#the slow descent of turning into a bird

[illuminamint-writes]

Summary: After receiving a curious message in code in the mail, Grian finds himself slowly turning into a bird.

“You didn’t think to tell anyone that he was growing feathers?”

Mumbo’s voice is pitched high, higher than normal as he stands, staring at the wreck that Grian’s base has become. From the gritty red that has dried into the floorboards, to tattered fabrics and gouged open chests, it seems more like a scene from a horror movie than the lovingly made hobbit hole it had once been.

Behind him, shoulders tense and bunched together, Scar leans his weight onto his cane and lets out a small sigh. “He asked me not to!”

“Feathers!” Mumbo repeats, frantically. “Growing under his skin!”

[Read Chapter 12 on Ao3]

[doodle-pops]

Foreign Hearts

Gil Galad x modern human!reader

A/N: At last, the final piece for the event of this year is out! I wanted to go out with a bang but I didn’t expect to write so much (ノ_･､). Enjoy!

Warnings:modern human reader, fluff, humour, modern reader in Middle Earth, relationship talk

Words: 3.7k

Synopsis: Reflecting on the secrecy of the love you’ve shared with the High King, turned into another romantic and heartwarming moment between you two.

The sun had just begun its slow descent, casting a golden hue over the serene landscape of Rivendell. The air was crisp and cool, carrying with it the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers and the gentle rustle of leaves. The melody of a distant waterfall filled the air, mingling with the song of birds that flitted through the trees. Rivendell was a place of peace, of beauty that seemed untouched by time, and it had become your sanctuary since that fateful day when you had mysteriously appeared in the forests nearby.

It had been months since you found yourself in Middle-earth, a place you had only known from the pages of books and the whispers of legends. One moment, you had been living your life in the modern world, surrounded by the familiar hum of technology and the bustle of city life; the next, you were wandering through a forest that seemed to belong to another time, another world entirely.

The elves who had found you, clad in their silver and green, had been as shocked by your appearance as you were by theirs. You were an anomaly, a puzzle they couldn’t quite piece together. Lord Elrond, the wise and kind ruler of Rivendell, had taken you in, offering you shelter and care as you adjusted to this strange new reality.

Living in Rivendell was like stepping into a dream—everything was so ethereal, so perfect, that you often had to pinch yourself to make sure it was real. Yet, despite the beauty around you, it was hard not to feel out of place. The elves, with their flowing robes, graceful movements, and ancient wisdom, seemed like beings from a different world altogether. Your modern speech, your casual mannerisms, even your sense of humour—things that had been perfectly normal back home—stood out starkly against the elegance of elven customs.

There were times when you caught the elves watching you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement, their ageless faces betraying their thoughts more than they likely realised. You had tried, at first, to conform to their ways, to adopt their formal speech and graceful etiquette. But it was exhausting to maintain, and eventually, you had accepted that you were simply different. You were a visitor in their world, and while you respected their ways, you couldn’t entirely change who you were.

It was during one of these quiet, introspective days that you first met Gil-galad.

The High King of the Noldor had arrived in Rivendell on a visit to consult with his Herald, Lord Elrond. You had heard of him in passing—the Elven king who ruled over Lindon, a figure of great authority and wisdom. But you hadn’t given it much thought, assuming that someone of his stature would have little reason to notice someone like you.

You were wrong.

The meeting had been as unexpected as everything else in Middle-earth. You had been wandering through one of the many gardens of Rivendell, lost in thought, when you nearly collided with someone. Looking up, you found yourself staring into the most striking pair of blue eyes you had ever seen. He was tall—taller than any of the other elves you had met—his presence commanding and regal, yet there was a warmth in his gaze that immediately put you at ease.

“Forgive me,” he had said, his voice smooth and deep, though the amused glint in his eyes told you he wasn’t at all displeased by the encounter.

You had stammered out an apology, feeling flustered and out of place in front of someone so imposing. But the King had only smiled, intrigued by your manner of speech—so different from the formal, melodic tones of the elves. His curiosity was piqued, and instead of continuing on his way, he had engaged you in conversation.

At first, you had been nervous, unsure of how to speak to someone of such high status. But as the conversation flowed, you found yourself relaxing. Gil-galad was different from what you had expected. He was charming and kind, with a sharp wit that matched your own. He seemed genuinely interested in your world, in your experiences, and you found yourself laughing and talking more freely than you had since you arrived in Middle-earth.

Over the course of his stay in Rivendell, you and the High King crossed paths often. Each encounter left you feeling a strange mixture of excitement and confusion. He was a King, after all, and you were… well, you weren’t even sure what you were anymore. Yet, there was no denying the connection that had begun to form between you. It was as though he saw past the strangeness of your situation and was drawn to the very things that made you different.

It was during one of these visits that he had gifted you the music box. A small, intricately carved thing made of mahogany, it played a melody that was hauntingly beautiful. You had been surprised, touched by the gesture, and from that moment on, the music box had become one of your most treasured possessions.

Now, as you sat on the stone bench in one of Rivendell’s many gardens, you found yourself once again lost in thought, the music box cradled in your hands. You had come here to find some peace, to escape the swirling thoughts and emotions that had been troubling you ever since your feelings for Gil-galad began to deepen.

The gardens were quiet, the air cool and filled with the scent of blooming flowers. The sun was low in the sky, casting a soft, golden light over everything. It was a perfect evening, the kind that made you forget, if only for a moment, that you were far from home.

“Does it not trouble you?”

The familiar, smooth voice pulled you from your reverie, and you looked up to see Gil-galad approaching, his expression curious and gentle. He was dressed in his usual attire—garments of silver and royal blue, the colors of his house—his presence as commanding as ever. He sat down beside you on the bench, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, but not so close as to make you uncomfortable.

You blinked, trying to shake off the fog of your thoughts as you focused on him. But your gaze was drawn to his lips, and for a moment, you couldn’t think of anything else. His lips, curved into that familiar teasing smile, held your attention, and your thoughts muddled together into a jumble of emotions.

He noticed your gaze and, with a smirk, leaned closer, his voice laced with amusement. “Is there something on my face, or rather, my lips, my love?” he teased, drawing out the moment, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away, focusing intently on the music box in your hands. Your fingers traced the delicate carvings, desperate for something to distract you from the fluttering in your chest. “Your teasing is going to get you into trouble one day, My King,” you muttered, your voice a mix of shyness and annoyance—though the latter was directed more at yourself than at him.

Gil-galad’s expression softened as he leaned back slightly, giving you a bit more space. “How many times must I remind you? You may call me Ereinion,” he said gently, though there was a hint of playful reproach in his tone.

You kept your eyes on the music box, refusing to look up and meet his gaze. “Once more…I suppose,” you replied quietly.

Silence settled between you as he continued to watch you, his eyes tracing the movements of your hands and the way you muttered softly to yourself in a language he couldn’t fully understand. Your mother tongue, ancient and melodic, was a lexicon from a world and age far removed from his own. Yet, despite the differences, he found comfort in these moments, in simply observing you in your element, even when the words escaped him.

“You are unhappy, are you not?” he asked, his voice gentle but laced with an undertone of certainty.

A smile tugged at your lips, as though his statement amused you, and for a brief moment, a crackle of energy filled the air, as if the very atmosphere responded to your unspoken thoughts. Setting the music box aside, you turned to face him, giving him the full weight of your attention. “Why would you come to such a conclusion, or rather, how?” you asked, disbelief coloring your tone. “I don’t recall ever giving the impression that I was.”

His expression softened, though there was a shadow of hurt in his eyes. “You do not address me by my name as lovers do,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with a sadness that pained you to hear. “It is almost as if you were embarrassed or uninterested in being with me. Is it because of our secrecy?”

And as the question hung in the air between you, you realised that this was a moment of truth, a moment when the feelings you had been trying to ignore could no longer be denied.

The weight of his words hung in the air, pressing against your chest like a heavy stone. Gil-galad’s expression, so often the picture of composed regality, was softened by the sadness in his eyes, a sadness that you had never intended to cause. But the truth, like the stone in your chest, was complicated and unyielding.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his hand, warm and comforting as always. “Ereinion,” you began, the use of his name deliberate, a balm for the hurt you had unknowingly inflicted. “It’s not that I’m embarrassed or uninterested in being with you. Far from it.”

He turned his hand over to grasp yours, his thumb gently tracing circles on your palm. The simple gesture was comforting, grounding you in the moment as you searched for the right words. Words that would explain what you felt without causing him more pain.

