenclan, he’d go to the freshkill pile and pick out something from last night. It’d be a bit stale, and cold, but filling, and it would give him the energy to go catch something fresher, or to go mark the border and pick out something fresher when he got home. Now, there was no freshkill pile, no border, no patrol. It was just Sleepydawn and his grumbling belly.

He found and caught a squirrel without much trouble. It was difficult, when he was already hungry and still groggy from sleep without Hazelthorn or Frecklefox or Ashblink to groom his pelt and make fun of him when he’s tired and incoherent--think about something else.

It was difficult, when he was already hungry and still groggy from sleep, but he managed, and the fresh taste of prey-blood on his tongue was worth it, sweet and nourishing. He swiped his tongue over his lips, but didn’t get the chance to eat any before a voice piped up.

“Wow, that was great!”

He was bristling immediately, whipping around with a hiss. The grassy enclosure had reeked of kittypet already, layers and layers of scent, like a territory, so he hadn’t noticed the cat approaching. She was sitting primly next to the entryway of the twoleg nest, ears twitching. A lithe brown tabby, with a green collar.

“I’ve never been able to catch a squirrel before,” She chirped, unaffected by his hiss. “I mean, I’ve gotten lizards and baby birds and things, but never anything like that.”

Sleepydawn bared his teeth. “I’m not sharing.”

The kittypet looked a bit disappointed, but not necessarily surprised. “That’s alright, I just ate. I’m Katie, what’s your name?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a weird name. Nice to meet you, Noneofyourbusiness!”

For a second, he was appalled at her stupidity, but then he saw the mischievous gleam in her eye, and it turned to anger. He wanted to swipe at her face, or spit, or just scare her off, but he saw the skinny, leggy look to her, and the size of her eyes and ears. She wasn't much older than a kitten, maybe seven moons old, and Sleepydawn wasn't so cruel that he’d attack one that young, or that untrained. He gritted his teeth through the anger and picked up the squirrel, making to leave.

“Wait!” Katie cried. “I’m sorry, I’m just kidding around. Are you new to the neighborhood? I haven’t seen you around before.”

Sleepydawn stared for a second, then reluctantly dropped his prey. “I’m not a kittypet.”

A frown. “What?”

“I don’t live with twolegs.” He snarled. “I don’t stay in a nest or let them pet me with their awful naked paws.”

“Oh, you’re a stray.” Katie blinked. “Or- are you feral? You don’t like housefolk at all, huh?”

He huffed an angry breath. “Obviously.”

“Katie!”

There was another kittypet. No collar, but he could smell the stench of twolegs clinging to every fur on her pelt. She was mostly black, with a white muzzle, paws, and underbelly. Crouched on the wooden wall, she looked down on the both of them with fear.

“Katie, get away from him!”

“It’s okay, Socks, he’s nice!” Katie chirped. “Or, well, he’s actually pretty crabby, but still. He’s just feral.”

“He’s not just feral,” Socks hisseed. “He’s a mountain cat, Katie.”

Now Katie began to bush up, her eyes going wide. She looked at Sleepydawn and slowly took a few steps back.

Good, he thought vindictively. They should be scared.

Sleepydawn bared his teeth a little at the both of them, hoping that the squirrel-blood from earlier was still clinging to his gums. He wasn’t sure if it was or not, but they both shrank away anyway, bristling and tense.

“I’ll be leaving now,” Sleepydawn spat, tilting his head up a bit to glare. “Unless you want to talk more.”

“No,” Katie mewed softly. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

Sleepydawn huffed, picked the squirrel up in his mouth, and hopped over the wooden wall.

He ate his breakfast behind another twoleg nest a bit further away, but it didn’t taste as good as it did before. He told himself it was just because it’s cooled, now, and wasn’t quite as fresh, but there was a small, quiet part of him that whispered food always tastes better with company.

He bitterly told the voice to shut up, and took another bite.

. . . 

The sun sets, and rose again. Sleepydawn had to assume he was on the other side of the twolegplace, now. It was a long, long ways away from home, but. Not far enough. It was there that he had his second encounter with kittypets.

He was in one of those grassy enclosures behind a twoleg nest. He’d crossed so many by now, wanting to avoid the stone pathways outside where the monsters roamed. He stayed on top of the wooden walls, mostly, but this enclosure had a bit of water in it, and his mouth was dry.

Halfway through drinking, he heard pawsteps behind him.

Choking on water, Sleepydawn was off like a startled rabbit, tearing at the ground under his paws. There was heavy breathing behind him, growling, and then a few barks. It wasn’t a huge dog. It was smaller than the one that Sleepydawn nearly lost his leg to.

But he couldn’t think.

Riddled with fear like a bug-chewed leaf, Sleepydawn ran for the first familiar thing he saw--a tree--and scrambled up it, hearing teeth snap at his heels, just narrowly missing his tail as he shot up the trunk. He got halfway before he could convince himself it's far enough, trembling and breathing heavily.

Below, in the enclosure, a twoleg burst out of the nest, growling and barking back at the dog in its own clumsy language. It grabbed the beast by its collar and dragged it backwards. Just as the two disappeared inside, another form slipped out.

Sleepydawn barely noticed. All he registered was that the dog is gone, he was safe, the dog was gone-

He was having trouble breathing.

“All right up there?” Called a voice, croaky with age.

Sleepydawn crushed his eyes shut, gripping the branch under his claws with a vicious force. The dog is gone, the dog is gone, the dog is gone.

A sigh, faint. “I’m too old for this.”

Sleepydawn didn’t register the cat crawling up the tree, not even when they settled next to him. Long fur, gray, maybe, a stench of twolegs. Sleepydawn was trembling too hard to notice.

“Calm down.” A tongue rasped reluctantly over his head, face, ears. It was a familiar gesture, and he relaxed into it a little--flashing back to when he was a tiny kit and Ivybounce would do the same to him, laughing and calling him Sleepykit, my little sleepy kit, when he would yawn and complain.

“You’re alright.” The grooming paused when the cat spoke, then continued. “Deep breaths, son.”

Sleepydawn snapped back to reality abruptly. He was a warrior, crouched in a tree shaking with fear from a dog while a kittypet calmed him down. As if he couldn’t be any more of a failure. With a snarl, he snapped his teeth at the kittypet until they draw back.

“Ungrateful little shit, aren’t you?” The cat huffed, not looking particularly alarmed, just ticked off. “Saved you from panicking out of your skin and that’s what you give me?”

“I wasn’t panicking,” Sleepydawn lied, fur bristling along his spine even more than it already was. “I’m a warrior.”

“Mountain cat, huh?” The kittypet scoffed. “Met one of you once when I was young. Not so scary. That how you got your scar? Battle?”

Sleepydawn glances down at his scarred leg. The fur is parted oddly all down that limb, awkwardly trying to grow around the thick pink tissue. Ravenstar had called it a mark of a true warrior. Sleepydawn called it painful.

“A dog.” He answered without thinking.

“That explains it.” The kittypet shook their head. “Listen, it’s late, you’re clearly exhausted. Stay here and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“I don’t want your kittypet food.”

“How about a bird, then?” The kittypet chuckled a little when they saw the hungry look on Sleepydawn’s face. “That’s what I thought. I’ll be back.”

He told himself he’d climb down and run the moment that the kittypet disappeared, but he found his body strangely shaky and weak. He spent a few minutes trying to gather the strength, and then the kittypet was returning, sitting on the grass below with an oriole in their jaws.

“Dinner,” They called. “Hop down into the yard, the dog is locked inside now.”

Sleepydawn swallowed. His voice was uncharacteristically weak when he meowed, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. And anyway, Buttercup is no wild dog. She likes to chase, but wouldn’t know what to do if she caught anything. You ever catch her chasing you again, just give her a scratch on the nose and she’ll head home.”

Sleepydawn reluctantly chose to trust the kittypet for now (not that he had much of a choice), and climbed down from the tree, only a bit shaky when he landed. The kittypet dropped the oriole in front of him and didn't speak until Sleepydawn started to eat.

“My name is Dust Bunny,” they said. It was a bit of an odd name, but it was clanlike, and it made a part of Sleepydawn relax. “You can call me Dusty if you want. This is my housefolk’s yard and you’re welcome to stay in it for the night, if you want to.”

He didn’t want to. But he does think that he wouldn’t be able to go much farther without a rest.

“I’ll sleep in the tree,” he grumbled out between bites. 

“The manners on you,” Dusty snorted. “Did your mother raise you to talk to your elders like that?”

Sleepydawn bristled a little. Not because he was mad, no--because Dusty was right. Ivybounce would be disappointed in him. For more than one reason.

His heart ached at the thought of her.

“...Sorry.” He meowed after a minute of pause. “Thank you for the food. And the shelter.”

“That’s more like it,” Dusty sat and wrapped their tail around their paws. “The tree is fine and all, but there’s a bit more shelter inside the shed, and Buttercup can’t get in there, which I can guess you’re worried about.”

Sleepydawn swallowed down a heated retort at the same time he swallowed down the last bit of oriole. “Thanks.” 

As he washed his face, cleaning the orange and black feathers off his muzzle, he considered Dust Bunny. They were old. Elder age, certainly, with white hairs around their muzzle and an audible creak from their joints. It was beyond Sleepydawn how they managed to climb up and down a tree and still catch him a bird with energy to spare, but perhaps living with twolegs would do that to you. He knew they tended to grow fat on plentiful food. Perhaps in their younger days they had even more energy. Enough to wander across twolegplace, to poke at the mountain cat borders, meet a Fallenclan cat or two. Still, this den was a long way from Sleepydawn’s home. It was unlikely they would have met a Fallenclan cat unless they, too, were wandering.

“You said you met a mountain cat before,” Sleepydawn meowed. “Will you tell me about him?”

Dusty’s ear twitched. “What makes you think they were a him?”

They must have caught the disappointed look on his face, because they chuckled a little. “You knew him, huh? Well, I don’t envy you if you did. He was a nasty son of a bitch. Long brown fur, stripes over his eyes, scar on his cheek, sound familiar?”

“Otterslip,” Sleepydawn breathed.

“That’s the one.” Dusty tilted their head. “He said he was exiled, but that he’d be returning home soon. That his clan would ‘come to their senses’. Seemed very determined. You wouldn’t happen to know how that story ended, would you son?”

Sleepydawn avoided the old cat’s gaze. “Yewberry and Ivybounce--his kits--found his body a long time back. Infected wound, but they weren’t sure what from.”

“Figured as much.” Dusty nodded. “Not the dying part, that is, just that his clan wouldn’t accept him home. Once you get exiled from a group like that, I reckon there’s not much of a chance of returning.”

Sleepydawn flinched. It must have been visible, because Dusty’s eyes narrowed.

“...Well, I’ve told you a story,” They meowed eventually. “How about you tell me one? How’d you get that scar?”

Sleepydawn blinked. It wasn’t the story he’d been expecting to be asked about, but- he wasn’t any more excited to tell it, really. He flicked his ears backwards a bit and thought, for a long moment. Dust Bunny waited with a patient expression.

“My leader,” Sleepydawn said finally. “He ordered me to chase a dog off our territory. Normally it’d be a mission for a whole patrol, but he wanted me to prove myself.”

“Hm.” Dusty blinked. “And did you?”

“I nearly died,” Sleepydawn admitted, his throat getting a bit tight like it often did when he spoke of that day. “But yeah. I managed to injure it bad enough that it fled, and made it back to my camp. After that, Ravenstar accepted me as one of his most trusted warriors.”

Dust Bunny looked at him for a long moment. “Accepted you as a trusted warrior, huh? But only after you’d proven yourself like that?”

Sleepydawn nodded. An excuse perched on his tongue, It’s typical clan behavior, you wouldn’t understand. But he didn’t want to lie to this kittypet. Not after the meal and shelter that had been offered.

“Sounds like some leader.” Dusty’s voice was dry with sarcasm. “Tell you what, I’m gonna hit the hay. You have a good rest and I’ll see you off in the morning, alright?”

“Alright,” Sleepydawn agreed hollowly as the kittypet padded across the yard, into the twoleg den, and disappeared.

. . .

When Sleepydawn awoke, he became quickly aware of the ache in his leg.

The small, abandoned twoleg nest (a shed, Dustbunny had called it) was sturdy, safe from dogs, and solid enough to keep the draft mostly out, but it did nothing for his old injury. He’d chosen a high ledge to rest on, and tried to sleep on only that before giving up halfway through the night and curling up in a weird, crinkly sort of twoleg material that smelled like a thunderpath. It had a bit more cushion to it, at least, but he still found his sleep restless and woke with a deep, sharp ache running all the way from his paw to his shoulder.

Moons ago, when he first healed from the injury, Bristleheart took him on a walk and explained that he would always feel that pain, as long as the leg remained, and that he had to exercise it in particular ways in order to keep the pain to a minimum and to keep himself from damaging it any further. He’d then proceeded to run Sleepydawn through a series of stretches, each of which made his leg hurt more than the last. 

He wasn’t ashamed to admit that he hadn’t kept up on the exercises. First it was stubbornness, then lack of time and energy, that pulled him away. He tried to do them a few times a moon, but why would he keep up with them if they only made him hurt worse?

Now, he pulled himself upright and moved into the first position. A sharp twinge fired up into his spine, and he bonelessly collapsed. This had been easier when he was younger.

“‘Morning,” A drawling voice meowed. Dusty poked their head through the cracked entrance of the shed and looked around for a moment before peering up. “There y’are. Sleep well?”