“You have to understand,” you continued, your voice soft but steady, “I’m a human, Ereinion. A mortal. And that means…well, it means that I’m different from the people you’ve ruled and loved for centuries. I’ve seen how some of the elves speak about humans—like we’re nothing more than a fleeting thought in their minds. I know that not all of them feel that way, but enough do that it will make our relationship…complicated.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t interrupt, simply listening as you voiced the thoughts you had kept buried for so long.

“You’re their High King, their leader, and their symbol of everything that is strong and eternal about the Eldar. And if they knew that you had chosen a human, someone who will live for only a blink of an eye compared to their long lives, to stand by your side…” You trailed off, shaking your head slightly. “I don’t think they would accept it. Not easily, anyway.”

He started to speak, but you held up your hand, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him, your heart swelling with affection. “It’s not just that, Ereinion. It’s also…well, I’m happy with things the way they are. Keeping our relationship a secret, it means I don’t have to deal with the expectations and judgments that would come if I were known as your chosen one. It’s a relief, honestly.”

You shifted slightly on the bench, feeling the smooth, cool wood beneath you as you gathered your thoughts. “When I first arrived in Middle-earth—when I was suddenly…here—I was lost. Confused. I didn’t understand your world or its customs. And despite the kindness I’ve been shown, especially by Lord Elrond, I still struggle with it. I’m not like the others. My behaviour, my speech, even the way I think, it’s all…different. I’ve spent over a year in Rivendell, learning and adapting as best I can, but there are times when I still feel like an outsider, like I don’t quite belong.”

The grip he held on your hand tightened slightly, a silent reassurance that he was there, that he understood. His eyes, so often filled with the weight of his responsibilities, now held only concern for you, his secret love.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel guilty,” you added quickly, seeing the flicker of guilt cross his features. “In fact, it’s the opposite. I’m grateful that we can keep our relationship private. It means I don’t have to deal with the pressure of being a ruler, of trying to prove my worth to people who might never accept me. I’ve heard how some of the elves speak of humans—how we’re seen as lesser, as irrelevant. I’ve witnessed the way they look down on us, dismiss us.”

You paused, meeting his gaze with a steady look. “There’s no way they would accept me as their leader. And that’s okay. I don’t need them to. I’m happy with my freedom, with not having to live up to impossible expectations or navigate the treacherous waters of court politics and finding myself crying in a corner every day of the week, anxiously. I’m content being your secret lover, someone who can love you without the weight of a crown on my head.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, making his expression softened further, the sadness giving way to a deep, abiding affection. “You are remarkable,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of awe that made your heart skip a beat. “To find contentment in such circumstances…it’s not something many could do.”

You chuckled softly, the sound breaking the tension that had built between you. “Well, I’ve always been one to adapt, but not this time. Maybe if it was another human instead of me, they might enjoy the idea of being a royal more than the problems it bring,” you teased lightly. “Besides, I’ve never been one for grand titles or public adoration. I prefer the quiet moments, like this one, where I can just be myself with you.”

He nodded, a small, grateful smile crossing his lips. “It’s those quiet moments that I cherish most as well,” he admitted. “In all my years, with all the burdens of leadership, it’s rare to find someone who sees me not as the High King, but as Ereinion—just an elf who loves and is loved in return.”

Your heart warmed at his words, and you squeezed his hand gently. “And that’s exactly how I see you,” you said softly. “I fell in love with you, not for your title or your power, but for who you are—the elf who listens to my ramblings, who teases me when I’m being too serious, who finds joy in the small things.”

The weight of your conversation still hung in the air, but with it came a sense of relief—a feeling that you had finally voiced the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind for so long. Gil-galad’s expression had softened, his eyes still holding that deep affection, but now there was an understanding between you that hadn’t existed before.

You broke the silence first, a small smile playing on your lips as you leaned back on the bench, your fingers still intertwined with his. “You know,” you began, your tone lightening, “I never imagined when I first ended up in Middle-earth that I’d be sitting here with the High King of the Elves, having a heart-to-heart in a secret garden.”

He chuckled softly, the sound a deep, warm rumble that you felt as much as heard. “And I never imagined that I’d fall in love with a human from a world I’ve never even heard of,” he replied, a teasing glint in his eyes. “But life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?”

You nodded, a laugh escaping your lips as you thought back to the strange journey that had brought you here. “That’s an understatement. I mean, one day I’m sitting in my apartment, minding my own business, and the next thing I know, I’m in Rivendell, surrounded by elves and trying to figure out how not to embarrass myself with every other word I say.”

Gil-galad’s smile widened, and he leaned back beside you, the tension between you dissipating like morning mist. “I remember the first time I heard you speak,” he mused, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “You were trying to explain the concept of a ‘microwave’ to Elrond, and he looked as though he was trying to decipher an ancient riddle.”

You groaned, your cheeks heating at the memory. “Oh, don’t remind me. I must have sounded like a complete lunatic. I’m still not sure he believes that microwaves aren’t some kind of magic.”

“Well,” Gil-galad said, his tone mock-serious, “you have to admit, it does sound rather magical. A box that cooks food in mere moments? Even I have trouble wrapping my head around it.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to keep the grin off your face. “It’s just science,” you replied with a playful nudge. “But then again, in a world where magic is real, I suppose science might seem a little…mystical.”

He chuckled again, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “That’s one of the things I love about you,” he said, his voice warm. “You bring a perspective that’s entirely different from anything I’ve known. You see the world in a way that none of us do, and it’s…refreshing.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “So what you’re saying is, you fell for me because I’m weird?”

He laughed, the sound full and genuine, and you couldn’t help but join in. “Well, if by ‘weird,’ you mean unique, then yes,” he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “And besides, I think you’re the only person who can make me laugh like this.”

You tilted your head, a mischievous glint in your eyes. “Oh, so I’m your court jester now? Should I start juggling or learn to ride a unicycle?”

Shaking his head, his laughter fading into a soft smile. “No, you’re much more than that. But if you do learn to juggle, I’m sure we could arrange a performance at the next feast.”

You playfully swatted his arm, your heart feeling lighter with each moment you spent in his company. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Only with you, my love.”

The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, and you felt your resolve to keep things light slipping away under the intensity of his gaze. But before you could lose yourself in the moment, you caught yourself and leaned back, a smirk on your lips as you tried to regain the upper hand.

“You know,” you said, your tone teasing, “if this is your way of convincing me to move in with you, you’re going to have to try harder. I’ve grown rather fond of my little room in Rivendell, and I’m not sure I’m ready to give up my bach pad just yet.”

His brow raised and lips quirking into a smile. “Oh? And what would it take to tempt you away from your ‘bach pad,’ as you call it? A private suite in the palace? Endless bouquets of flowers delivered daily? A personal chef to prepare all your meals?”

You pretended to consider his offer, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, those are all tempting…but I’m not sure. I mean, who’s going to teach Elrond about the wonders of modern technology if I’m not around?”

He laughed again, a deep, rumbling sound that made your heart flutter. “You make a good point. I’m not sure he’s ready to tackle the mysteries of the ‘microwave’ on his own.”

“I don’t think he’s even ready for to learn about the internet or the blender. However, he did take learning the TV, fairly,” you laughed.

“When you do, inform me for I would be interested in witnessing his utter confusion,” he replied with equal merriment.

You grinned, pleased with your little victory, but before you could bask in it for too long, Gil-galad leaned in once more, his expression suddenly serious. “But in all seriousness,” he said, his voice gentle, “I want you to know that wherever you are, that’s where I want to be. Whether it’s in Rivendell, here in my palace, or anywhere else…as long as we’re together, I’ll be happy.”

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you were at a loss for what to say. You had always known that he cared for you deeply, but hearing it spoken aloud, in such a simple, heartfelt way, made your chest tighten with emotion.

After a beat, you managed a smile, though it was softer now, more vulnerable. “I feel the same way,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “And as much as I joke about it…I know that wherever you are, I’ll always feel at home.”

His hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Then that’s all I need,” he said quietly.

The moment stretched out between you, filled with a warmth and understanding that words couldn’t fully capture. It was in the way he looked at you, the way his hand fit perfectly around yours, the way the world seemed to fall away when you were together. Here, in that garden, under the stars of a world you never expected to call home, you found something you never knew you were searching for.

But even as you basked in the comfort of the moment, a flicker of mischief returned to your eyes. “But just so you know,” you added with a grin, “if you ever try to get me to wear one of those elaborate court attires, we might have a problem.”

Launching into another round of laughter, the sound echoing in the stillness of the night, he shook his head. “Noted,” he said, his eyes shining with affection. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But I have to say, I think you’d look stunning.”

You wrinkled your nose playfully. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Your Majesty. I prefer my sweatpants and t-shirts, thank you very much.”

He smiled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your temple. “And that’s exactly how I like you,” he murmured, his voice filled with a warmth that made your heart grown warmer.

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[jellyfishsthings]

please please please do some kind of biker boy with his helmet on. like maybe he shows up at your house and takes you on a ride and then while you’re both still jacked up on adrenaline he takes you for a different kind of ride ???

omg I love that... I kind lost myself in that one I will admit that, this brought me out of hibernation

WARNINGS: smut obviously, riding with many twists, it's really filthy tbh, I need a biker!bf now, fem!reader, no use of y/n or she/her but reader is described as feminine, keeping helmets and biker gear on, taking pictures... um I think that's it

The birds were chirping all around you, the peaceful scenery disturbed by grutal moans and high-pitched gasps.

Let's backtrack shall we?

It was supposed to be a peaceful day, one to celebrate your anniversary. He came over somewhere after six o'clock, the sun was closing to its descent. He was wearing his riding leathers, a fit black jacket that hugged his muscled arm and back, showing off his broad shoulders that I so loved to scratch and bite. He looked absolutely beautiful, as the visor of his helmet was drawn up and he removed one of his gloves to send a quick text. Soon enough I exited the house and approached him while zipping up my own jacket, similar to his, total black except for the thin red lines that highlighted my figure and the padded places. It was a beautiful piece, one he had given me a few days after he purchased the bike, claiming that “As much as I love my bike, I love my girl more.” Just as I drew close enough he grabbed my helmet before positioning it over my head and securing it in place.

Only God knew for how long we round along the sea and into the forest, a magnificent picture that for many reasons would stay in my mind untainted. My hands rested around his waist as the wind whipped around us. When he slowed down, I realized I wanted more, it was too soon. Yes arguably the view was amazing and yes it must have been tiring for him. But, I wanted more. All that speed, and all this adrenaline had a weird reaction to me. My mind calmed, it got scarily quiet as it was free to drift everywhere and nowhere at the same time, since I knew that he was in control, that he would keep me safe should anything happen. He turned to my drawing up his visor and his eyes looked back at me full of mischief and mirth. Somehow he grabbed my thighs and positioned me on his lap. That was when I noticed that he was hard.

His hands flew everywhere as he tried to get rid of my pants, lowering them to the ground before he freed himself from his own confidences.

My world... he was everything.

He tore my panties before slowly aligning my hips with his before drawing me down. Our helmets clashed together, our sound muffled from them. He grabbed my ass and he started bouncing me, giving me the message to set my own pace. Too quickly, quicker that I would like to admit we both clashed down. Everything was a haze of greedy hands, skin that stinged from the force of our thrusts and foggy visors. He had removed his jacket, and he was just in black tank top as his arms flexed with his movements and the muscles in his back popped underneath my hands. The leather of the seat was stained with our releases.

He removed himself from me, and he stood as he turned me around. He opened my jacket and opened up my shirt, leaving me in just my bra and the jacket.

“Grab the handles” his voice was soft and lethal. “Ride the bike. Ride it the way you would ride me.”

My skin heated as I did as he said. The leather underneath me was already coated made a minimum friction against me and I straddled the bike better before circling my hips. My clit dragged against the fabric and my breath stuttered. My back arched and I continued my misdoings. It was filthy and apparently utterly sexy, because he couldn't keep his eyes off of me. His hand was pumping his cock in time with my movements. It wasn't enough and I whined his name. He chuckled darkly and snapped a picture before he positioned himself behind me. One of his arms reached forward to one of the mirrors before moving it so that he could see my face, or what was visible of my face. He grabbed my hips and ground them down, pressing my flushed against the seat before moving me back and forth. It was too much. The pressure was driving me crazy and within minutes I was gone. When I opened my eyes again, I was laying sprawled, my legs dangling from each side, as the cold air blew in my most sensitive area. He was on top of me, his eyes impossibly dark as he repositioned himself inside of me and he grabbed the handles, using them to stabilize himself before he started rocking my world.

His thrusts were deep and hard, we were both panting as the bike rocked forwards and he slammed the brakes to stop us from falling down. This had to be the most crazy thing we had ever done. We could get caught at any minute but I could find myself caring about that as he drew out of me one orgasm after the other we were both spent, when we finally calmed down.

“Well that happened” he whispered “Never you would be such a freak.”

I laughed as I slammed his visor in place. “You are the freak, you took pictures.”

“That I did. And what beautiful pictures they are. They shall keep me good company when I am alone.”

words: I have no idea

[oxygen537art]

istg I luv ur art style so much and also can I get mha smut recommendations (idrc wat ship but mainly bakudeku and dabihawks is wat I'm looking for. shiggydabi is cool too)

Thank you so much for your nice words, I'm glad you enjoy my art! ❤️

I've listed the authors and titles of their works that I once saved in my favorites. I hardly follow updates now, it's been a while since I reread the works listed here, so I rely purely on notes and bookmarks left by past me. Just a reminder that everyone's tastes are different, please read the tags. And check out the authors' other works!

18+, Minors Do Not Interact!

Aphra_After_Dark

The Desk Job

Fight for You, Fighting for Me

how to 69 when both of you have fangs

In For A Penny

Mommy Milkers

Of Corset Is

A Slow Descent

Something New

bluebelle

can I kiss you?

full rack

hard boiled

cozzzynook

“Closer”

"Come on baby bird, show me whose submissive”

“Lace and Feathers”

“Mated” series

“I got you a present birdie”

“I’ll Love you even when you don’t love you”

Self-care is the best care, but with you it’s just better

The sun that stole the moon

“Touya’s Fun Night In”

Cateil

drowning in you

heart and soul

messy

palpable

cellostiel

Maraschino Cherry Juice

Relaxation

The Real Deal

Songbird

So Fucking Electric

DeadBoysWalking

Hyperfixation

Shut Up And Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is

Good Boy

If Only

Eyes On Me

The Other Way

Wait A Minute, Baby, Stay With Me A While

Turn you inside-out by dorothycanfly

drunkenCharm

As Above So Below

Before I Ever Met You

Begging for Thread

Days of Bloom

Drowning Gods

Good Vibrations

i hold you to my heart's desire

Waiting Game

FeatheredFvck

Bad Behavior

Bet

Breathe

Dickstracted

Euphoria

I'll Do You Two Better

It's A Spring Thing

The One Percent

Unexpected

From flames to ashes by NekoRika (This is a collection of oneshots, but I save the chapters 3, 23, 36, 41, 43)

Neurotoxin

Arrangements

Change Of Pace

Learn To Breathe

Punk Gecko Boi watches Smexy Gaymer and his Goth bf fuck on webcam.mp4

Pixie_Virus

4's a Party

Couch Troubles

Meet-Cute

After Dicking Cuddles by the_pursuit_of_happiness

I'll Make It Fit and Milk Me by paleserendipity

SaltyTomato

Good boy

I hope they have your eyes

Pretty Fingers on Slick Thighs

satan_copilots_my_tardis (I recommend all of their works. Some are only available on Tumblr (18+) @satancopilotsmytardis)

SoenNoAme (TsukkiNoNeko)

Blue Flames, Blue Passion

Captivated By Your Resonating Light

Close To You

Dancing Flames

Diplomatic Approach

Edge of Glory

Glimmer

Heated

Kiss Me Like It's Do Or Die

Play A Little Game

Satisfy the Undisclosed Desires in your Heart

sometimes I wonder which one will be your last lie.

Stuck in Repeat

Tears That Drip Sore

until you learn to love yourself

White Camelia

Your Innocence Is Mine

Wind Down by frozenCinders

Primal Instincts and Pretty Things by truthinadvertising

fuck around and find out and End Racism in the OTW- All Dolled Up by unbalancedcentrifuge

VampyrSutton

Be Good For Me

The Cave

Eyes on Me

Good Little Whore

Hate Fuck

How Are You Alive?

How Do You Live Like This?