“Fantastic.” Sleepydawn replied in a flat voice, shaking out his bad leg before hopping down to the ground, leaning heavily to his right. “Twoleg dens really are a wonder.”

“Yeah, well, more comfortable when you’ve got a pillow or two to keep ‘ya warm.” Dusty licked their lips. They smelled like meat, almost, but dry and strongly hinted with twoleg stench. “Should I catch you another bird?”

Fire suddenly rose in Sleepydawn’s stomach. He was tired of being in pain, of being uncertain, of missing his home, of being coddled. “No. I’ll be moving on.”

Dusty had the nerve to look surprised. “So soon? Where are you traveling to in such a hurry?”

Away, Sleepydawn thought. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that I can’t be looked at by another cat like I’m something alien and unnatural. Anywhere but home.

“None of your business.” He meowed instead.

. . .

He left Dusty’s yard as the sun began to stream over the trees, and didn’t stop walking until it was at his back again. 

Unsurprisingly, his leg still ached. Now the others did too, down to each pink paw-pad. His back and neck throbbed with dull pain from being upright all day. His tail was sore where it had been dragging on the ground.

Having passed through twolegplace and ended up in some sparse oaken woods, he tried to haul himself into a tree, failed, and squeezed himself into an abandoned rabbit’s burrow instead. The earth, not wet but still leeching the heat from his pelt with every breath, pressed softly against each side and crumbled a little around his ears. He’d be filthy in the morning, and even more hungry than he already was. 

Being underground was comforting though, in a way. It was nothing like Fallenclan’s camp, which was rocky and sandy and really only earthy in a few places, but the way that the starlight seeped through the entrance a few tail-lengths in front of his muzzle was familiar. Wrapped in dirt, he closed his eyes and imagined it was fur, instead--he was a kitten again, Ivybounce was cleaning the space between his eyes, Hazelthorn and Frecklefox were curled against him.

His leg ached some more. He fell asleep.

. . .

Sleepydawn had gotten used to crossing thunderpaths. 

The first time he’d done it, he was terrified. It seemed like the end of the world when a monster came snarling around the corner from so far away. Fallenclan didn’t have any thunderpaths inside their territory--there was one, on the border, but it was quiet and usually barren. One could sit at the edge of it for a whole day and see less monsters than there were toes on their paw.

Now, more recently (he refused to think about how long it had been. It couldn’t have been more than a few moons, surely), it was routine. Look left, look right, scamper across when it was safe and pay no mind to the big metal beasts.

Today, Sleepydawn looked left, looked right, and scampered across. He looked for the sharp gleam of metal in sunlight, in those massive black paws, those shiny silver teeth, enormous and impossible to ignore.

He wasn’t looking for whatever had hit him. Small, boney, like a collection of metal sticks, with two big but slender paws, and a single twoleg perched on its back.

If it was a true monster that hit him, he’d be dead. Whatever this one was (a baby monster, maybe?), the impact itself hurt, but it wasn’t what left the damage. What damaged him was the slender paw that rolled over his bad leg when he’d thrown himself backwards, and the sharp metal that came crashing down on him once the baby monster had lost its balance on his body. Sharp bruises and gashes formed on his skin, and he shrieked at the same moment the twoleg did, both of them pressed into the hard black stone.

A full grown monster, ash-gray and snarling, rumbled to a halt next to the collapsed baby. The sight of that alone was enough to force Sleepydawn to his feet, adrenaline flooding his pain receptors, and hobbling off into the woods.

He knew the feeling. His leg was broken again.

The twolegs began to chatter behind him, their meows high with alarm. Sleepydawn pushed forward into the woods, away from them, blinded by pain and terror and dread. 

Something dark descended over his head, like a great black heap of snow falling from a tree branch, except it was faintly warm and reeked of twoleg stench.

Sleepydawn screamed, lashed out with both his front paws, and blacked out as the pain overwhelmed him.

. . .

“What are you doing?”

Hazelkit turned to look at him at his question. In her mouth, a clump of oddly-smelling grass, which she spat out to answer him, struggling to get the last few blades off her wet tongue.

“Bristleheart gave us this lemongrass,” She explained, inky-black tail waving slightly. “He said if we rub it around camp, it scares away snakes!”

Sleepykit wrinkled his nose. “So, chores?”

“We’re protecting the camp,” Frecklekit interjected, chest puffed out. “It’s an important job.”

Sleepykit pondered this for a moment, debating pros and cons. “Can I join?”

His sister, in all her graciousness, heaved an over-dramatic sigh. “I guess.”

At this, Sleepykit perked up, and swooped down to grab a mouthful of the grass. It had a harsh, acidic smell to it, but he bravely wrinkled his nose and plodded his way towards the camp entrance, head tilted back to keep the long ends from dragging on the ground. 

Broccoli was sitting guard at the mouth of the cave, sharp amber eyes peering over the horizon. At Sleepykit’s approach, he turned, a warm smile on his face.

“What’ve you got there?”

Using his paw to quickly scrape the plant off his tongue, Sleepykit responded, “Lemongrass! Bristleheart says it scares away snakes, so me and Hazelkit and Frecklekit are rubbing it everywhere! It’s really stinky, though.”

“Very clever,” Broccoli praised. “Sounds like something your father would have done.”

Sleepykit frowned.

Cats told him that his father, Sleepycloud, had been one of the bravest warriors ever. He was born in Fallenclan and spent his whole life protecting it--and he died trying to save another cat, Fox-something. Sleepykit never got to meet him, but he was named after him, and cats said he looked just like him.

But Sleepykit was the one rubbing lemongrass around camp to scare away snakes. Not Sleepycloud.

He opened his mouth to tell Broccoli this, but the other cat had already turned away, finished with the conversation. Sleepykit’s jaw closed with a quick click, and his tail lashed. Whatever. Mama said it didn’t matter what other cats thought about him, anyway.

. . .

“I hear you got hit by a bike,” was the first thing Sleepydawn heard when he woke up, shrouded in a haze of pain, his head cloudy with some fog he couldn’t identify. “What was that like?”

He was… underground. Or in a den. Everything was silver and white and far away.

“Hey, are you listening, tripod?” 

The world faded out.

. . .

“You look very handsome,” Ivybounce gave his face a last few embarrassing licks before nudging him forward. “Go, go, she’s about to call you.”

“Sleepypaw, step forth.”

Craning his neck to stand as tall as he could, Sleepypaw padded across the sandy earth towards highledge. Frecklefox, newly named, grinned at him from alongside Hazelthorn, both of them gleaming with pride.

He took his seat just below the ledge, looking up at Cherrystar. She smiled down at him, eyes crinkled, before speaking.

“Sleepypaw, you have worked hard to learn the ways of the warrior, and have earned your name. From this day forth, you shall be known as Sleepydawn. Fallenclan honors your vigilance and welcomes you as a full warrior.”

Hazelthorn! Frecklefox! Sleepydawn! The clan’s chant rose around them, spiraling into the air. Sleepydawn stepped back to join his siblings and felt a smile grow on his face.

It’s a different name, he told himself silently, eyes closed to bask in the praise. My own. No one else’s.

He opened his eyes again to catch his mother’s gaze. She was grinning, wide and sunny, but tears were rolling down her cheeks.

No one else’s.

. . .

He woke again. Possibly. A little more aware this time, he noticed something sharp stuck into his right front leg, like a thorn. He wiggled, found it didn’t hurt too bad, and left it alone.

A wet sound, like someone throwing up. A faint smell of blood. Something overwhelmingly sharp and unnatural. And twoleg, twoleg, twoleg. So many smells…

“Hey, wanna hear a joke?” Someone mrrowed. “I’d tell you one about fish, but I don’t think it would land!”

Sounded like something Frecklefox would say. Sleepydawn tried to reply to his sibling, but found that he was asleep before he could.

. . .

I’m not him. Sleepydawn wobbled on his paws, dangerously close to the edge of a steep hill before getting his bearings again and moving away, still, slowly towards camp. His body felt oddly light, yet so, so heavy. Every movement was a marathon.

I’m not him. Blood ran lazy rivers down his shoulder, tracing delicate lines around his paw and leaving a messy red trail behind him. He half-thought his ear might have been torn, too, just a bit, but it was hard to tell.

I’m not him. Sleepydawn had survived his big hero moment. Sleepycloud hadn’t. 

I’m not him. Sleepydawn was not his father.

. . .

Wakefulness came back to him slowly. First, he was aware of the sensations in his body--a low, dull pain, something foggy and fuzzy, like he was filled with cobwebs, and some kind of bedding underneath him. Then sound, smell, and the dry dry dry taste in his mouth. The sharp thing in his leg was gone. He cracked open his eyes and found that they were sticky and clumped with goop, like he’d been asleep for days and days without knowing. He drew a few raspy breaths. His throat was sore.

Oddly, his leg didn’t hurt.

He wobbled upright, eventually, and looked around. Flat, silver walls on every side except for one, which was caged away with some kind of mesh. Behind it was an alien landscape--every angle sharp and perfect, smooth wood and metal and materials he didn’t know the name of. Two twolegs milled around beyond.

He lurched away, but there was nowhere to go. He was stuck--at their whims, no matter what they may be. Saving him, maybe, for a meal. His shoulders hit the wall behind him with a shockingly loud bang. Why couldn’t he catch his balance?

“Hey, are you awake already?” Meowed a voice. It sounded a little familiar. Young, feminine. A second later, a little golden and white paw poked into view at the bottom of the mesh wall, flapping around like it was trying to catch a bird. Or someone’s attention.

With the terror running a line down his middle, words failed him. He managed only a low, strangled growl. His throat was sore, like he’d swallowed twigs.

One of the twolegs turned its odd, naked head over to him, and made a quiet noise. It didn’t approach, didn’t make a move towards him, but just its pale eyes facing him sent a horrible involuntary shudder down Sleepydawn’s entire sternum.

After a few moments, it finally looked away, but that awful, crawling sensation didn’t leave him. Trapped. Trapped to their whims, like every horror story he’d heard as a kit--he remembered the tale of Jaggedstripe, who wandered into a silver mesh box like this one and hadn’t been seen for moons, returned different and more hollow with tales of the creatures that stuck her with silver thorns and wrapped woven grass cords around her throat. 

He had to get out, as soon as possible. The longer he stayed, the less likely he was to leave, but when he tried to step forward--

Something was on his leg. Clinging, wrapped around, like an awful, shiny green limpet. It was unnaturally colored, like newleaf grass but a hundred times more vibrant. It didn’t hurt, but it was heavy--he couldn’t feel the leg underneath, not even that buzzing hum that would tell him it was asleep. Just nothingness. If it werent for the very tip of his paw poking out, he would have thought it had been taken off altogether.

His voice was a whispered rasp when he finally breathed, “What is…”

“I knew you were awake!” The young voice meowed again. “I’m Fishstick. It’s been so-o-o boring in here, there hasn’t been any other cats in ages. Just me, a couple dogs, and a raccoon the other day.”

His heart skipped a beat at the mention of dogs, but his brain caught on the name. “Fishstick… are you a warrior?” She sounded far too young, but…

“No.” Fishstick’s voice was suddenly glum. “I wish. That’s just the name my mama gave me ‘fore she ran off. What’s yours?” The blooming hope in Sleepydawn’s chest withered. Of course not. Even if she had been a warrior, she certainly wouldn’t have been a Fallenclan one. Gooseclan, maybe--she had the sort of rounded accent that he’d come to associate with that clan, though he was coming to realize it might be from the proximity to Twolegplace that gave them that inflection. 

“Doesn’t matter,” he responded, suddenly exhausted. Despite the Twolegs, and the mention of dogs being near, he slumped down. His eyelids stubbornly drooped, but he blinked a few sharp times to keep them open. “I need to… get out of here.”

“Don’t we all,” Fishstick snorted. “Did they take your leg? I heard ‘em talking like they might.”

He shook his head before realizing the young molly couldn’t see it. “Still there.”

“Bummer. I could’ve called you Tripod, since you don’t wanna give me your real name. I could just call you what the Upwalkers are calling you.”

Sleepydawn scowled. Why was he entertaining this young fool? Still, curiosity tugged at him… “What are the Upwalkers calling me?”

“Mr. Mayor Whiskers,” Fishstick said, with a smugness to her voice that suggested this was perhaps something to make fun of. Sleepydawn wasn’t sure what Mr. or Mayor meant, but Whiskers seemed a fine name, at least. Hazelthorn had once wanted that to be her full warrior name--Hazelwhisker. She’d gotten Thorn, though, and liked it even better. 

“It makes me sound tough, but mysterious”, she’d meowed, a twinkle in her slitted eyes. “Your name is awfully cutesy, though. A nice, sleepy morning, no dawn patrol, just cuddled up with your little brothers and sisters…”

He’d swatted her, after that. Always hated his name, branded his father’s son until the day he died. When he’d fallen into step with Ravenstar, practically his second deputy, he’d thought about asking if it could be changed. Somehow, it felt like a defeat to do such a thing--like admitting he couldn’t be bigger than his father’s name. He didn’t know what he’d have changed it to, anyway, but Whiskers was alright. Better than Fishstick, anyway.

He thought about telling her this, but stayed silent. He was more mature than to make fun of the name of a cat who must have barely been apprentice-aged. 

“Anyway, Mr. Mayor,” Fishstick meowed again, incessant, “I heard you got hit by a bike. How’d that happen? They’re slow as slugs.”