How the Mighty Fall

Spring Heat

SSD Day 3~Werebeasts~Claiming Bite/Knotting

SSD Day 6~Anthro~Collar

Werewolfnightwalker

All Of Me

The Consequences of Nesting

Down By the Wexford Border

Save a Horse, Ride a Birdboy

Soft

Take Me Apart So Gently

Turn Off The Lights (We Don't Need Them To Dance)

[emeritusemeritus]

hello !! i adore your work, so i was thinking about asking for a rq about the weasley twins x reader (if you don't like fred x reader x george it's totally fine, if that's the case then fred x reader is just as perfect) where they were dating back at hogwarts or at least have a situationship until she twins leave because of umbridge

and mind you, they did invite the reader to come with them, but she refuses because reader needed to end her last school year (due to her ambitions) and didn't want to leave her younger brother alone at hogwarts with umbridge there

so can you write a scenario where, two years later (NO WAR at all 💔) the twins receive a letter from her with tickets for a quidditch game? from a team they like nonetheless. they go to the game and find out that the reader, who was a hufflepuff chaser back at school, now managed to become a professional chaser and invited them to watch her first game?

pretty please! im sorry if this became a huge text lmao once again i adore your work and i hope you have a lovely day 🌷

Chase Me

My dear sweet Anon, I cannot apologise enough for how long this has taken me to complete for you. Life has been crazy and it’s in no way a reflection of your ask because this was super fun to write. I hope I did your idea justice!! 🖤

Warnings: slight past angst, longing, heartbreak. Happy endings. Reader is a hufflepuff- set after Canon. NO WAR. No mention of mouldy voldy or death. Mentions of Umbridge and her nastiness. Not beta read nor spellchecked.

Word count: 2.8k

"Oi Fred! Mail's here!" George shouts up the winding, wooden stairs as he unlatches the window where an owl was not so patiently waiting to drop off the thick letter held tightly in it's beak. George takes the letter from the gorgeous grey owl and pats it once on the head, frowning slightly when it simply flies away without so much as a chirp.

His frown deepens when he looks at the front of the brown envelope, seeing a multitude of stamps he didn't recognise and very neat handwriting that listed both his and Fred's names with delicate precision.

"Bit early for mail isn't it?" Fred says as he walks down the stairs to the main shop, still buttoning up his shirt with the arms rolled up, his untied bow-tie hanging around his neck.

"It wasn't Easy," George mutters, still examining the letter in his hands, trying to decipher the stamps. 'Easy' was their shop owl, an inside joke of sorts as it turned out once he was purchased that he was just as erratic as Errol once was, leading them through both call out 'easy!' Whenever the bird neared any glass panes or ledges, most notably because he never slowed down upon descent. Plus Fred said that Easy Weasley would be a great name for a pet and George had to agree, though he feared it was setting up a lifelong curse upon any animal that they might acquire, knowing Fred would want to keep the theme going. Easy, Peasy, wheezy, Breezy... it probably wouldn't end there.

"What's that?" Fred asks, noticing the brown envelope in his twin's hands, just finishing up his top button.

"Don't know," George says, still examining it.

"That's because you have to open them to read them mate," Fred jokes, but doesn't get the reaction he hoped for, seeing George too transfixed to shoot him the mock-glare he'd anticipated.

"Does this writing look familiar to you?" George hands Fred the envelope but doesn't take his eyes off it.

"A bit," Fred says with a slight squint as he looks at the neat writing on the front, quite liking the way his name was written in the fancy script. Fred bites the bullet and opens the envelope, his eyes drifting quizzically at the unique stamps on the front.

He pulls out the letter first as it fills the top of the envelope, still feeling other things in the bottom that he could get to later. The piece of paper is folded and heavy, so opaque that he can't see any writing through it.

At the top of the letter, even before he can begin to try and pull it open, is a little piece of card paper clipped onto the letter, stating 'To be read by Messers F and G Weasley of 93 Diagon Alley only.'

They cast a quick glance at each other in trepidation at the unusual literature and Fred begins to take off the card attached to the letter.

To his surprise, underneath exactly where the card had been temporarily fixed were the words 'I solemnly swear...'

Fred doesn't hesitate and pulls out his wand, tapping the paper gently and uttering the words he'd not spoken in so long, but remembered with great fondness and complete recollection.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

The paper immediately begins to unseal itself, the paper opening up like a friendly howler and handwritten words begin to fill the lines that have started appearing on the page.

The second Fred sees the opening line, he knows exactly who it's from, as does George.

'To my favourite jokesters'

"Well bloody hell," Fred says, slightly bewildered by the turn of events as he leans back, resting his hips against the counter whilst he gathers himself. In complete honesty, he's fighting back a ball of emotion at the back of his throat as he takes in the words on the page from the one that got away. She'd been everything to him since that first meeting on the train, the little Hufflepuff who gave him a run for his money both on and off the quidditch pitch. He's been convinced she was the one, his endgame, the love of his life- until his twin had piped up about his own feelings for her.

They made it work eventually, found a rhythm that suited them all, through trial and error and everything in between. They found love, the three of them with her being the rose between two thorns, the center of their world.

No one hated Dolores Umbridge more than Fred Weasley, not even Harry, the entire nation of wizards, witches or any of the wronged mythical creatures. The toad faced witch had ruined everything inserting herself into their school and their lives, spoiling the happiest time in his whole life and putting a rather forceful stop on all the plans he'd made. They'd talked about it since their fifth year, when the plans really started to take off. They'd finish school together, find the money to start the shop and they'd all move in together in the little flat above the shop. Eventually he and George would make enough money for a real house, just like she deserved and she'd be free to do anything she wanted to do, anything all all with the constant support of her two loves.

But that didn't happen, not even slightly. Umbridge had made it impossible for them to stay, she'd forced them to leave and though they did it in a spectacular way that would no doubt be the talk of hogwarts for many years following and a person high in Fred's own personal life- it was also one of the saddest times.

His love had stayed at the school, to finish her studies and to protect her little brother Michael who had unfortunately seemed to be under Umbridge's radar, meaning that he was far from safe. She couldn't leave and they couldn't stay. It was heartbreaking to leave her there, to face the few months alone without her. Everything seemed strange between he and George, always knowing that there was something vital missing. But then the weeks bled into months and that eventually turned into over a year as she got a job right after school, taking her away from them this time. They focused on the shop and on their products, keeping themselves busy where they could so that they wouldn't feel that constant void of her presence but late at night it was hard to deny.

George had taken it the worst and being the older brother, Fred had naturally tried to help him the best he could. He'd purposefully give George jobs to do that would require concentration, to set out problems that didn't have an answer, just so he'd forget about her for a while, but it didn't always work. There was a sadness about George that was never there before, always the happier, gentler and more sensitive of the two, these days he was quite often known as the quieter one too. He's happy, of course he is, he's living his dream and they are successful- he still laughs, jokes and pranks just as much as before but there's always just a little piece of him that is gone.

"It's really from her?" George says quietly, his eyes scanning back and forth over the document repeatedly, as if he can't take it in enough. The tone of his voice pulls at Fred's heartstrings, the sadness seeping out once again.

"Looks like it mate," Fred says, trying to remain calm and neutral though his pulse is a stark juxtaposition to his outward demeanour.

"Two tickets for the Sandacre Sirens, how the bloody hell did she get hold of these?" George asks, seeming to come to life once the realisation sinks in of what exactly is in front of him. He lifts the tickets up to his face fit closer inspection, holding them a little too tightly to be casual and inspects the tickets, noticing that they were really good seats- really really good seats. His favourite team too, though admittedly he'd been lax in his support of quidditch lately due to being so busy with the shop, another part of his old self he'd lost.

George had never fretted so much over what to wear. He grew up in a poor family with little resources and even less care of fashion or quality of being presentable. He was the tallest of all the Weasley's, even a little bit over Fred though it was never mentioned, meaning that for as long as he could remember his clothes had never truly fit him, most of them being hand-me-downs from Charlie or Bill (he'd outgrown Percy by his 12th birthday). Now they had money, he and Fred had nice suits for the shop and a selection of better fitting clothes for the rest of the time but he didn't have a single thing that would be good enough for seeing her again. Maybe Fred would know what to wear...

The crowd was booming, nearly every seat in the stadium filled, with loud chanting and joyous singing echoing around the stadium from both teams. The atmosphere was electric and chaotic- just like the twins liked it. She'd been very vague in her instructions of where to meet or how to find each other and so the twins mutually decided to take their seats, hoping to find her there in the neighbouring seat beside theirs. Only, there was no seat beside theirs, or at least it was just the occupier of the seat was certainly not y/n. Their names were written on little magical signs that could not be removed even with magic, scrawled in her own neat handwriting that flew away like a little bird once the twins prepared to take their reserved seats.

More confused than ever, they shared a confused look, near identical in confusion with eyebrows pulled into semi-frowns.

"Messers Weasley? Your refreshments," an usher said from beside them, enchanting a tray to hover in front of their spaces, filled to the brim with all sorts of delicious treats and beverages-  personalised to each twin. Fred couldn't help but kick his lips when his eyes fixed upon the fizzy bottle of dandelion and burdock and George's mouth watered upon seeing the butterbeer tarts stacked up on the tray, knowing they were just for him.

George squints, looking at the note on the tray in her distinctive writing, urging them to check under their seats. He cracks up laughing when he feels exactly what was there, seeing Fred do the same. Under George's seat was a thick knitted scarf with stripes of orange and purple, the colours of the sandacre sirens, as well as a big puffy keyring and a little commercial sized face pint kit. Under Fred's seat, is a matching scarf and face paint kit plus a ridiculously big hat in the same colours.

They know instantly- it’s the exact same thing they wore to the Quidditch World Cup back in 1994, when y/n was with them.

"Excuse me, have you seen y/n?" Fred asks the attendant, trying to call him back as he prepares to walk away. To his confusion, the usher simply stares back at him with equal confusion before letting out a humourless chuckle as he walks away, leaving both of the twins perplexed.

“To your seats, the match will begin in five minutes,” the announcement sounds out loudly, urging all ticket holders to claim their seats. The twins look around in nervous anticipation, excited for the game but more confused than ever when the seats around them fill up, completely ending their hope that she would appear beside them. Why had she invited them?

The other team flew onto the pitch with a roar from one half of the crowd, each player flying through the magically held banner in perfect synchronisation as they played up to the crowd.

“Oi, look!” George says to Fred with a. Less than gentle nudge as he extends his finger, pointing to one of the large screens directly across from them which had a large message printed onto the screen.

“A warm welcome to our new Siren chaser, Y/n L/n!”

Beside it was a photo of her, slightly older than they remembered but still as breathtakingly gorgeous as she stood with a proud smile, clutching her broom and dressed in her chaser finest.

Just then, a huge explosion of fireworks occurred on the pitch and their attention was dragged away from her photo, seeing that all the players had appeared through the residual cloud of smoke. Their eyes searched frantically, almost perfectly in sync as they tried to find the once familiar form of their love.

There she was. She looked majestic, proud and ever so slightly nervous as she beamed at the crowd, graciously accepting their cheers and feeding off their energy. Her eyes searched the crowd secretively but Fred noticed, seeing her gaze flick between the stands.

Their eyes suddenly met, very briefly, and Fred watched in wonder as she momentarily lost her balance upon the broom just for a second as she gazed upon the two brothers who were here just for her. Her smile widened still as she smiled at the two men she had loved so very much and in gaining some form of composure, she fired off a quick, flirtatious wink towards them before zooming off to her starting position followed by the starting whistle. It was then, Fred reached down and with the pride of a dear old friend and lover, placed the comically large hat upon his head and cracked open one of the face paints, drawing a little flag onto George’s cheek, though he hardly noticed, and then got his twin to do the same- he’d learnt how uncomfortable a full face of face paint was from last time and was not making the same mistake.

“Write her name,” Fred urged George, unable to keep the smile off his face.

After that, Fred could feel George’s tension all throughout the match, even without looking at him. If he sat any further forward upon the edge of his seat, he’d surely end up a pile of limbs on the floor, his entire focus solely on her. Fred smirked, seeing her eyes flicker over to them whenever they could, though everyone else would assume she was searching for the quaffle, or an opening to take the shot- but Fred knew better.

She played wondrously, an undoubted success in her first game with the Siren’s- cementing her newfound reputation of excellence in the quidditch community. Ten points here, ten points there and they were quickly adding up, creating a smooth win over the other team. She was quick, swift and agile, her flying skills incomparable as she made it look effortless- like a form of graceful dance. It was enchanting to watch her, entrancing almost.

Fred almost leapt out of his seat when an advancing bludger almost caught the tail of her broom and whether it was his inner beater or his inner boyfriend, he instinctively almost reached out to bat it away, just as he had done so many times before. She avoided it, just, and had firm words with the beater flying above her who had done very little to protect her as she nearly did a haversacking foul, just to avoid the rogue bludger.

Finally, when neither Fred nor George could wait for the game to be over just so they could see you, the final buzzer rang, the lights in the stadium turning orange and purple to denote the overwhelming win to the Sirens. The roar of the crowd was near deafening as more fireworks erupted around the players who were cheering, crying and hugging midair. George and Fred were instantly on their feet, trying to cheer louder than anyone else in the stadium just so she’d hear, their long arms rising up and proudly holding their scarves above their head. It had been a magical night for Quidditch, and even more so for the Siren’s new chaser. The little hufflepuff chaser turned professional right before their eyes.

It was then, watching her turn directly to the two twins mid-celebration and seeing her smile brighten even further that Fred knew he wouldn’t let this night end with them parting once again. He turned to George, seeing him just as enraptured as he himself felt, and knew he didn’t need to ask if Georgie felt the same way.

Never again would they let her get away.

[violettavonviolet]

Tim Drake fic recs part 2

all of these fics are finished and amazing! the word count goes up progressively and the rating is noted but do check the works for tags!

All fics marked with a star haven't left my brain since I read them!

Jaytim

these lines of lightning

smilebackwards

Summary:

“Sometimes when Bruce is being an asshole, the best response is to be an asshole right back,” Jason says, dropping down next to Tim and propping his boots on the milk crates he uses for a coffee table. “I used to go hang out with all the bad kids so I guess you’re already on the right track.”

4.8k teen

do me a favor

yasmindifference

Summary:

“So what were you thinking? Fake financial distress? Fake injury?”

“Fake boyfriend,” Jason said.

9k fake relationship teen

it takes a house, a village

defcontwo

Summary:

“If you shower my couch with love and affection, I might actually kill you.” Or: how Tim Drake buys a house, rebuilds his life, and accidentally falls in love.

10k unmarked, humor

A Gift of Knowledge *

njw

Summary:

Dick’s voice is hoarse with suppressed fury. “So, you’re just exposing us to this, this outrageous substance, and torturing us by leaving us here, bound and drugged?”

He has to know that’s not all. But he’s asking anyway, to get as much information as possible out of the villain before they’re left to their own devices. It’s what they’ve all been trained to do.

Tim squeezes his eyes shut, knowing what Joker is going to say. Knowing exactly what the evil madman is planning to do.

Damn it. Damn it all to hell, not here, not now. Not like this. 

20k mature a/b/o

Stripping Down *

njw

Summary:

Tim turns to him with a quick, shy smile before rapidly climbing the pole, waiting for Jason to position himself under him. “Like this?” he asks, arching his back, gripping the pole tightly between his shapely little thighs and beginning a slow, grinding descent. Jason did not realize until this moment it was possible to be so jealous of a fuckin’ pole.

Oh fuck, I’m gonna die again. Of embarrassment or blue balls, just take your fuckin’ pick. 

“Yeah, Baby Bird,” he says, almost not recognizing his voice for how throaty and deep it sounds right now. “Just like that.”

20k mature, soulmates

A Midsummer Night's Terror: The Great Escape

kleine_aster, njw

Summary:

A super-villain is on the loose, and he isn't called "The Kinkster" for nothing. On a hot Gotham summer's night, he entraps Batman and his allies, presenting them with a choice—to either succumb to lust, or perish in his maze. Badwrong ensues.

(kleine_aster's fabulous story, with a new ending by njw; posted with permission)

23k sex pollen explicit

I loved thee, though I told thee not, (--Right earlily and long,)

llamallamaduck

Summary:

The news that Timothy Drake, Gotham’s cryptid millionaire, has shot the Joker dead during a public live-stream hits the world like a freight train—and that is just the opening salvo of his bugfuck plan.

Maybe there exists, in the multiverse, a configuration of Jason Todd who will weather this with decorum, dignity and self-respect. This version of Jason Todd decides that the life of an academic is not, really, all that rewarding. In contrast, the life of Timothy Drake’s live-in house-husband is looking more appealing by the second.

24k mature

Re: Soulmarks

Moxibustion (RyuuzaKochou)

Summary:

JASON TODD - EXPOSED!!

By Vicky Vale (@vickyvalegazette)

BREAKING NEWS - Oscar-winning screenwriter, actor and all-around heartthrob Jason Todd has had his Soulmark exposed to the public in a wild escapade at the Gotham International Airport today upon his return from shooting his latest project. 