A ‘bike’. Was that what kittypets called those small monsters? Sleepydawn’s tail twitched in annoyance at the teasing, but he kept his mouth shut, watching the twolegs beyond. One was sitting on some odd contraption, its paws on another, even weirder machine that seemed to be giving off a white light. The other had a stick in paw, and was scratching it on the surface of a very thin plank of wood held in its opposite paw, periodically glancing up at the array of the objects--bottles?--in front of it. 

“What am I in for, you ask?” Fishstick continued. “Well, I’ll tell you. There I am, headed down an alley for some dumpster diving. I’d smelled chicken in there, see, and it was fresh. Hadn’t been rotted or nothing, not even gotten soggy in garbage water, so I’m off to find it. There it is, middle of the alleyway, sat on a nice paper plate. I was so hungry I didn’t even notice the cage over it until it was too late. Soon as I got a bite, wham! The cage fell, and I was stuck. ‘Course, if I’d noticed it beforehand I’d’ve slipped out and given those Upwalkers what-for, but as it was I was too hungry to do much. Next thing I know I’m in here. They said something about getting my weight up so they can spay me, no thank you! I’ve got a plan to get out of here before anything like that happens.”

Sleepydawn perked up. “A plan?”

“Oh, that caught your interest huh? Yeah, a plan! See, I’m gonna act all sweet to the Upwalkers, like I’m a real tame kitty, then, when they let me out on good behavior, I make a break for it. Course, I’ll have to get through the door, but I’ll break that branch when I get to it.”

“It’s cross that branch,” Sleepydawn muttered. “Breaking the branch is something else entirely.”

“Whatever,” Fishstick groaned. She sounded like Minnowpaw, whining about being sent on dawn patrol.

Regardless, the plan… could work? Sleepydawn didn’t know enough about the habits of Twolegs to say for certain, but it sounded possible, at least. Could he do the same? Act sweet to get his way? He could recall, faintly, doing it as a kit--looking up at Ivybounce with the biggest hazel eyes he could muster to plead for a bit of extra playtime before bed. It worked sometimes, but now--he had a feeling it wouldn’t be as effective. Not with the scars twisting up his leg, his crooked fangs, the always-tired look in his eyes. It was un-warriorlike to act like that towards a Twoleg, anyway. 

He’d find some other way. For now, Sleepydawn rested his chin on his paws and pictured a mountain climbing up into the clouds.

. . . 

The Twolegs stopped in front of Sleepydawn’s cage twice a day to refill his food and water. Sleepydawn, who had already been hungry and thirsty before he’d been hit by a bike, didn’t last long before eating and drinking--the food was dry, with some kind of wet paste, like chewed meat, piled on top of it, occasionally littered with an odd, bitter taste. The water was bland, somehow, which Sleepydawn found odd since he had thought water was already bland, yet somehow this Twoleg water managed to be even blander.

And he still had no plan.

Not even the beginnings of one, though it was difficult to concentrate with Fishstick’s incessant yapping. Only four moons old and already convinced she knew everything, had seen everything, and had everything to say about it. 

She acted like any other excitable kit, or apprentice. She also didn’t treat Sleepydawn like he was something strange or other--until she found out where he’d come from.

“-I found a big fish in a trash can once, but I guess that doesn’t count as catching it, really,” she meowed. “But once in this Upwalker’s backyard I found these huge birds, bigger than me, and they had all these little babies running around, and I got one of those before the mama chased me off. What about you?”

“Hm?” Sleepydawn grunted, having been practicing his skills in tuning her out entirely.

“What’s the weirdest prey you’ve ever caught?” “A kitten. Just about your age, killed it bloody and ate it, now shut up.”

“Oh come on,” Fishstick whined, just as complainy but not quite as gullible as a clan-raised kit. “If you tell me the weirdest prey you’ve ever caught, I’ll shut up.”

“Forever?”

“For the rest of the day, but you also have to tell me how you caught it.”

Sleepydawn marinated on this for a moment. Fair enough price. His ears were about to start bleeding.

“Well,” he began, pretending to not notice the excited squeal that Fishstick released. “One early newleaf morning, I was out on a hunting patrol when I stumbled across a fawn. Usually the mother deer will fight you away from their young, but this one was left behind while she went to find food. It tried to run as soon as I pounced, but Boulderstep jumped on top of it, too, and the weight of us both was enough to bring it down. Took the whole patrol to carry it back to camp.”

For a moment, Sleepydawn was lost in the memory. He remembered it clearly--it was one of the first hunting patrols he’d gone on after his leg healed. Ravenstar ordered him to lead it--even though Boulderstep was his senior, and the better hunter. Perhaps cowed by Ravenstar’s insistence, nobody had challenged his leadership the whole way. They stalked out of camp into the early morning fog, brisk on the tips of their noses, and found the fawn in a cluster of spruce trees on the edge of the plains. Nothing had ever tasted as good as the prey-blood sweet on his tongue as he helped drag it home. Ravenstar had been sitting on the camp-ledge when they arrived--not calling a meeting, simply observing his clan--and his eyes had shone with pride. After the clan’s excitement over the huge prey subsided, he was pulled aside next to the medicine den to hear Ravenstar’s muted words. 

“I knew I made the right choice.”

“Hold on,” Fishstick blurted, completely bypassing the impressive catch and nitpicking on the details. “Who’s Boulderstep?”

“My-” A lump suddenly formed in Sleepydawn’s throat. He swallowed it, and it scraped the whole way down. “A clan cat I once knew. Not really a friend.”

“You knew clan cats?”

Sleepydawn groaned internally. “Used to. Weren’t you supposed to shut up for the rest of the day?”

“What kind of clan cats?” Fishstick pressed. “Do they live in the plains? The forest? Where are they? How long ago?”

“Oh be quiet!” Sleepydawn snapped. “Why do you care, anyway? You think they’d let a soft kitty like you join up with them?”

“I’m no soft kitty!” She argued loudly.

“Sure are acting like it, every time those Twolegs come in here. You really think your plan will work? You think they’ll just let you out? Wake up and smell the daisies, kitty, you’re not getting out of here. We’re both going to sit here in these little cages eating slop and withering away until our hearts give out or the Twolegs get tired of us and kill us. Welcome to the real world.”

Silence, finally--blissed silence. It echoed in the metal cages and out in the harsh room beyond. Sleepydawn sunk into it like a fresh bed of moss, letting his eyes slip shut.

Then-

Sniff.

Fuck.

Sleepydawn shook his head, quietly. He really never had been good with kits, he always backed out of kitsitting, and helping his clanmates train their new apprentices. Still, making a kit cry was a new low--one he wasn’t proud of.

“Fish-”

“I’ve been a loner- ever since I was a kit,” Fishstick meowed, her voice cracking with tears. “Never lived with Upwalkers, just around ‘em, and I- one time I heard stories about these cats. These cats that lived in big groups and always fed each other and protected each other, and- I’d always been by my lonesome. Always have been. And I thought that sounded like- something real special. I’m going to be a warrior, even if I have to fight my way through a hundred Upwalkers. You don’t know nothing about me, and I ain’t no soft kitty.”

“Alright.” Sleepydawn acquiesced quietly. He’d seen things that would make her stomach curdle. Done things that would give her nightmares. “You’re not soft.”

“And I’m gonna be a warrior. Say it.”

“You’ll be a warrior.” Sleepydawn hoped she never knew the battle. The heartbreak. He wondered if all the love he’d lost was worth it.

“That’s right.”

Fishstick was mostly silent for the rest of the day. Sleepydawn found it difficult to enjoy.

. . .

A day later, Fishstick woke him by slapping her paws against the bottom of his cage.

“Psst! Mayor!” A pause. “Mr. Mayor!”

“What?” Sleepydawn grumbled, knowing she’d only stop if he responded. 

“Do you think I really could fight an Upwalker? To get out, I mean?”

“Dunno.” He huffed. “Maybe. There’s usually two of ‘em, though.”

“Oh yeah.” He could hear the frown in her voice. “D’you think I could escape ‘em, then? Just slip out from their paws during the next checkup?”

“You’re forgetting this whole place is closed off. Where would you go?”

“Right.”

Sleepdawn waited, then let his eyes drift closed again.

“Well, what if-”

. . .

“Tell me a story.”

“Hah,” Sleepydawn responded dryly.

“Ugh.” Fishstick’s little cream-colored paw appeared at the bottom of his cage. “Come on, Mayor, I’m bored out of my fur! Just one!”

Her words devolved quickly into a wordless, petulant whine. Reminded sharply of Frecklefox, flattening his ears to his head, Sleepydawn snapped, “Fine!”

Instantly, the paws disappeared, and he heard a shuffle, as if she was getting comfortable. Typical.  He wracked his brain for a story, and found only one--a story that had been haunting him for many moons. 

“Once upon a time… there was a cat.”

“Strong start.”

“Can you shut up and listen?” He huffed.

“Once upon a time, there was a cat. His name was Sleepydawn.

“Sleepydawn was a Warrior. A clan cat. When he was born, his father was already dead. His mother had discovered that she was expecting in the same moon that he died.”

“How did he die?” Fishstick chirped.

Sleepydawn bit back a retort. Then slumped, a little. He didn’t have the energy to be mad, or to lie. “He drowned trying to save his clanmate. Failed.”

Fishstick gave a sad little whine. Sleepydawn pushed on.

“When Sleepydawn was born, he looked so much like his father that his mother decided to name him in his honor. That’s where he got the Sleepy part of his name. Though they matched in name and appearance, Sleepydawn wasn’t anything like his father--his father was a hero, an amazing cat who dedicated his life to protecting his clan. Sleepydawn tripped over his paws on hunting patrols, and bit his own tongue more times than he ever bit an enemy warrior. In the shadow of his father, he grew up angry and resentful. Not many cats liked him.

“The clan that Sleepydawn lived in was under the reign of their leader, Ravenstar. Ravenstar was a harsh and sometimes unfair cat, but Sleepydawn looked up to him. One day, when a dog found its way into their territory, Ravenstar decided to have Sleepydawn chase the dog out by himself, rather than send a patrol after it.”

“Why?” Fishstick interrupted.

Sleepydawn opened his mouth to reply, and found his tongue curled. A gaping absence of explanation found a home in his throat. Why?

“I don’t know,” he finally meowed. “Maybe Ravenstar wanted Sleepydawn to prove himself. Maybe he wanted Sleepydawn to learn a lesson. Whatever the reason, Sleepydawn refused. It was a suicide mission for the most skilled of cats, of that which Sleepydawn was not. But all it took for him to change his mind was for Ravenstar to suggest that this was the way to prove he wasn’t his father. And before he knew it, Sleepydawn had left camp.

“He found the dog on the plains, hopelessly chasing rabbits. Sleepydawn fought with everything he had, but the dog was quick, and vicious. It bit nearly clean through his leg, shaking him like a terrier with a rat. He thought he would die that day, alone on the plains, facing a dog by himself, leaving his family behind to grieve. Instead, he got lucky. The dog stumbled its foot into a rabbit warren, and it left an opening just big enough for Sleepydawn to tear its throat out.

“The dog fled. Sleepydawn would never find out if it died or not, because he couldn’t follow it. He’d chased it off the territory, and very nearly died in the process. He struggled his way back to camp, trailing blood all the way, and when he returned, Ravenstar praised him. It was the most that Sleepydawn had ever gotten--a cat telling him that he was better than his father. He knew then that he would follow Ravenstar to the ends of the earth.

“And that’s where Ravenstar led him. After that day, he grew only crueller and crueller, starting wars and even killing his own cats in the middle of camp, and Sleepydawn was at his heel every step of the way. He did terrible things in Ravenstar’s name.

“Eventually, Sleepydawn’s clanmates revolted against Ravenstar. He was killed, and Sleepydawn, along with Ravenstar’s other followers, were banished from the clan forever. The End.”

Silence, for a few moments. Sleepydawn wondered then if his story had lulled Fishstick to sleep, when:

“That’s it?”

“What do you mean that’s it?” He huffed in response. “I said the end, didn’t I?”

“Yeah but.” Fishstick shuffled above him. “Stories are supposed to have a happy ending. The villain gets punished at the end, and everyone lives happily ever after. There’s supposed to be a moral to the story.”

“The villain did get punished,” Sleepydawn snorted. “Ravenstar died, Sleepydawn got exiled.”

“But he should have realized the error of his ways!” Fishstick cried. “He should have joined with the cats that killed Ravenstar, and become the hero!”

Sleepydawn let those words hover in the air for a few moments, then laid down, curling his tail over his nose.

“Yeah, he should have.”

. . .

Their opportunity to escape arrived one cold morning, as Sleepydawn woke with his face pressed against the artificial moss bedding.

Less than a moon had passed, from what he could tell through the clear-covered opening that he could see from the mouth of his cage, but it felt, in many ways, like an eternity. Fishstick woke him most days with her mindless chatter, and kept him from dozing the day away with much of the same. This morning was different in that he woke to her screams.

“Don’t touch me!” He heard her howl as he woke with a start, the sound of clattering metal and mumbling twolegs alongside. “I’ll take your pelt off! Don’t!”

He jolted upright as quickly as he could with his cast, flooded with instinctive adrenaline. Just below him, a twoleg was crouched with its hands near Fishstick’s cage, repeatedly reaching forward and flinching back and making soft cooing noises.

“Fishstick!” He called out.

“Help!” She wailed, sounding every bit the young cat she was. “They’re trying to take me and- I don’t know what they’re gonna do!”

She sounded near tears. Sleepydawn didn’t think, just knew that he had to get the twoleg’s attention away from her as quick as he could, and he couldn’t fight them.