Who is the lucky person with the matching mark? Who will color in the black shapes in Jason Todd’s Soulmark and Bloom with one of the hottest celebrities on the planet?

We will report on this as it develops! Stay tuned to the feed!

32k soulmates

Masquerade (Whose Face is Behind the Mask?)

chibi_nightowl

Summary:

Every so often, someone would take it into their heads that a masquerade ball would be a fantastic idea and make it into the biggest event of the year. Sometimes, they were a smashing hit. And other times…things just got smashed.

81k explicit

Timkon

The Mystery of the Superboy Shirts

Aviatricks

Summary:

The thing is, Tim is a detective, first and foremost.

And like most detectives, sometimes he just can’t let things go. 

(Or, how Tim acquires several hundred Superboy t-shirts)

4k humor gen

the honesty in your body

Laroyena

Summary:

Luthor's tech saved Kon's life at the cost of his mind. Tim must take a feral Kon across space to restore his humanity... which is just as difficult as one may think.

(Batman Omegaverse AU: unabashed TimKon porn detailing their original get-together in their early teens to their definite get-together in their late teens. But mostly porn.)

14k explicit a/b/o

Slip and Slide

Living_Free

Summary:

Battle for the Cowl AU

Bruce is dead*. 

The cowl has uncemoniously been dumped on Dick Grayson, who is kind of preoccupied with the fact that he now has a very small, very angry, Legacy-obsessed, Damian Wayne to take care of. 

As per usual, Jason is not helping. 

Tim is Sad, and is dabbling in the the treacherous waters of teenage dating, leading a superhero team, and running a company. 

It's up to the voices of reason (mainly Alfred) to make sure that the family does not crumble under the shadow of the Bat. 

*If you believe that after all the nonsense D.C. has pulled, there is no hope for you.

21k humor, the series is 200k+ and is fantastic

Catfishing

timkons

Summary:

Tim accidentally catfishes Kon. It goes about as well as you can imagine.

22k teen

Other

moving in stereo 

TheResurrectionist

Summary:

Clark closed his eyes, wincing. “Your children have some…guests.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Bruce muttered, setting aside the tablet.

“No, I mean…I think all of them, um. Have a guest, tonight.”

2k gen multiple

Against the odds

Heartslogos

It’s a child’s gambit to get mummy’s attention mixed with abandonment issues paranoia and an extreme penchant for vendetta.

3k tim/Bruce 00Q teen angst

say cheese

DairyFarmer

Summary:

“Why are there reporters-”

Dick stopped. His eyes locked on the TV.

“Oh, look at that Drake- you’re trending on social media.” Damian offered far too coolly to be any form of casual.

XxX

In which Tim's nudes get leaked online and he is surprisingly casual about it

4.8k mature

Sticks and Stones

Solemini (SoleminiSanction), SoleminiSanction

Summary:

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can cause lasting psychological damage."

The Core Four stage a long-overdue intervention.

Or, in which Steph's abusive tendencies are finally addressed.

10k timsteph abusive relationship teen

Troika

Glitterandlube

16k kon/tim/bart crack

The Wooing of Tim Drake

Titans_R_Us

Summary:

Tim didn't stand a chance.

Each action, each gift, each gesture was calculated for the best possible result. The source of this smothering affection is surprising but Tim can't find a single reason to say no...So he doesn't. The brat somehow worms his way into his heart one inch at a time.

Meanwhile Damian is quite pleased with how his courtship progresses.

20k damitim mature

[insane-brit]

Royalty (Ch. 2)

Muzan Kibutsuji x Soulmate!Fem!reader

Park Links: Prologue, Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three

Tags/Warnings: Enemies to lovers, semi slow burn, dark story/themes, violence, fighting, mentions of prostitution/entertainment, anxiety, shock, anger, flashback.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word count: 2.7K

The trek to Yoshiwara felt almost effortless despite her interpersonal matters. Her mind was consumed with staring at the thread protruding from her wrist. Receiving this gift bestowed upon her kept her from an ounce of rest that night. She marveled at the tie and couldn’t help the flurry of questions that infiltrated her mind. As much as she prided herself in problem-solving and anything clever, her intellect was stumped. Regardless, she thanked whatever higher power for this opportunity that had forsaken her from a young age.  

She kept her promise to Tengen as much as she wanted to find him and ramble about the occurrence. He would be happy for her but the nagging in her mind knew that it would be selfish to present this information to him when his wives were in potential danger. When the sun broke through the horizon and dawn showed its lovely face, she packed her things and set off. It had been a day or two and the path ahead was cracked. Clear evidence was strewn about of it being a well-traveled route. She supposed that was a good thing. The blazing heat caused sweat to bead along her forehead and nape. Pulling on her haori, she fanned herself in a fruitless attempt to circulate air. 

It wouldn’t be long before she reached the district. The pit in her stomach from the night her thread appeared was still apparent. She thought that it was her intuition expecting something to happen. That something being the appearance of her soul tie, but with every passing minute, it never ceased. She had attempted to suppress the feeling while remaining cautious, but it would relapse and grow every time she tried to forget it. It caused her to lash out at a poor maple tree the previous night. Her Nichirin sword left deep grooves in the bark as she unleashed her irritability and unease. Lucky for her the outburst did not harm her blade. She did not have the time nor patience to deal with Haganezuka and his damned vengeance that would be seeking her blood. That man would know the moment any of his blades even had a scratch and the next minute he’d be screaming obscenities with steel to your throat. Sighing, she chuckled at the thought. He cared for his work, and she admired him for that.

The sun continued its descent to the horizon, the atmosphere growing ever so slightly cooler as she pursued the winding path. The tree’s canopy bestowed some shade upon her figure and a faint breeze accompanied the peaceful atmosphere. If she had to guess, she would make it to Yoshiwara a bit after the sun's rays faded under the vista. Perfect timing on her part and she mentally patted herself on the back.

The shade around her grew until it covered the terrain and a chill shot down her spine. The breeze blew some wisps of hair in front of her face. Caressing her features as she clutched the Tsuka of her blade. The ray skin was coarse against her palm and she gripped it until her knuckles turned white. There was virtually no sound. The birds were silent, cicadas halted their clamor, and all that was heard was the fluttering of leaves. Her heart was in her throat threatening to claw its way out, but she was static. Eyes swept across the dense foliage, searching for the source that caused much attentiveness. 

The crunching and rustling of leaves and twigs promptly made itself known as a commotion rapidly approached her stable form. The movement of air being cut resounded to her right and she swerved as an amalgamation of leathery skin settled in the spot she once stood. Its landing kicked up filth and a cloud of dust blew upwards. Eyes hardening, she readied herself as it subsided. Revealing one of the more grotesque demons she has ever had the pleasure of encountering. Its frame was thin, skin stretched over its bones. Back turned to her, it jolted, and she could hear cracking as its limbs moved unnaturally. The bending of tendons and grinding of joints had her mentally winching. 

“Wretched thing.” She seethed, angling her katana. The blade flashed in the dying rays of the sun and the emerging moonlight that peaked through the canopy. It snapped its head towards her, the eyes were pitch black with a single prick of white in the center and a red line streaked across it. A smile, full of needle-like teeth stretched as it locked its gaze onto her. It darted back and forth between her face and sword. If it was even possible, the grin got wider. 

“A Hashira,” its voice was grainy and sandpaper-like. “Lucky me.” 

She growled lowly and gritted her teeth. How revolting, and to think she was almost to her destination without getting into any trouble.

“I think you’ll find yourself unlucky.”  Digging her foot into the dirt she lunged at the monstrosity. Its face contorted in what looked to be glee before parrying her attack. Retaliating in a flurry of precise assaults aimed to incapacitate the slayer. She veered away with ease and brought her foot up, slamming it into its chest. Staggering backward it groaned, hesitating, and looking stunned. 

“Come on demon!” She hissed and swung her blade. The demon dodged and glared at her. Not making any sudden moves and being motionless. She furrowed her brows and kicked up dust to distract it. Why wasn’t it trying harder? It’s not even moving. 

She had advanced behind it and leaped. Readying her blade to strike its vital point. To sever its head from its neck and watch its twisted body disintegrate. It cocked its head towards her. Eyes wide and mouth stretched into a tight line. It seemed like it was forcibly constant. It raised its arm in a futile attempt to block as she sliced right through the flesh like butter despite its appearance. 

The body stiffened and collapsed in a heap as the head rolled. Coming to a stop a few feet away from her. She watched the expression on its face contort in a multitude of emotions.  “To think, for a second I thought you would’ve fought harder.” She smirked and sheathed her sword. It still looked at her. An expression of shock and something she couldn’t recognize. Frowning, she dusted herself off before turning away from the slowly deteriorating demon. 

“The progenitor.” it rasped. 

She halted and looked over her shoulder. Confusion and agitation were written across her face. 

“His presence,” it choked out as its mouth started to turn to ash. “Hashira, you- “

“Enough with your delusions demon!” she hissed and glowered at the lowly creature. “Whatever scheme you’re planning in death will not deface me in any way. You mutter nonsense and plead to the thing you call Master.” 

For a demon who appeared so delighted in the prospect of fighting a slayer earlier, it was quite a weak and depressing display. Begging for its Master, Kibutsuji Muzan, and conniving to bring her into the ordeal. Maybe it was going to threaten her. Regardless, she cut it off before it could utter its last words. The lower half of its face was gone, and the rest engulfed itself into cinders. Surroundings quiet once more, she stood there staring at where the demon once lay. Disgust and unease flooded her bloodstream. 

She shuffled from one foot to the other. Mulling over the limited words the demon spoke. Sure, these creatures threatened people, especially slayers, but she can't recall one ever mentioning him in their final moments. She had to admit, it was odd, but it had to just be trying to strike fear into her. Which ultimately failed. Kibutsuji was a master at evading the corps or he was just a coward. The only one to have seen him in ages was Tanjiro and he should be thankful to be alive. If she ever came face to face with the creator of these things she wouldn’t hesitate to fight to her dying breath. That was the oath she pledged long ago, and she would be damned if she broke it. However, killing his creations would suffice for now. Taking in her surroundings, she groaned realizing she would arrive later than she hoped. 

————————————————————————

The streets of the district were flooded with people. Loud chattering and bright lights evaded her senses as she took it all in. It had been a while since she walked its streets, but not much had changed. There were still the festivities, women entertaining avaricious men and hidden trades. Pulling out some of the letters Tengen gave her, she skimmed through them and made note of the houses each wife “belonged” to. Tokito, Kyogoku, and Ogimoto. Three of the top houses in the district. 

She stepped out into the crowd, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer number of bodies. It seemed that wherever she looked, more people spawned and searched for whatever kind of entertainment suited them. It felt almost impossible that she was ever going to find clues to where Tengen’s wives may be.  Much less encounter them. Going straight up to the houses didn’t feel like the best idea to her. She didn’t want to deal with the heads. Besides, if they were missing, she doubted they would know anything. Much less disclose that information to a random woman on the streets. She would have to wait for the pathways to clear if she dared try and use her forms. Even then it may attract attention, but she had to do it. She made a promise.

Pushing through the waves of people, she excused herself a multitude of times before falling silent. Opting to stick to the edge of the crowd to avoid getting swept away by its tide. Her sword had been tucked under her haori and she held it close to her side almost protectively. It brought a sense of comfort as she knew that having it meant being able to dispatch almost anything if she felt it was necessary. 

Gripping the hilt, she flinched at the sudden pressure in her wrist. Looking down, she observed her thread and saw that it had tightened slightly. Pupils blown she jerked her head up. Looking at it as it weaved itself through the crowd of passersby.  

Are they here?

Following the line, she saw that it led to a prominent house in the district, the Kyogoku House. She felt a slight pang in her heart at the thought of her soulmate engaging with other women, but maybe that wasn’t the case. She reassured herself and stepped through the crowd. A few people rammed into her, and others mumbled vulgar things as she excused herself. Just checking wouldn’t hurt right? She couldn’t make much progress in the way of using her forms to locate Suma, Makio, and Hinatsuru until the masses died down anyway. At least, that’s what she told herself. Truth be told she was often unable to restrain herself when it came to certain things. Though rare, this was one of those times, but she would never admit that. 

Freeing herself from the horde she continued following the glowing fiber. It darted around a corner and felt tauter than ever before. She leaned against the wall of a building and took a deep breath. Her feet felt heavy as she stepped out from the corner. The area before her was dark. Not terribly so, but devoid of more people than the street behind her. A few mingled about and the lights gave off a subtle amber. Only illuminating a few feet away from their position. Surveying the scene, she followed the string as it stopped where darkness met light. 

A man stood there, back facing her. An obvious line hovered between them. Bleeding a scarlet hue. She squinted and stepped forward trying to get a better look at the man, but as her eyes adjusted, she froze. 

Air caught in her lungs, and she found it hard to breathe. Her mind went blank save for all but one memory. 

 ————————���———————————————

Sitting next to his hospital bed at the Butterfly Mansion, she smiled softly at the young boy. He was bright, and his spirit spoke for him. It was quite rare to see such a youthful soul full of compassion and determination in the face of danger. 

“Tanjiro,” she started looking slightly downcast. “May I ask you a question?” 

He regarded her with that same smile and nodded his head. “Of course!”

Sucking in a breath, she looked away before locking her eyes with his. 

“What did Kibutsuji look like?” 

The smile that graced his face downturned as he gazed at his hands. Gripping the sheets until she swore, he would tear them. It was an immediate switch and fury radiated off him. He clenched his jaw as she went to speak but he cut her off before a sound could be uttered from her mouth. 

“Human,” he exhaled. “Completely human.” 

Cocking her head, she furrowed her brows. “What do you mean?” 

“He blended in with everyone. No one could tell that he was a demon. Only me,” the fire in his eyes smoldered as he continued. “His eyes were a deep red, black hair that hung closer to his shoulders in the front, pale skin, and he wore a black patterned suit with a white hat.” 

She could see him slightly shaking at the mention of Kibutsuji. Not from fear. It was anything but fear. 

At that moment she felt terrible. She had heard from Tomioka briefly about what had transpired in the mountains with Tanjiro’s family. Later, Tanjiro filled in the missing details himself. She felt reluctant to have learned of such an event as it felt too personal, but if he discerned her to be someone he could confide in, she wouldn’t turn him away. 

“I’ll kill him if it’s the last thing I do,” he seethed. “He’ll pay for what he’s done.” 

Remaining silent she observed him. Reaching out she put her hand on his shoulder. A means of comforting the boy, however, deep down she knew that no amount of comfort could close a wound so deep. Giving him a soft smile, she stood up. 

“I believe in you but be careful,” he looked up at her. The fire slowly smothered itself out. “You’re a good person but don’t get ahead of yourself. Your sister needs you. The corps needs you. There’s been too many people lost.” 

He studied her expression before giving her another big smile. “Right, of course!”

Regarding him with a nod of her head she turned to leave but paused. “And Tanjiro, just know you’re not alone.” 

 ————————————————————————

Bile rose and burned her throat. Swallowing her tongue was the only thing keeping her from retching. One hand pulled at her collar and the other shakily reached for the Tsuka of her Katana, the world around her seemed to slow and fall away. Gaze solely focused on the man feet away from her.

Jet black suit. A rustic gold pattern on parts.

Her eyes darted around. 

White hat.

She sucked in a breath.

Sickly skin. Dark hair.

Blood trickled and filled her mouth with iron as teeth punctured her lower lip. 

Mind racing, she pleaded for him to not turn around. This had to be a mistake. A coincidence even. There was no way this could be the same man that Tanjiro described. That this could be Kibutsuji. There had to be many others out there who looked similar. Her chest hurt from how hard her heart pounded. It was in her ears and a cold chill ran through her body. 

He appeared to be contemplating. Clearly sensing her gaping at him. Cocking his head in her direction, he fully pivoted it towards her. The coiling pit that constricted her stomach like a snake snapped. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth parted slightly. A choked noise fell on deaf ears. 

His gaze locked with hers and carnage churned in them.

The attachment tightened, locking. Signifying what she dreaded and didn’t want to admit once she feasted her eyes on him. 

His eyes were a cavernous crimson.

His pupils were slits. 

[120189hearted]

(🌑) Your Astrological Birth Chart Ruler And The Path You Walk On In Honkai Star Rail ∘⁠˚⁠˳⁠°

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(🌒) First & foremost: What is a birth chart ruler and how do you find it? The birth chart ruler is the planet of your rising / ascendant zodiac sign in the birth chart, the ascendant is found in the 1st house / 1H.

(🌓) Example: Libra in 1H = Libra rising = ruled by Venus.

(🌔) To find your natal birth chart, I really recommend astro-seek -> Set to Whole Sign -> Set to Tropical or Sidereal Lahiri (Vedic).

(🌕) I use both traditional and modern but this will contain only traditional rulership.