He slammed his cast into the wall of his cage, flinching at the loud bang and the shooting pain, then collapsed on his side, splaying all his limbs out and summoning the saddest, most agonized sounds he could.

The twoleg immediately lurched to look up at him with wide eyes, hesitating only a moment before closing Fishstick’s cage and reaching up to open Sleepydawn’s. 

Its paws moved over him, gently stroking his pelt and prodding him. He resisted every instinct that screamed at him to attack, thrash, escape; knowing that he needed to remain the center of attention even through the uncomfortable sensation of touch.

After a moment, the twoleg scrambled away, leaving his cage open.

As soon as its back was turned, Sleepydawn jumped up as quietly as he could, and hopped down to the smooth, cold ground. He landed awkwardly, but sent a silent thanks up to Starclan when it was, at least, silent.

“Mayor?” Fishstick cautioned.

Behind him, she was still locked in her cage, pelt ruffled. She had pale ginger striped fur and creamy white paws and muzzle, her pupils narrow slits. Huddled at the back of the metal box, she looked smaller than she probably was, even puffed up in fear.

Sleepydawn glanced behind him to make sure that the twoleg was still occupied before hobbling over to the mesh of the cage. “How does this open?”

“Bite there,” Fishstick hurried closer, gesturing with her nose as he followed her instructions. The metal cut into his mouth as he pressed down, made his teeth ache, but after a moment of increasing pain it began to swing open.

Fishstick pushed her way out instantly, jostling him in her hurry, and immediately rushed to his side, stretching up to her tiptoes to wrap her neck around his.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She trilled, grin stretching her muzzle even as he pushed her away.

“Enough.” He huffed, and started quickly hobbling to the doorway, cracked open just a smidge, a miracle upon miracles. “Let’s hurry out of here and then we can go our separate ways.”

“What?” Fishstick hurried along with him. “Wait- you have to show me where those warriors are, so I can join them!”

“I have no such obligations,” Sleepydawn huffed. “Now, be quiet.”

“No!” Fishstick jumped in front of him. “No, if you don’t- you have to swear that you’ll show me where the warriors are. Or else.”

Annoyance flared deep in his chest. He bared his teeth, stretching to his not-unimpressive height to loom over her. “Move.”

“No.” Fishstick hardened her expression and drew to her full height, her head only reaching his shoulder. “If you don’t give me your word, right now, I’ll scream. Then we’ll both get caught.”

Manipulative little shit!

“You-” Sleepydawn gritted his teeth, tried to remind himself that the most important thing right now was getting out, and then they could argue about this. “Fine, yes, word given, let’s go.”

Fishstick’s face lit up like a forest fire, and just like that she was racing him for the exit, unbeknownst to the twolegs behind them.

Freedom, at the tips of his whiskers again.

. . .

Sleepydawn had done many things in his life that he wasn’t proud of, but nearing the top of the list was losing an argument to an apprentice. Twice.

So he was taking her to Fallenclan’s territory. Fine. He wouldn’t even have to cross the border--or even get close to it. Just as soon as it was in eyesight, he could tell Fishstick to look for the mossier side of the mountain and make a beeline for the second-biggest cave. As long as she didn’t describe him too in-depth to the cats that she found there, she’d be fine. And if she did, he had to hope that his siblings would convince Wolfstar to let her stay anyway, regardless of what awful cat led her there.

“We’ll have to figure out how to get that cast off you,” Fishstick chirped, trotting along at a pace that made him ache up to his shoulder. “You’re slow.”

“I’m old,” which wasn’t really true, but a lifetime of hardships and work made him feel older than he should. “You’re too fast.”

“Anyway, I used to know a kittypet who lived around here, he had a cast once.” Fishstick waved her tail for him to follow. He briefly considered making a break for it. “He’ll know how to get it off.”

Sleepydawn wasn’t keen to take advice from a kittypet, but after only a bit of bullying from his young companion, it turned out that the cat’s advice was good. Sleepydawn soaked his cast leg in water for only a few minutes before it started to slough away in stringy green chunks. The white wrapping underneath, which felt a bit like thick cobwebs, followed without much trouble.

His leg underneath was skinny and hurt to put pressure on, but not so much that he couldn’t walk on it. It had always been a little crooked since his accident, so when he found it straighter than before, that surprised him more than anything else. He hadn’t known that was possible.

“Yeah, there’s something to be said for Upwalker medicine,” Ace, the kittypet, meowed conversationally. “Can’t have kits anymore, but it’s a small price to pay for a lifetime of good health.”

…Sure.

Ace invited them to sleep in a comfortable nook underneath his Twoleg’s shed, which Fishstick accepted before Sleepydawn could even think about refusing. He also offered them some dry kittypet food, which Sleepydawn stood his ground on.

“Absolutely not,” He snapped. “I’ve been eating that shit for way too long. Come on, Fish.”

Fishstick hurried after him, jumping along like a tadpole that had just grown legs. “Are you gonna teach me how to hunt?”

“I’m not your mentor,” Sleepydawn snorted. “I’ll catch something for the both of us. You’re gonna follow along quietly and keep an eye out for twolegs.”

Fishstick gave a deep, exaggerated sigh, but didn’t argue, apparently realizing she’d filled her quota of being annoying for the day.

Hunting with his leg still injured was difficult, to say the least, but working around it was something he was used to. It didn’t take long for him to find a sparrow, feeding on fallen seeds two yards over from Ace’s; carefully, he stalked it, keeping most of his weight on his three good legs, always aware of Fishstick a few fox-lengths back, watching silently for once in her life. He pounced, and made sure to land on his right forepaw, using his left to gently grab the bird and hold it in place for a quick, crunchy bite to the back of the neck.

“This one is yours,” Sleepydawn rolled his eyes at the sheer excitement in Fishstick’s expression, nudging the prey towards her. “I’ll catch another.”

He meant to leave her behind immediately for his own meal, but found himself hesitating, just for a moment, to watch Fishsticks’s face as she bit into fresh prey. If her stories were true, she’d had it before, but you wouldn’t know that from the blissful look that washed over her as she ripped away a mouthful of feathers and went for a bite, chewing slowly with her eyes closed.

Against his will, Sleepydawn cracked a smile. Whatever. Apprentices were fine sometimes.

. . . 

“Is Fallenclan big?”

“Hmm.” Sleepydawn hummed, eyes closed, chin rested on his paws. He usually fell asleep fairly quickly, but even still, Fishstick seemed to know exactly when to pipe up to draw him out of his nearly-achieved slumber. “How so?”

“Like, a lot of cats.” she hesitated. “And the territory, too. Clan cats have a territory, right?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sleepydawn resigned himself to a few more questions before he’d try to convince her to go to sleep. “They’ve got a mountain and some plains. And there’s lots of cats.”

“More than I’ve got toes on my paws?”

“More than twice that,” He cracked one eye open to see her faint outline in the dim light that peeked into the space under Ace’s shed. “Go to sleep. It’s a long journey.”

“How long?”

“Sleep.”

Fishstick fell quiet, blissfully. Sleepydawn began to drift gently away, until-

“What do you think you’re doing.”

“I’m cold,” Fishstick responded, shuffling over and burrowing into her side, jamming her icy-cold nose directly against one of the scars on his leg. “Goodnight.”

Sleepydawn opened his mouth, fully intent on telling her to get the hell back to her side of the space, but…

She was quiet, at least. He might not get that if he started her back up again.

Whatever. He’d tell her off in the morning.

. . .

It wasn’t like Sleepydawn had a small family.

His family was pretty large, actually. He had five siblings in total, though one died before he was born, another when he was an apprentice, and a third when he was a young warrior. His parents were both long dead by the time he was exiled, but both of them had siblings too--giving him a total of four aunts and five uncles, though he’d met only a pawful of them. There was a myriad of cousins, and a niece and nephew as well, the children of his oldest sister.

It had been so easy, at the time, to ignore them all. Looking back it hurt like a thorn in his chest.

He’d been such a lonely kit, and such a bitter apprentice, and throughout his warriorhood so angry that he didn’t blame the cats that didn’t reach out--they were probably afraid he’d claw their pelt off. He spent the young and formative moons of his life so twisted up inside himself that he refused to take the time to make friends, bond with his mentor, or get into mischief with his fellow apprentices. He grew up stunted because of it, and then in his adulthood only latched onto Ravenstar, who fueled his anger rather than trying to soothe it, and fed into his attempts to break free of his father’s memory.

He’d been such a miserable apprentice, despite growing up surrounded by family and could-have-been-friends.

Fishstick didn’t seem to have the same troubles as him.

Her energy was limitless. Her enthusiasm had no apparent bounds. He walked slowly in a straight line, conserving his energy, and she criss-crossed, jumped up onto fences and halfway up tree trunks, over creeks and then back again just for the thrill. Every night she crashed like she’d never had the opportunity to sleep before--shoving her way into his side and passing out before he could complain. 

One morning, the sun rose, and with it came a gentle flurry of snow--a rare sight to see off the mountain that was once Sleepydawn’s home. When he woke, and felt the damp, bitter chill that he knew so well, he resigned himself to an extra-cold and miserable walk, today, or until the snow melted--frozen paws and whiskers and soaked fur. Fishstick, on the other paw, lit up as if she’d never seen something so wonderful before, barreling out of their shelter and into the thin layer of white snow with an air of glee around her more vibrant than anything Sleepydawn had seen in the last four moons. 

She spent that day with even more energy than normal, if that was a possible thing to achieve. The grin never slipped from her face, she raced in circles around him as they traveled, and she even bullied him into a short snowball fight. That whole day, he watched her with quiet eyes, and a thought lingered in the back of his mind.

Is this what I could have been?

. . . 

The snow didn’t melt, per se, but no more fell after the first day--it left a thin coating on the tops of leaves and grass, like gently-laid spiderwebs, melting into their fur as they stepped on it. It disappeared from any twolegplace almost instantly--either melted on the bare stone that the twolegs built their homes around, or shoveled away by the twolegs themselves with great stone scoops to make room for monsters to roam. Perhaps monsters were vulnerable to snow and ice? Something to consider.

Regardless, it left the land bitterly cold as Sleepydawn and Fishstick traveled along. His bad leg always ached a little extra when it was especially cold or wet outside, but even without that added bit of discomfort, they were left stumbling and clumsy after a while, forced to make frequent stops to huddle in some meager shelter and get the feeling back into their paws before continuing. Still, Fishstick’s spirits stayed bright--she suggested scenic detours that Sleepydawn would immediately refuse, and begged on their breaks for him to teach her a battle move or how to catch birds out of the air, despite his reminders that their breaks were meant for resting, and her grin hardly faltered. He finally caved and showed her a basic hunting crouch before they went to sleep one night. He told himself she’d need a leg up, as a former loner in Fallenclan. He ignored all evidence that she’d probably fit in better than he ever did.

Aside from all that, several days of their journey were spent cold, stiff, and vaguely miserable. Distracted.

It made sense that neither of them noticed the dog until it was too late.

It happened quickly--quicker than Sleepydawn could keep up with. One minute, serene, annoyed calm, the next, a dull growl, a single, grating bark, and a brown dog the size of a bicycle was bearing down on them, snapping its teeth as the two of them leapt into the air and tried to flee.

Panic overtook Sleepydawn’s mind like a fungus. He suddenly couldn’t think, couldn’t feel--it was just ice in every bone of his body, a tight, frozen grip, screaming without words or logic. He was blind, deaf, moving without telling his body to move.

And then Fishstick screamed.

Everything snapped back into place, like a bone being reset. Still, panic, but now he could see pearly white fangs closing down around his young companion, and his legs listened as he told them to carry him closer. He remembered his training like he remembered how to breathe--he flew at the dog’s face and howled and raked his claws over the eyes and nose, sinking his teeth clean through one of the ears. The dog howled in response, flinging its head hard enough to send Sleepydawn several feet away, a chunk of meat and fur clenched in his jaw, still. It howled all the way home as it fled back to its twolegs.

Like Buttercup, he thought nonsensically, blood ringing in his ears, a metallic taste clinging to all the corners of his mouth.

Fishstick wasn’t hurt. They called it a night early and found a twoleg’s shed to sleep in, curled up on a high shelf. Sleepydawn wrapped his tail around her and groomed her fur until she fell asleep.

. . .

His journey before he had been hit by a bike seemed to take moons and moons, but it seemed like they’d only just left the twoleg’s clutches before Fallenclan’s mountain started to loom in the distance.

Fishstick’s questions came in greater frequency and urgency the closer they got. She asked who the leader was, and what kind of prey the cats of Fallenclan ate, and how long they’d lived on the mountain. He answered most of her questions, usually truthfully. An ache was forming in him, deeper than the one in his leg. Once they reached the territory, he’d have to leave her behind. He’d be alone again.

Thoughts appeared in his mind, unabbiden--what if after he left her at the border, she found another dog? Or a group of rogues? Or a patrol in a particularly foul mood? What if she wandered straight past Fallenclan, across the river, and met a Shallowclan patrol, instead? There were too many variables. He’d have to take her directly to camp--or as close as he could get before they met a patrol, anyway. He wouldn’t linger. Just long enough to make sure she could stay there, and wasn’t turned away. Would Wolfstar do that? Sleepydawn wouldn’t know.

The first step across the border was like sinking into cool water after a day in the greenleaf sun--the tense muscles of his spine relaxed, a soft breath escaped his lungs. This was home.

Not his. Not his home.

Behind him, the world. In front of him, his world. And to the left, nestled into a bed of rocks and lichen, a sacred place, that he’d only walked past before, never into. The sun was setting, anyway. He directed Fishstick towards the cave with a nod of his head, and the two of them ducked under a curtain of moss into soft darkness.

“We’ll shelter here for the night. In the morning, we’ll make the last leg.”

“Ha! Leg.” Fishstick swerved to bump her whole body into his weak side. He dodged without much difficulty. 

“Show some respect, why don’t you?” He growled. “This is a sacred place. The only place we can speak to Starclan.”

Fishstick quieted, a little, as Sleepydawn led them both down into the entrance of the Glowcave. The light from outside faded out slowly, then began to pick up again as glowing mushrooms appeared on the walls, pocketed by thick curtains of lichen. The air was slightly humid, but the ground wasn’t muddy, just slightly damp enough to stick to his paws in little crumbles.

“Woah.” Fishstick craned her neck to look at the mushrooms overhead. She seemed uncharacteristically meek. “Is it… okay for us to sleep in here?”

“It’s fine,” Sleepydawn snorted. “Starclan isn’t going to kick us out for needing a place to rest.”

Hopefully, he added to himself.

Though he kept the appearance of the confident older cat Fishstick expected him to be, inside, he was wide-eyed as a kit. He’d never seen the Glowcave himself, very few cats had--and it was stunning. At the end of the cave, so brightly lit by mushrooms it might as well have been twilight, they found a little pool of water, fed by a natural spring. Fishstick immediately went for a drink.

Something tickled his mind about that--wasn’t that how you visited Starclan’s territory, by drinking? Whatever. Maybe a visit to her ancestors would humble her.

Sleepydawn curled into a neat ball a few tail-lengths from the water, under a few particularly large mushrooms. After a few moments, Fishstick appeared to burrow into his side and dig her elbows in his ribs. He sighed in resignation.

Comforted in the thought that Starclan would protect her while he slept, Sleepydawn faded away.

When he woke up, it was to the sweet smell of crushed grass under his paws, and a warm breeze. There was no little golden tabby to be seen.

“Hm, Fish?” He meowed, cracking his eyes open, suddenly jolting up. “Fishstick? Hey, Fish!”

“It’s alright, she’s safe.”

Sleepydawn turned. There was a cat there that he didn’t recognize--black and white, with a jagged scar between his eyes. He smelled faintly familiar.

“What do you mean she’s safe?” Sleepydawn snarled. “Where is she? What have you done?”

“She’s with you,” The cat meowed, calm, but with a slight tremble in his voice. “Sleeping in the Glowcave.”

Sleepydawn paused.

He was in a field, he realized. Long grass surrounded him in a huge circle, but the stuff he stepped on was only up to his dewclaws, soft and tickling his fur where it swayed gently in the breeze. The sky above was a dark blue of twilight, dotted with puffy pink and purple clouds. The sun was setting on the horizon, bright as a marigold. The temperature was just on the edge of too warm, exactly as Sleepydawn liked it. He could smell honey and rabbits on the air.

“This is… Starclan.”

“It is,” agreed the cat, whom Sleepydawn was realizing was probably long dead.

“I’m… allowed here?”

Something in his voice, the smallness of it, the surprise, seemed to make the cat in front of him break. His mouth wobbled a bit, his ears twitching as if in a valiant attempt to stay facing forward. He blinked rapidly a few times.

“Oh, Sleepydawn,” he whispered. “Of course you’re allowed. If you want to be.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sleepydawn snapped.

“It means you regret what you did,” the Starclan cat meowed. “And that if given the chance, you wouldn’t repeat your mistakes. You’ve done awful things, but in your heart is a good Fallenclan warrior.”

“I’m not a Fallenclan warrior anymore,” Sleepydawn lashed his tail, shaking his head to rid himself of the avalanche of emotions this cat was dumping on him. “And I won’t be again. As soon as I show Fishstick where the camp is, I’m leaving. I won’t even give them the chance to chase me away.”

“Do you think they would?”

“Sure,” he scoffed. “Flamefall would bite my tail off if given half the chance. I’m sure Wolfbite- Wolfstar isn’t keen on having Ravenstar’s followers in her camp.”

“I don’t see you following him, now,” the cat sat down, curling his tail over his paws. “Or his memory, for that matter. Not everyone can say the same, you know.”

A pause. “You never killed in his name.”

“I would have,” he snapped. “If Ravenstar had told me to kill a clanmate, I would have.”

“Which one?”

“What?”

“Which one?” The cat blinked. “If he’d told you to kill Hazelthorn, would you? What about Ashblink? Or Feathersight, or Marshjump, or Gizmo. Would you have killed them if he told you to?”

The words he wanted to use made a nest and died in Sleepydawn’s throat. “Who are you?” He meowed instead.

The scarred cat looked at him, long and sad. “I’m sorry.” “For what?”

“For making you live in my shadow. For dying before you were born. For leaving your mother to raise you without me.”

It was Sleepycloud.

This was the cat that Sleepydawn had spent his entire life underneath. That he’d nearly died for. That he’d destroyed his leg in the name of. This cat had caused his mother immeasurable grief, and his littermates, and himself. This cat had ruined his life.

“...Dad?”

“My baby,” Sleepycloud fell forward, no longer holding back his tears, and tucked his head over Sleepydawn’s shoulders. “Oh, little bug, my baby. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” Sleepydawn, a fully grown adult, wept into his father’s chest. “I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I should have died instead.”

“Never,” Sleepydawn’s father clamped his head down, pushing him further into his chest. “Never, I’m so glad you’re alive, that you got to live and hunt and fight. And I’m so sorry for the path you’ve had to walk.”

It’s not your fault, Sleepydawn almost said. Wanted to say. He wasn’t sure if it was true. Sleepycloud didn’t let him say it.

“You are my son,” Sleepydawn’s father drew back just enough to press their foreheads together. They had the same eyes. The exact same eyes. Sleepydawn was looking into a reflection of his own form. For the first time, he saw in himself what everyone else had seen. “You are your mother’s son. You are your siblings’ brother. You’re a guardian to this young cat that you’ve brought to live the life of her dreams. You’re a fantastic warrior. Even in exile.”

Sleepycloud’s eyes were teary, and glimmered with stars. “I have no right to ask anything of you. But…”

Sleepydawn grit his teeth, throat feeling thick. He wanted to know. “Tell me. Ask.”

His father’s eyes fell shut. “Let yourself love. Let yourself be loved. Let yourself enjoy life and know that you’ve spent yours serving and toiling and you deserve so much. Please.”

The new, starry world faded away.

Fishstick didn’t have any dreams, when she woke--Sleepydawn asked her just to be sure, but it seemed she hadn’t been visited. Presumably, she didn’t have anybody waiting for her, there. Not in that afterlife.

If he thought she’d been excitable before then, it was nothing compared to her attitude that morning. She frolicked and leapt about like a fawn in newleaf, thrilled more than anything to be a warrior at last. It was a wonder she didn’t alert any patrols to their approach as Sleepydawn carefully led her towards camp.

He wasn’t sure if it would be his last time in Fallenclan territory, but he treated it as if it was. They passed through the plains, close enough that he could point out the Honey Spruce to her, instructing her to keep her distance. Then, they followed the creek upriver, towards the Starpool. He made Fishstick pause, then, so the two of them could watch the fish swimming under the surface for a few minutes. The reflection of the sun on the water dazzled them both. He showed her the best place to cross the creek, over a neat set of close-together stones, and laughed at her when she misjudged a jump and got her hind legs wet.

They had to travel a bit around, for the best path up to the camp. In the far distance, Sleepydawn pointed out the Sky Pine, the tallest tree in the territory, standing stoically near the Gooseclan border. He remembered trying to climb it, as an apprentice. Fishstick probably would, too. One day soon.

Everywhere, the smell of Fallenclan. Like cold mountain water and moss and wet earth and birds. The closer they drew to the camp, the stronger that scent became. Sleepydawn’s lungs ached with it, and not for the first time, he debated turning back. 

It was too late, anyway.

Before the mouth of the cave had even come fully into view, a voice called out. “Stop where you are!” A long-furred yellow molly stalked towards them, expression harsh and guarded for a moment before falling slack in surprise. “It’s…”

“It’s me.” Sleepydawn agreed. “I know I’m- not welcome here. I’m just delivering someone.”

He tilted his head to look behind him, seeing Fishstick. Her eyes were wide, fur prickling on the back of her neck as Moorthistle approached them. 

“We’re here to speak with Wolfstar,” Sleepydawn dipped his head in submission. “And then I will leave.”

“...Alright.” Moorthistle agreed after a moment of careful consideration, green eyes flicking over them both. “Ashblink, I’ll be back in a moment.”

A solid lump formed harsh in his throat as Sleepydawn followed Moorthistle, past his mate. Former mate. Their relationship had been strained before he’d been exiled, and when Ashblink hadn’t come to say goodbye before Sleepydawn left, well… he understood what that meant.

I didn’t treat you well, he realized silently as Ashblink’s cold blue eyes followed him. I’m sorry.

Fishstick had none of the struggles that he was carrying--once she’d gotten over her initial awe, she was trotting after him like a puppy, tail held high and eyes bright, peering at the walls of the cave and the cats that were beginning to gather around them like she’d never seen such things before. Maybe she hadn’t.

She’ll make a good warrior, Sleepydawn thought suddenly, surprising himself. 

She really would. Despite her annoying demeanor, which was something that, really, all apprentices had to some degree, she was intelligent, and curious, and eager to learn. Perhaps one day she’d win a battle single-pawed against a group of rogues, saving her entire patrol, or she’d bring home a ptarmigan in the middle of leaf-bare when the rest of the clan was freezing and starving. She’d probably be a better warrior than Sleepydawn ever was. 

But she wouldn’t be here without me, he realized.

This was how he repaid them. Mistlefrost, Wolfstar, any other cats he’d hurt. He brought to them this promising young cat with her whole future ahead of her. Even if he couldn’t serve Fallenclan himself anymore, he could do this.

He loved his clan. With every breath.

Wolfstar padded up to the two of them, her chin tilted up and her blue eyes icy. The star-shaped white mark on her forehead was still startling to see, such a blatant show of Starclan’s favor. She was their leader. Their true one.

“So, you’re back, after everything.”

[waywardstation]

Take a Break

It's a rainy day today, and everyone is stuck inside the Galaxy Hall. Good thing Akari has brought in a fun board game for everyone to play! Commander Kamado is not exempt, even if he is buried in paperwork.

Here is my piece for the Hisui Chronicles Zine! It was so much fun getting to write this for the project, and such a huge honor to be invited to do so by the mods! Mods, thank you again so much for having me in the zine, and for all the work you did putting it all together!! It came out fantastic!

If you have the zine, you can find this work within and see its accompanying spot art! They're really fantastic pieces, all drawn by Sensushimi!

You can check out the zine at @hisuizine here on tumblr and on twitter; leftover sales are currently open! :)

OR read it here on AO3!

Enjoy!

–––––

Another flash of lightning glared through the rain-streaked windows to illuminate Kamado’s office. The commander gave no thought to look up from his paperwork as the deep rumble of thunder followed close behind, rolling somewhere above — the storm’s impressive display had been a common occurance all day, and he had grown used to it.

So used to it, in fact, that it felt like it was beginning to overstay its welcome. Having rolled in on dark clouds the night before, the rainfall had long since sufficiently watered the fieldlands. Now, it wasn’t doing much more than swelling the rivers, oversaturating the ground, and unnecessarily pelting Jubilife and its residents.

It certainly halted work for the Galaxy Team’s members today. No surveying, no construction, no farming… Kamado couldn’t send anyone out in these conditions under good conscience, and had dismissed everyone who had reported for work that morning. Efficiency was the pride of any respectable organization, but it meant nothing if safety was not considered. Practically every worker who reported in that morning had been quick to agree to this, but Kamado felt it was more in the interest of wanting to go back to bed and catch a few more hours of sleep.

It wasn’t all bad, though; vicious weather hopefully meant no meetings. No need to settle disagreements between disgruntled villagers, bargain with advantageous Ginkgo members, or play middleman between clashing clan leaders. Kamado did appreciate that it gave him a much-needed chance to finally look over a few backed up work orders, as well as notices for final approval and acknowledgement. 

Writing off the current one before him — a notice from the Ginkgo Guild that two supply ships would need the docks next month upon their arrival — and setting it aside, Kamado plucked the next one from off the top of the pile.

Let’s see… A request from Captains Sanqua and Colza, petitioning permission for the construction and agriculture departments to collaborate on new facilities and expansions in the crop fields. That seemed reasonable, what with the recent arrival of four new families to Jubilife—

“ NO! Akari!” A sudden shout downstairs from Rei ripped Kamado’s attention away from the words on the page. “Please don’t, you know it’s the last one I need!”

“Buy it! Buy it! He’s trying to start setting down those housing pieces!” A resounding objection followed, unmistakably from Zisu.

…Ah, yes. The small group of Galaxy Team members who did not run home the moment they had been dismissed.

Even through the barrier of closed office doors and an entire floor between them, the group’s excited shouts still slipped through to reach him. For most of the afternoon, it seemed their commotion and the thunderstorm had been competing to be the loudest disruption in the hall. 

And currently, the thunder was not winning.

They were playing that game. The one Akari had saved from a space-time distortion the day before. The one that she had nagged him to play with her and everyone else who had decided to stay at the hall this morning.

She had gushed about how fun it was and how she’d properly teach everyone how to play. And perhaps it really was as enjoyable as she had advertised, what with how spirited everyone was downstairs, still fully engaged in it hours later. But the temptation of partaking in a game was weak in the face of untouched paperwork that had already been neglected.

Kamado huffed to himself at the recollection. That sky-faller was a different breed, braving the unstable pockets to bring back such toys and playthings so regularly. Sometimes, it was cards. Other times, it was a colorful board game with most of its pieces. And occasionally it was something different all together, consisting of game pieces that looked as novel and bizarre as the rules sounded. 

Regardless though, it always extracted a very… disruptive energy from anyone who got involved.

Sighing through his nose and reclining back in his chair, Kamado tentatively attempted to redirect his attention back to his paperwork — he had a goal to finish it all by this afternoon, and planned to follow through with that goal. Straightening the paper in his hands, he tentatively leaned back into reading.

Sanqua was requesting approval on preparing land for additional farming plots and another storage shed. There was an attached list of required materials and a projected estimate for—

“Wait! I’ll buy it from you!” Rei’s pleas severed Kamado’s weak thread of concentration before it could even fully recover. “How much do you want for it?”

A quick, coveted second of silent thought before Akari threw her voice into the fray. “Six-hundred!”

“What? No! It says it’s only two-hundred!”

“You asked how much I wanted for it, not how much it costs! Besides, you have like three times the money I do, this is nothing for you!”

“I’ve been saving them for all the houses!”

The sky once again illuminated the office with a flash as the bickering went back and forth. It only seemed to have reached a resolution after it was drowned out by a disruptive roll of thunder. The animated negotiation had reduced back to a level that made it audible yet indecipherable as the rumbling faded, but Kamado didn’t even bother attempting to return his focus to the papers.  

“Ooh, Community Chest!” Akari’s voice rose up after a moment of jumbled conversation. “Here, read it!”

A moment of heavy silence, presumably as someone was handed a card to decipher their fate. Kamado’s eyes glanced back down at his paperwork, but he was too busy anticipating the impending shouts to read any of the words.

“I’m being thrown into jail!? ” Laventon’s voice lamented with an anguish that evoked a wave of collective exclamations so loud, Kamado reflexively looked up at his office doors; at this point, it was like they had taken the game up the staircase to continue playing right on the other side!

He could not get any work done like this. Especially if they had somehow even roped the professor of all people into the game — he was one of the few people Kamado had expected to do the same as him, using the day off as an opportunity to barricade himself in his office and tuck into his work uninterrupted. And unfortunately, once Laventon became invested in something, he became almost as enthusiastic as the Pearl Clan warden who had been shouting downstairs quite loudly over the last half an hour.

Heaving himself out of his desk chair and crossing the room with a certain unwillingness, Kamado cracked open one of the heavy office doors and slipped through, heading for the stairs to begin his descent down to the madness below.

––––––––––

“...Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty.” Akari quickly skimmed through the thin paper money before setting it aside, her Cyndaquil observing from her lap all the while. “Paid your bail! Your crimes are forgiven, you’re free to go next turn.”

“Ah yes, the criminal offense of simply picking the wrong card…” Laventon gave his unlucky card one last look before handing it to Akari so she could tuck it away. 

“Well look, I’m in there visiting you at least,” Rei pulled his hand out of a bag of snacks to point Laventon towards his metal piece on the board; while the professor’s figure was confined within the barred section of the square, Rei’s was sitting on the safe outer strip labeled ‘just visiting’ . “I’ll be here for you when you’re a free man again.”

“Thank you, my boy, though I sorely needed that two-hundred I was about to collect!”

Rei lit up at this, giving Laventon a look that Akari had learned to be wary of.

“…If I give you three-hundred right now, can you help me bankrupt Akari and get Festival Plaza from her?”

“Hey!” Akari intervened before Laventon could even give his answer. “You can’t do that!”

“Yes I can! Come on, Professor,” Rei flashed him a set of three yellow paper bills, “your new hardened life of crime should make this an easy choice!” 

“I’ll take that offer if he doesn’t!” Bagin saw his chance to jump on the offer when Laventon, clearly torn, stalled on his words.

“ No! No one’s getting bribed! Just pass the dice, Professor!” Akari reached across the board to firmly guide Laventon’s hands towards Ingo, who was sitting right next to him. Appearing a little victimized yet relieved at the chance to escape the situation, the professor hastily dropped the dice into Ingo’s waiting hands. 

“Ah, my turn has arrived now, I suppose.” Holding the dice close, the warden gently shook them. The uncertainty in his wording gave away his hesitance… which was understandable, given his present situation.

His poor piece, a metal figure representing what Akari had reminded him was a modern-day aether, was stationed right before the only three property squares that Zisu had bought. 

With every single property choked with green and red buildings, it was a short but fatal stretch of unforgiving financial hell. A ‘Community Chest’ square separating the second and third tiles was the only safe space between them, but Ingo wasn’t counting on being lucky enough to land on it.

“Get ready to pay up, Ingo.” Zisu leaned forward in anticipation, like a Purugly crouching in the tall grass and waiting for a Starly to turn its back.

“Please allow me to traverse these tracks safely,” Ingo begged the dice before releasing them onto the board. “Five or greater, that’s all I need—”

Every pair of eyes around the board was glued to the two plastic pieces as they rolled, their quiet anticipation being held just long enough to hear the muffled pattering of rain against the hall’s roof. The tumbling pair of dice slowed to a stop, and Ingo’s unfortunate fate was declared as matching pairs of black dots stared back up at him — a double roll amounting to the grand total of four.

“AUGH!” Ingo lamented above the collective shouts that rose up.

“Oooh, so close!” Zisu leaned over towards him, pinching his metal game piece and sliding it right into the hotel-infested deathtrap that was her third property square. Then, the same empty hand extended towards him expectantly. “Alright, Join Avenue’s rent is due. Cough it up!”

“Please, Miss Zisu.” Ingo attempted to appeal to his coworker’s empathy as he began to thumb through the few paper bills he still had; mostly consisting of fifties, it clearly wouldn’t be enough to cover what he owed, judging by the amount of hotels surrounding his piece. “I am unsure if I can even afford such an exorbitant amount!”

“Well, that’s what happens when you blow all your money buying those railways off everyone!” Zisu took a teasing jab at him, but eventually relented to an element of mercy. “Ok, ok, just, hmm… give me everything you have except for one of your tens. You can keep that.”

Normally one might have been devastated at being reduced to only standing ten dollars away from bankruptcy, But Ingo seemed grateful enough given the circumstances.

“Thank you; the leniency is much appreciated.” He deposited the money into Zisu’s waiting hand, and she counted over it briefly. Sitting back, he handed the dice over to Bagin, who seemed a little impatient to roll — though, seeing as how he was only seven squares away from passing ‘Go’ , the impatience was understandable.

“Let’s hope I have better luck than you, warden!” He eagerly clasped his hands around the dice and shook them thoroughly. “Come on, seven!”

Bagin more-so threw the plastic pair of pieces as opposed to simply dropping them. The dice tumbled haphazardly across the board, caring not for the stack of chest cards they bumped into, or Akari’s metal piece that they knocked aside.

Laventon blocked their path at the edge of the game board with a quick hand. A five, and a two — the sum of seven faced up towards the hall’s ceiling.

“No way!” Rei seemed almost accusatory as Bagin slid his coin-shaped game piece over to the ‘Go’ space.

“Show me your sleeves!” Having long grown used to Bagin’s exploitative tendencies, Akari felt similarly; she would not put it past the guy to use weighted dice. And his recent streak of extremely fortunate rolls was not helping his case. “That’s the third time you’ve gotten the exact number you’ve needed!”

“No tricks, I promise; I just got lucky!” Bagin tugged at the sleeves of his corps’ red hanten to prove Akari’s accusation wrong. “And two-hundred Pokédollars richer!”

Plucking two yellow slips of paper money from the bank stash, Akari reached across the board to hand them to Bagin, but not without a tiny, well-hidden hint of skepticism. He tucked them away with the rest of his colorful currency, only adding to the comparatively impressive amount he possessed.

“ And , this means that I now have the most savings!” Bagin turned his attention to Cyllene, who was at his right side. “So it’s my turn to wear the crown—!”

“—Ahem!” A stern voice from above killed whatever insistence was about to ensue.

Every head turned towards the top of the floor’s left staircase. With her back to it, Akari glanced over her shoulder to find herself looking up at someone she thought had long since left the Galaxy Hall and gone home on account of the rain.

A muffled rumble of thunder decided to roll somewhere above them at that moment. It might have been seen as an amusing announcement of his arrival, if it didn’t assume his appearance to be one of admonishment.

Akari bristled into surprised silence, but Zisu had no such qualms, flashing a welcoming smile up at him. “Commander Kamado! Did you hear how much fun we were having, and finally decide to come down and join us?”

“Oh, I did hear,” Kamado’s gaze shifted to the Security Corps’ captain, but then moved to scrutinize the large game board on the floor. “I can hear like I’m down here playing this game myself! I came down only to request you all be conscious of your volume; I am trying to finish up a few more work orders and reports.”

“You’re still working on all that paperwork?” Akari lamented, slumping back to better look at him. “You’ve been up there for hours. Have you taken any breaks yet?”

“Coming down here and requesting less shouting is my break.” Kamado descended the rest of the way down the stairs, looking back over the board again as he stepped closer. Apparent curiosity slowed his inspection the second time around in order to take in the finer details.

His gaze wandered over the tiny metal figures and colored building pieces scattered across the red carpeting. Then to the cups of tea and plates of snack cakes around the board, and the colorful paper money, either haphazardly clumped or neatly stacked in piles by peoples’ sides. 

While his expression wasn’t one of disappointment, it wasn’t quite one of approval either. “Perhaps I should ask you all to keep the floor a little neater as well?”

“Can do, if you take a real break and join us!” Akari reached over towards Cyndaquil, Oshawott, and Rowlet to pluck an additional metal piece up for him, as at some point the Pokémon had begun playing with the extra ones. “We could squeeze you in real quick—”

“That won’t be necessary.” 

“Come on, ” Akari drew out the last word, giving him a look as she held the metal figure up to him. “It’s supposed to be a day off!”

“You have been working up there for a while, Commander.” Sitting between Bagin and Zisu, Cyllene had been partially obscured by the Security Corps’ captain until she leaned forward to speak up. “I would suggest taking a break if you haven’t yet. The work will still be up there when you return. And I am open to assist you tomorrow with what is left, if you would like.”

“Cyllene,” Kamado turned his head to her. He would have otherwise been even more surprised to discover her playing than Laventon, but his subdued tone suggested confusion more than anything. “What is that on your head?”

“It’s a paper crown.” She obliged to his abrupt change of topic, a hand moving up to ensure the shiny red papercraft was not leaning crooked. “Akari’s rules. The player with the largest sum of money wears the crown.”

“...Which is actually mine now,” Bagin insisted so quietly, that it barely reached above a whisper. He at least had enough decency not to extend an expectant hand out for it at that moment.

“But!” Akari interrupted, “If you join now, you’ll get to wear it! Come on, join us!”

“Join us! Join us! Join us!” The emboldening chanting grew more confident as more voices rose up, with Kamado only shaking his head as even the Pokémon began to squeal, squawk, and bark, the commotion riling them up. The surrounding ambience of the rainfall disappeared entirely under their chanting.

Kamado inwardly groaned. Even if he did go back up to his office now, there was no way he’d be able to concentrate on that pile of papers sitting on his desk; he’d entirely lost the streak he had going. And now that he’d fallen out of it, the growing ache in his hands might make it difficult to return to the repetitive motions of signing his name for who-know-how-many more times...

“Alright,” Kamado huffed, stroking his chin as he surveyed the board one last time. Perhaps he should tentatively feel out a compromise. “I will join in for one game. But only one game. How long does a round usually last? Around ten, twenty minutes?” “Well, we’ve been playing the same round since this morning,” Rei mused around a mouthful of snack cake. “So like, four hours? Maybe? But Akari said that’s normal for this game!”

“...I see.” Of course Akari would grab up a game that took a decade to play. “How about this; you all move this to one of the rooms downstairs, keep this mess contained to a table, and control your shouting; once I finish up this last workform I’m in the middle of, then… maybe I’ll come down and join you all.”

“Yes!” The group collectively cheered. Kamado turned to head back up the stairs as excited shouting mixed together with the rustling of paper bills and tumbling game pieces, all in a big effort to collect the game and move it down to the sub-level. 

Kamado shook his head as he reentered his office, but there was a certain smile hidden under his mustache. Such an enthusiastic bunch. He dearly appreciated the Galaxy Team and what it had developed into over these past two years, even if it was hard to keep up with sometimes.

[sukunasun]

Do you ever plan to write a fic with a grumpy reader? Maybe with Getou or any chara of your choice?

screaming from the top of a building: grumpy readers are so relatable and deserve more nuance than being labelled as ice queens and stone-cold bitches! there is much more to unfold beyond the harsh exterior. how cantankerous and irritable you are but nonetheless meant to be understood and loved.

quietly, you lay there stowing away as a recluse. you love your books and your crochet hooks. working away and making the most of me-time. people don't draw near. instead, they try prodding with sticks and hurtling stones for a reaction hoping it's a smile or a nice conversation between two, but there is no gambling and taking chances. no risking it 'depending on your mood' because the weather report calls for sunny skies and yet, the storming grey cloud above your head stays looming. permanently brewing.

you claim it's just your face, your attitude, and overall unapproachable aura that inhibits you from making contacts and connections. an RBF that can't be cracked. "she's so intimidating," is a grating sound. you have long since given up on explaining yourself or waiting for the chance to when the backstory and lore is too revealing. not exactly dinner party talk. you wish it could be as easy as saying "im hurt and heartbroken beyond repair. mothering fear and angst without needing comfort." it feels nice, well-deserved even to wallow in dread.

there's bound to be disappointment from unmet expectations thus, you've stopped having them altogether. it feels better than accepting affection with open arms. so wrong, so weird to be wanted, to be chosen. where's the catch? when will the other shoe drop? the cycle of starting over becomes tiring, tedious—a mechanical performance. a complex creature who requires better coping mechanisms and a man who won't stab you in the back. friends who'd stop poking holes in the reasons when you say no, yet again, to meeting someone new in this state: when bricks are laid and piled high up in uniformed rows surrounding, it warrants avoiding all forms of showing and receiving love after the years spent shaping the architecture of your defences.

then there's geto. with his charm and wit and the way he pries the person from underneath facades and fabricated masks. your fragile, rocking foundations built on sand he topples down with a mere smile, hardened fortitudes he crushes to dust, weaving within hairline cracks and exploring the caverns of your heart like no one has before. all without much effort, or rather, he doesn't need to exert himself when you fall so willingly.

"why don't we do something else tonight, dinner and a movie?" he questions when you call again. right after work when the stress is at an all-time high and he's...well, you don't know what he does, but he makes himself available for you. he'll admit it's made him feel special being the only person let in, when everyone else has to scavenge for scraps, he's a privileged selected one. seen the glimpses of the warmth you possess when laid bare and sated.

such a skill he has to wring out the truth. still, you go on with the "i like being alone," answer. a mantra, a repetitive hymn to soothe the sting and sharp clawing against the chest til it no longer feels so. numb and sore aches it leaves behind. 'you'll regret it when you realize i'm too much for you,' stays clogged in your throat. he'd only admonish you for such thoughts. 'that's not true' he'd say, but you know better than to believe that.

"i get it," geto replies, feigning casualness when he's not a stranger to isolation and avoidant habits. sometimes he wished he wasn't exposed to a mirror of his own makeup. a paragon of performative indifference and detachment. "i'll leave when you want me to," he reassures you, but was that a wavering you hear in his voice? you don't dare assume because he makes things easy. not the kind to complicate, nor commit. say the word and he'd give you all the solitude you need. dodging the serious questions and serious labels. friend, boyfriend, guy-im-sleeping-with. he doesn't care for them because you don't.

maybe he's just referring to the task at hand, used to forgoing aftercare and post-orgasm cuddles for a late-night drive home. excluding that one time you allowed him a night on your couch. he won't stay if your hand comes up to his sweaty chest, pushing him away before he's had the chance to pull out and slide the worn condom off. it keeps him at a distance and he takes it as a sign that this is as far as intimacy goes—no kissing on the lips, no secrets and sweet nothings, your moans don't escape and neither do his plethora of dirty speeches, stifled and gritting in a tight-lipped prison—there is no room for it at all.

the last thing you need is to dispose whatever is left of an already flimsy resolve. becoming vulnerable and exposed to his rejection or the knee-jerk reaction when he touches you—when the strap of your dress falls at an angle, he instinctively chases after the smooth slope of shoulder with his lips, pressing soft kisses there and everywhere else simmering with anxiety, humming pleased and contented to taste the nerves slipping away, sinking his teeth in and feeling the flesh give to his possession—a longing that courses through and wrenches around your heart tight. you're so selfish to follow after his hands, to feel them feel you. they should be upon another but he grabs and gropes greedily like he can't wait any longer.

"or you could let me stay," he offers.

"the couch makes your back hurt," you reply.

"your bed is big enough for two," he counterclaims. doing what he does best. it's not the first time he's tried to hint at more, waiting for the opportune moment when you're putty in his hands, relenting to him.

"we can't," you gasp when he slips two fingers past your dripping folds. the smirk he wears hidden in the crook of your neck. "why–" you claw at his forearm tucked between your thighs, clenching around his limb for leverage while he makes you squirm and jolt with every nudge against your gspot. "–why me?" why an unpleasant, unfriendly, unwanted woman like you, haven't you suffered enough? why does he choose to torment you with his favour while seeking for yours. you remind yourself there's no place, no space for him here. you like the way things are no matter how painfully lonely it gets, you like the cool touch of your sheets and the emptiness your fingers trail over in the mornings. it's what you know, what you settled for. since when do two people meet and see each other for themselves, choosing to stay for long after the thinly veiled ugliness is stripped away. how do you tell him you're starting to grow accustomed. almost adoring. you've flown too close to the sun before, how do you deal with the fallout when you're inevitably lurched into the suffocating and slow descent towards earth?

in the last few seconds cresting upon your climax, suguru feels it building around the edges of your jittering limbs. head lolling back as you choke, fighting back your moans. your hips thrust in time, chasing after his fingers. he settles them as deep as he can, pumping fast and pressing down against your clit til it hurts, til the hard pressure causes your juices to drip down his fingers, squelching and making a mess.

fuck it, he knows it's the only time you'll have him this close so his arms brace you, supported by his strong chest, crushed by his biceps, suguru coaxes you, "i don't care how far you push me, or how much you pretend, i want you and i know you want me too—"

you shake your head, resisting, stop it, stop uncovering me. he talks of your lust as if some incontrovertible proof, you won't give in. with indefatigable, unwavering effort you set the record straight. "i don't like you like that," lying right as you're about to explode from pleasure, not the kind that feels like a firework, shooting silent and bursting forth, but you seize every muscle in his hold. choking on your breaths and feeling it tighten and coil in your stomach, in your toes, compact and revving, it releases like an engine. rolling and roiling so unyieldingly it makes your ears ring, suffocating you til your vision goes black, and a scream forces it way past your lips.

neither high-pitched nor guttural, it reverberates so soothingly, "im sorry!" you cry. for being this way, for using and tossing him aside, for wanting more. you sob with your head thrown back while suguru hums right against your ear. sounding pleased and pleasured with your admission.

slowing his fingers in time with your panting breaths, he questions "do you really think i wouldn't like you?" it's not the right time to do this but he can hardly bear it, he longs for truth, "do you not believe me?"

looking upon his face through half-lidded eyes, you see that interrogative spark in his expression, his arms never letting go. a tense anticipation takes shape. the air is thick with the scent of damp skin and something else—his shampoo, his cologne, you chase after it for more, pressed into his chest, it only takes one whiff to get a fill, the same way you cling to the corners of pillowcases and duvet covers for that little bit.

what has changed? he makes you act a fool, forlorn and fumbling around in the most fatuous ways. i want you he said so clearly. and it warms your being like never before. there is an urge to make excuses, accuse him for being in lust, he only said it in the heat of the moment, ensnared by a need for possession.

but there is no point in looking back.

"i believe you," you say, noses bumping and slotting close when your lips betray your better judgement, or rather, your unfavourable one. "i'll try." is the best you can offer.

[angeart]

Howwwww did you angst the world tour?? 🎀

this question made me giggle so much oh i'm glad you asked :3c there was so much yummy grian angst in the hc world tour!

it's all about grian and his penchant for destruction. he doesn't even mean to! he's not trying to be pesky; quite the opposite. he's curious but restrained, trying to be good, trying to follow instructions. he's not malicious at all! he's just there to see what people were up to, open and friendly and curious, eager to look and learn and praise. not a bad intention in sight... and yet things seem to break wherever he goes. everything he touches goes wrong.

the guilt churns, acidic and overwhelming, and grian's miserable. why is he like this? he's trying so hard, why is this the only way he can ever be? why can't it stop?

spoilers for grian's world tour video below <3

plantie pointed out to me how, during the tour of scar's train, when grian got rid of scar's arrows—the glitched ones that doc put there—he was so desperate to point it out after scar just glossed over it. as if he wanted to show that he can do something good. he can be helpful, he can fix things instead of just breaking everything.

but then we have all the other things, right? grian can't escape it.

when he was with etho and the mushroom farm exploded, he sums it up in a wretched if confused apology: "i'm so sorry. the two times i tried to use it, i broke it :( and created a water source floating— which i don't know how it happened— and flung the TNT, which i really don't understand—"

they move on, but it's so clear it lingers.

etho isn't blaming him. he's amused and brushes it off and moves along, unbothered, but grian himself can't wrap his head around it. about that propensity to breaking things, even unintentionally. the way nothing is safe around him.

he tells etho: "i can't stop thinking about your mushroom farm. why does everything i touch break, in new and unexpected ways?"

(not to mention when etho's showing him frogger and grian plays, almost instantly etho goes: "uh-oh, the game's broken", with a little huff of laugh. it wasn't exactly tied to anything grian did, but still something i wanted to point out, since grian was there for it <3)

and then grian goes to zedaph, right?

the very first game zedaph shows him. the very first. grian plays the way he was told to, the way he was meant to, and— he breaks it.

zedaph just laughs and moves them on.

(just sprinkling in a side note that zedaph's furnace minigame also didn't seem to work the way it should've—)

by the time grian gets to pearl's, it's starting to be a pattern that's so clearly eating away at him, making him anxious. he doesn't want it to happen again!

and yet.

pearl invites him to play her wordle game, and grian mindlessly goes and pushes the wrong button trying to start it... instantly stepping away with a quiet groan of a dread-filled "...oh-" followed by: "i just— ruined it already."

there's something about the mood switch. the way he seems more restrained and tame, silently upset with himself, trying so hard not to mess things up further. questioning why this is happening again. why he can't stop making it happen.

he walks over to the reset game button and asks, carefully: "can i press reset? is it gonna hurt? 🥺👉👈"

pearl reassures him he can, with a sigh noting that it'll just take a while.

there's an almost hysteric laugh from grian, followed by an exasperated, upset scream. "everything i touch breaks! when i went to e— i broke etho's thing when i went to— not frogger, his— his mushroom farm i— it blew up."

"you blew up his mushroom farm?? how? what did you do?!"

"yeah, i— i broke zed's game, instantly, pretty much, it's—"

"oh my gosh :("

"sorry 🥺"

pearl is quick to reassure him, though. "well, luckily for you, this is— you doing that (pushing the wrong button) does not break the game. it's just, you now have to wait for it to reset."

she makes sure grian knows that he didn't mess up anything terribly here. he didn't break pearl's game. it's okay! it's fine!

and then grian right clicks to open the book, and instead makes bonemeal pop out of a composter.

i think at this point pearl is a little bit taken aback by how wrong everything really seems to be going around grian. she makes sure to say, "it's fine," again, just so grian won't start worrying about it all again. "you're clicking on everything that people do not usually click on today. but it's okay. it's still not broken! it's not broken, it's alright, it's okay— i've got failsaves for people like you."

it's so sweet how she really tries to soothe him— and yet she can't help but let out that last remark.

people like you.

those few words surely lodge in more than all the reassurances. they're like splinter, proving grian right.

eventually, he gets to skizz.

during the tour of skizz's base, skizz shows him a horse statue and starts talking about how he lost his first horse at an event that grian was also a part of. and grian's stomach instantly sinks.

he asks hushedly, a bit confused, trying to remember: "was i there?"

skizz laughs. "you were absolutely there, dude."

which leads grian to ask, uneasily: "did i do it?"

skizz waves his hands, quick to easily reassure that no! that's not it, grian didn't do it!

grian lets out an oh with such palpable relief, and goes on to explain about how, "i remember witnessing it, but sometimes it's hard to disentangle whether i did it or not. coz i tell you what, on this tour i've broken everyone's stuff."

nobody was upset with grian when things broke, but here he is, several hermits down, still unable to leave it to rest. because it's him. it's him who did all of that, somehow, and he didn't mean to, but it doesn't matter. it happened anyway.

and now he can't even tell what is and what isn't his fault anymore.

the guilt is deep rooted, leaving anxious assumptions and dark, jagged precipices. how much did he destroy? what else should he be feeling guilty about? how far does this go?

he keeps breaking things, and it's such a blur that he can no longer tell what is and what isn't his fault.

the tour continues, and he delves into skizz's pyramid. and it's just— it's just a tunnel to swim through. nothing to mess up, besides potentially dying to suffocation, right?

and yet you can hear skizz shrilly exclaim: "oh he's going to end up breaking something!!"

and, (plantie's words: ) grian hearing that and just wondering, is that all i'm good for? is that all i'm known for? is that all i am?

there's no room for doubt; not really. that is what grian does, all the time, whether he wants to or not. he breaks stuff. he just— he doesn't mean to. and this tour is one big show of how powerless he is against it. (how everyone expects it from him anyway.)

despite it all, grian perseveres, trying out skizz's game, stubbornly dedicated and trying to win. (to pass; to have something to be proud of, at least—) and he gets to the powdered snow section.

there, he jumps across to a pathway that he was meant to circle to through the snow instead.

it's not breaking anything, not really. not even the rules. it's not cheating! he's just— he just did something skizz did not expect, but that was entirely possible within the game's design, even if not intended. he exploited it to his advantage; a risky, tricky shortcut.

and yet skizz remarks with a laugh: "this is what grian does! he breaks games!"

no matter what grian does... is that all he'll ever be?

is that all they'll see?

he fails getting through skizz's game, is thanked for play-testing, praises it all, they talk it all away, and...

and then grian goes to tour mumbo's base.

and fails to even die properly to his llama—

and then mumbo shows him his archive machine, and instantly panicks when grian gets curious about it, begging him not to touch anything. and grian says: "your stomach just fell through didn't it?" and after mumbo's immediate agreement, he adds: "and rightfully so. coz, almost everything i've touched on this tour has broken."

there's not a sliver of surprise to mumbo's anxious rushed: "yeah, yeah yeah! please stop now." because, of course things have broken. of course what grian touches is bound to go wrong. of course—

and then mumbo very carefully tells grian what to do with the machine.

grian does as he's told.

mumbo looks up and pauses, a frown crossing his face as he takes it in. he notes that grian probably did it too fast—

(something went wrong)

(something broke)

mumbo says: "i can't believe you come along and every single thing in my base starts [going wrong/breaking/malfunctioning]"

and then grian mysteriously ends up with an extra book from mumbo's machine, much to mumbo's dismay. grian's confused, cogs spinning as he tries to figure out what did he mess up this time to result in this.

it's clear mumbo wants grian away from his machine. it's not safe. (grian isn't safe.)

"maybe just give that to me and maybe just step away from the contraption. and then— maybe just leave me to—"

grian's upset and bewildered voice cuts in: "i didn't do anything wrong this time :(("

he's trying so hard.

he's trying so hard to be good and do things right and not mess anything up.

(it isn't working.)

(it's never bound to work, is it?)

mumbo ushers him away, and ends up showing him another cool invention—an elevator. except the second mumbo hits the button, a creeper shows up and explodes it. (it's midday.) (it wasn't even meant to be there.)

this one isn't grian's fault at all, but with everything that's happened— well, it's easy enough to link it to grian's presence. like a bad luck omen.

apprehensively, grian asks if the elevator broke, and mumbo—a bit bewildered by the reality of it—says that no, it seems to still work. "amazingly," he tacks on, disbelieving.

grian's relieved. "ohh, i thought we were in big trouble there!"

besides himself, mumbo anxiously agrees: "augh. i was like, if every single creation that i show breaks in some fashion, i'm just gonna quit."

because this isn't normal. none of this is, least of all everything at once. it simply doesn't happen.

(not when grian isn't there, anyway.)

mumbo notes that he needs to work on his lighting, and grian nods wisely saying it's a perpetual issue, but the anxiety is digging its talons in now, unrelenting. (what else is going to go bad in grian's presence? what else will he mess up? what else will he break? why is he like this?)

another remark that comes after this is mumbo's nervous: "i've actually just built up the automatic sorter which does this—which you're not gonna touch. we're banned from touching any redstone contraptions!"

and what can grian do but oblige? (but he can at least look, right?)

but does it ever change anything?

does it matter?

-

at the end of the day, the others don't think too much about it.

they all say their part, pass their judgment, wave their hands, dismiss, move on. it doesn't keep them up at night.

... i think it might keep grian up at night.

a cacophonous collection of word snippets, aimed at him or woven around him, digging under his skin until it bleeds. a noose of inescapable fate, a tightening band around his chest that promises he can only ever be one thing:

a vessel for destruction.

it doesn't matter if he wants to be.

shackles and chains and a cosmic inevitability written into his skin, etched into his bones, tangled into his bloodstream. and an ever-rising guilt like stormy sea, far above his head now, drowning him.

(maybe he's not meant to be near other people and their things.)

(maybe he's not meant to touch games that were constructed with so much effort and love and passion poured into them.)

(maybe he shouldn't—)

==========

bonus screenshots from discord DMs (with extra sprinkles of hmtb mentions):

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bonus hmtb quotes because i kept thinking about it:

He always destroys the things he loves most, after all.

and:

He destroyed everything he touched, and when there was nothing left, he destroyed the only remaining thing: himself.

-

[siyuri]

Ef's moment of respite at the bottom of the Mariana Trench from amazing story Falling Falling Stars by @not-poignant

[alistair-blackwood]

yeah so it turns out when you take an unapologetic eugenicist and give him a sympathetic backstory where he's been uwu traumatized you get a lot of people unironically defending a eugenicist. yeah it's because he's hot. yeah they're saying he has girlhood rage

[flashhwing]

just some gender presentation musings ...

most of the time, skirts and dresses feel Bad to wear. point blank, they're just Too Feminine no thank you

but sometimes. one or the other will feel good. Yes, Today I Want To Wear A Skirt/Dress

but never, NEVER at the same time. if a skirt feels good a dress feels over the line. if a dress feels good a skirt feels like skinning myself alive

and I think i've figured out the difference! skirts feel good when I'm feeling more feminine. Today I Want To Be Girl, so skirt

but dresses? dresses feel good when they feel like drag. Today I Am Not A Girl, But Wearing Clothes Associated With Girl Feels Good

just an interesting dichotomy. to me.

[ciderjacks]

argh. This comic writing is taking me way longer than usual. I keep editing things and it doesn’t feel right.

[blowmymongrelmind]

i was raised by a pretty woman to become a pretty woman and so the end goal that i was always steered towards was someone buying me anything i want and doing anything for me for the low low price of enduring dehumanization and misogyny but what they dont want you to know is that you can actually just buy the shit yourself and take yourself out on weirdly expensive nights on the town. you can blow your whole paycheck on yourself and youre not even gonna make you feel subhuman about it

[camels-pen]

mmm read a hurt/comfort Zoro fic recently and like. I get it now. That guy DOES hurt so pretty. kinda wanna try my hand at it.

-

A voice disappeared.

Zoro stopped in his tracks, feet rooted to the spot.

Who was it? Where? How-?

Just barely, he managed to block a blade aiming for his neck.

Luffy was ahead of him, laughing his head off. The cook was a bright flaming beacon in the sky.

The rest? C'mon take a count, Zoro. Make sure.

Usopp. Nami. Chopper. Jinbei. Robin. Cook. Luffy.

What? Two? No, where were-

His breath hitched as he blocked another attack.

Calm down. Take a breath. Count again.

Usopp. Nami. Robin. Cook. Luffy.

Fuck. They couldn't-

No, they had to have left the battlefield. These guys were smallfry, even for the so called "weakling trio".

Zoro took a moment to focus on the enemy around him. He let off a tatsumaki before focusing again.

One at a time, Zoro. Come on.

Usopp.

Robin.

Sanji.

Zoro jerked, eyes wide and searching frantically.

"No, no no no no no. He can't have-" Luffy would never leave before the battle was done, not without making some kind of grand exit. He wouldn't leave without telling Zoro- telling anyone- about it.

He wouldn't up and disappear into thin air like that. Not unless-

Zoro shook his head roughly. They were fine, he just couldn't see them. It would be too much of a coincidence for them all to disappear like that. He just needed to count again, then regroup with Usopp, Robin, and the cook, and figure out what was going on.

Stay calm, Zoro. Losing your head won't find your friends.

So, again, Zoro breathed. And Zoro counted.

Usopp.

The only voice left, was Usopp.

Zoro wasted no time.

He sprinted as fast as he could, cutting down anyone in front of him almost as an after thought, as he bulldozed towards Usopp's voice.

He'd nearly made it too, when some dead man kicked his side hard enough to stop him in his tracks.

Zoro turned to him, a snarl on his face. "Get out of my way before I kill you."

"Huh?" The man sneered. "I should be saying the same thing, watch where you swing those swords, asshole."

Zoro was about to retort when he noticed Usopp's voice moving away from him. He didn't have time for this.

Without warning, Zoro moved to slice through his opponent and, to his surprise, the man blocked it with ease.

"You wanna go? Here and now?" the man growled. "I'll kick your fucking ass."

This man- Zoro has never met him before, but nonetheless felt he would need to pay him his full attention to have a chance at winning.

But Usopp was getting farther and farther-

Oh, Zoro could hit himself.

"USOPP!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, startling the man. "STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE, I'LL BE THERE SOON!"

Usopp didn't respond, but he stopped moving, and that was good enough for now.

"Hey!" The man yelled, pressing down on Zoro's swords. "Whatever you need him for can wait until after our battle's over. He's got his own problems to deal with."

Zoro didn't bother wasting his breath. He cut and slashed, throwing attack after attack without abandon. It didn't matter if he was wasting his energy, he needed to get to Usopp before- before-

The man, infuriatingly, blocked almost every blow, and got a few hits in on Zoro himself.

Zoro would get to Usopp, even if it killed-!

Suddenly, there was a crackle in the air and all at once, Zoro's nerves lit up with pure unfiltered pain.

He dropped to his knees, blurry vision wavering on black shoes. He couldn't feel his arms. Or his face. And his head was getting lighter and lighter.

Zoro's fading thoughts were prayers, to a god he didn't believe in, to keep his friend safe.

-

"GYAHHH, ZORO'S GONNA KILL ME!"

"Nami-swan, a little help please?" Sanji said, voice uncharacteristically strained.

"If you're asking, how can I say no?" Nami said, smirking. "Get out of the way... now!" The moment Sanji pushed off Zoro's swords to hop away, she brought down her Thunderbolt Tempo on top of Zoro. He fell to his knees before crumbling to the ground, twitching.

"You could've knocked him out on your own though, why ask for my help?" Nami asked.

"Ah well, it seemed he had a couple screws loose and I didn't want to kill what little braincells were remaining." Nami nodded in understanding.

The two of them turned to Usopp as he inched his way closer. He carefully prodded Zoro's thigh with his boot. "He's really unconscious, right? Not gonna get up anytime soon?"

Nami shrugged. "It's always hard to tell with him. But don't worry," -she stood tall, holding out her Climatact- "I'll shock him as many times as necessary."

"That means I get to live another day, so you have the Usopp deal of approval." Usopp gave her a thumbs up.

"What'd you even do to get him so pissed at you, Usopp?" Nami asked.

"Nothing!" He paused and looked away. "Well, nothing recently."

"He wasn't just mad," Sanji said. "He looked..." Scared, Sanji wanted to say. But the word was so... simple. Too simple. And it didn't explain the desperation in his eye. The wet sheen. The way he hardly blinked.

The way he kept himself facing the direction Usopp was in, revealing his constant use of Haki.

This wasn't just Zoro scared. This was Zoro terrified.

And Sanji had never seen him terrified before.

"...off," Sanji settled on, furrowing his brow. "He looked off."

Nami and Usopp hummed in thought.

The three of them stared down at Zoro's prone body. An ominous dark puddle started growing under him.

The three of them sighed.

"I'll call Chopper-" Usopp felt a tug on his ankle. He looked down. Zoro's hand was holding his boot. "I thought you said he was unconscious!" he yelled, trying to break his grip unsuccessfully.

Sanji poked Zoro with his shoe. Zoro didn't move. "He's still unconscious, so you're gonna have to be his teddy bear."

"What?! No!" He gripped onto Sanji's shirt. "Sanji-kun pleaaaaase free me before my ankle's crushed in his sleep!"

Sanji rolled an eye. "You'll be fine."

"Then can you go get Chopper? Zoro's losing a lot of blood."

"The mosshead'll be fine too. Also," -Sanji pointed to Luffy and Chopper doing some kind of strange combo attack, with Chopper in Heavy Point using Luffy as a whip- "I don't wanna break up their fun."

"Sanji-kun," Nami piped up. "Go get Chopper, please."

"Of course, Nami-swan!" Sanji immediately ran off.

-

The two of them quietly watched him go.

"Did you see what caused this?" Usopp asked.

Nami shook her head. "I know about as much as you do: Zoro suddenly taking out a big group at once and then charging towards you." She bit her lip. "I don't think he recognized Sanji."

Usopp sighed, squatting down to pull the bandana from green hair. He stared at the slackened face of his friend, hands tightening in dark fabric.

"What happened to you, Zoro?"

[greymouse42]

alright!!! What Malachi would do if stuck in an elevator with: -Myles -Maria -Skeeter -Jan Separately, and then bonus ask of the entire knockoff mystery gang! And then bonus bonus for Lyons. Sorry this is such a long ask but it's worth it i promise

HELLO this was very funny and I jumped on it immediately.

Myles → Myles has a multitool in his pocket and this is the moment that Mal goes “oh man I should really carry a multitool in my pocket.” They are breaking into the access panel within minutes, and I don't think they can get the elevator working again but they do have fun.

Maria → They have a really nice conversation. After pressing the emergency help button (like reasonable people), I think they both go “thank God, a break,” and sit down and Maria gets to explain the plot of whatever serial drama she's watching or has Mal commiserating over whatever latest conspiracy theory her nephew believes in. They both come out of it going “man we should grab coffee sometime, that was pleasant.”

Skeeter → same as Myles but Mal doesn't say a word the whole time and doesn't have fun, but Skeeter does actually get the elevator working again.

Jan → doesn't even make it to the emergency button… that's a meme answer — the actual answer is that it should be totally fine. Long silences with Jan are usually comfortable. But they're both usually doing something. The combo of “we're stuck” and “there is nothing to do” and “it feels like we should be talking but neither of us want to do that” and “it's hot in here—” could very quickly lead to…. /hand wave/

Knockoff Mystery Gang → Mal is wedged in the corner spectating/refereeing and pretending he's not as insane as the rest of these weirdos. He's on Maria's side no matter what she decides to do.

Lyons → 40 minutes of Lyons trying to talk Malachi out of climbing up the elevator shaft, interspersed with a few minutes of silence whenever she thinks she's successfully convinced her feral ferret of a partner to not climb up the elevator shaft, are you insane. Unstoppable Force meets Immovable Object argument. There's only, like, 12 years between them but Lyons is feeling Every Single One Of Those Years for the 40 minutes she's trapped in an elevator with this man. She comes out of the situation thinking that Mal must be moderately claustrophobic. Mal was honestly just bored and likes arguing recreationally.

[mainfaggot]

the problem is that i have the temperament of a caged animal, but i also have no end goal lol haha isnt that funny. everyone start pointing and laughing already

[moe-broey]

Hhnghb