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Saturnian: Ruled By Saturn ♄ (♑︎ Capricorn, ♒︎ Aquarius)

Saturn, known as one of the greater malefic planets in vedic astrology. The guardian of time, the planet of karma and the mentor who teaches life lessons and patience through strictness, alternatively pain and fear as well. While Saturn can be a tough teacher, its purpose is not to reprimand but to remind.

Keywords: discipline, endurance, hardship, structure, stability, consistency, austerity, authority, karmic debt and karma, death, time, delays, control, restrictions, limitations, responsibility, longevity, old age, slowness, maturity etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . a rocky one but you persevere no matter how hard it may be. The weight you carry is something to endure yet others admire your strength. Uncertain but hoping you will reach the top in the future. Fate forces you to keep going. (sisyphus core)

Your Path/s: Preservation, Permanence

Aeon/s: Qlipoth, Long

However, if Saturn is negatively aspected and or in detriment, you could be treading on the path of Nihility instead...

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Venusian: Ruled by Venus ♀ (♎︎︎Libra, ♉︎Taurus)

Venus, a benefic planet renowned after the famous ancient greek goddess of love and beauty: Aphrodite, "the descent of divine feminine energy". In buddhist and hindu astrology, Venus is also known as Shukra which signifies love, art and luxury as well.

Keywords: beauty, femininity, love, peace, pleasure, romance, sensuality, harmony, balance, happiness, art & artistic talents, peace, affection, creativity, luxury, creation, desires, entertainment etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . through a flowery meadow filled with singing birds, deers and butterflies; isn't it lovely? Look around you and enjoy the present moment, the animals will grow old and these flowers will wilt one day.

Your Path/s: Harmony, Beauty, Equilibrium

Aeon/s: Xipe, Idrila, HooH

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Martian: Ruled by Mars ♂ (♈︎ Aries, ♏︎Scorpio)

Mars, named after the roman god of war, and also another malefic planet. Mars symbolizes aggressiveness that comes with assertiveness. It is our ambition and can show us how we overcome things.

Keywords: activity, assertion, rage, aggression, strength, force, war, courage, anger, lust, impulsivity, determination, ambition, stamina, competition, defensiveness, ruthlessness, fighting, passion, action, conflict, violence, motivation, power etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . one that is as scorching as the sun, you can feel the heat and it drives you to madness. At least the dance of the flames not only create chaos but also make quite the show. Sit back and watch everything turn to ashes.

Your Path/s: Destruction, The Hunt

Aeon/s: Nanook, Lan

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Jovian: Ruled by Jupiter ♃ (♐︎Sagittarius, ♓︎ Pisces)

"Jupiter is termed the 'Great Benefic' because the planet is associated with abundance. He brings luck, the kind of good fortune that seems to come without effort." - Llewellyn George, The Sky Is The Limit, 1941

In my vision, Saturn and Jupiter are the great teachers. Both planets teach you through experience the most; wisdom is gained through experience therefore they're like wise elders. Saturn is more strict, teaches through pain and fear. Jupiter is more lenient, you learn by freely experimenting yourself and through opportunities. I think that both can have a good side and a bad side though.

Keywords: wisdom, freedom, justice, unity, expansion, prosperity, luck, growth, optimism, generosity, good fortune, happiness, wealth, success, knowledge, higher education/learning, philosophy, auspiciousness, opportunity, faith, morals, ethics, miracles, travel, exploration etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . made out of gold and gemstones. Lucky you! Not everyone is privileged to be granted these treasures and opportunities, others stare at you and their eyes speak envy. But beware of how you use your gifts - be it wisdom, wealth and more - be careful not to mistreat your power.

Your Path/s: Abundance, Trailblaze

Aeon/s: Yaoshi, Akivili

Striding the path of Erudition would be possible with this ruler as well.

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Mercurian: Ruled by Mercury ☿ (♍︎ Virgo, ♊︎Gemini)

The next planet is Mercury who is related with the greek god Hermes, the fleet-footed messenger in mythology. He was also associated with shepherds, thieves, athletes, merchants. Mercury is a neutral planet that symbolizes intelligence, communication and travel.

Keywords: communication, thinking, logic, intellect, speech, the conscious mind, mental agility, rationality, wit, information, reasoning, transportation, connections, awareness, perception, trade, travel, writing, memory, language etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . through an ancient library that seems to be never ending; just like knowledge. One can say that the library is like the mind, and the books recordings - or memories - well preserved, of everything. As you walk the long hallways, written papers and manuscripts fly in the air, flowing down like a waterfall from the tall shelves. A long sigh escapes your mouth with the thought of cleaning up.

Your Path/s: Erudition, Remembrance

Aeon/s: Nous, Fuli

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Solar: Ruled by the Sun ☉ (♌︎ Leo)

"For who in this most beautiful of temples would put this lamp in any other or better place than the one from which it can illuminate everything at the same time? Aptly indeed is he named by some lantern of the universe, by others the mind by others the ruler. Trismegistus called him by the visible God, the watcher over all things. Thus indeed the Sun as if seated on a royal throne governs his household of Stars as they circle around him." -Nicolaus Copernicus, Revolution of the Heavenly Spheres, 1543

Keywords: self esteem, ego, creativity, energy, willpower, vitality, dignity, core, leadership, life force, father, pride, individuality, stamina, spontaneity etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . not a path, but a stage with the spotlight on you. Smile! Others would kill for fame. How does it feel having millions of eyes staring at you? The world is watching you and your next move. Will they laugh or cry? Will they feel pleased or will they regret their presence? Don't disappoint them.

Your Path/s: Elation, Voracity

Aeon/s: Aha, Oroboros

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Lunarian: Ruled by the Moon ☾ (♋︎ Cancer)

"If the attractive virtue of the Moon extends as far as the earth, it follows with greater reason that the attractive virtue of the earth extends as far as the Moon and much farther; and, in short, nothing which consists of earthly substance anyhow constituted although thrown up to any height, can ever escape the powerful operation of this attractive virtue." -Johannes Kepler, Astronomia Nova, 1609

Keywords: emotions, sensitivity, empathy, the unconscious, intuition, instincts, habits, moods, home, mother, the subconscious, fertility, cycles etc

– In Honkai Star Rail, the path you walk on is . . . no longer walked on. Unlike others, you had the free will to suddenly stop because of an overwhelming feeling that led you back to the beginning. But don't fret - you can always try again and choose another path, or don't. Maybe it's destiny. Who knows? Perhaps this decision helped you see your future clearly, maybe that was meant for you.

Your Path/s: "When there is the chance to make a choice, make one that you know you won't regret..."

Aeon/s: ?

P.S: The names I used for ruled natives such as "venusian", "mercurian" etc are just for "artistic purposes" and are not important terms usually used in astrology.

[gouraminnow]

Birds of a Feather

(Entirely platonic | SFW | Marco & OC) Marco the Phoenix is found by an orphaned harpy child that mistakes him for one of their own kind. It takes less than a day to commit to adoption- he really is taking after his father.

Warnings: Past world government/celestial dragon related incident, drugging/sedation. This is self indulgent fluff catered to me and exactly one other person she knows who she is. Hi <3

Marco had just wanted to stretch his wings. The winter island they’d all stopped at was beautiful- sloping hills, valleys and deep forests blanketed in thick snow, with the soft orange lights of the small town that had only recently sprung up. They weren’t going to be here very long- at least they didn’t plan on it. Apparently, there were some nice hot springs in more remote areas, and some of the others had asked him to see if he spotted them on his flight. Whether or not his brothers actually wished to commit to the hike when there was booze to be had in town was another matter, but he enjoyed the airtime anyway. The clear wintery skies were quiet and refreshing.

Cresting over a hill and peering down into a valley, he spots the stacked hot spring pools overlapping like fish scales.

But he also spotted something else.

When he swooped lower to get a look at the layered pools of the springs, he also noticed a small white shape- scampering through underbrush, between trees, trying to keep up with him despite being grounded. He can’t get a good look from up here- but whatever it is, it’s awfully little and makes no attempts to conceal itself. He dips again, going lower in an attempt to catch a glimpse of this thing- aiming for a clearing between some pools up ahead, he turns in a wide arc, flaring his wings out to catch the frigid air and slow his descent. He kicks up a healthy plume of snow when he lands, and takes a second to shake himself off. He stands still, arms still transformed into wings as he searches for any movement- though he doesn’t have to wait long. Something white and fluffy with bits of gray and black darts right toward him with a loud trill. He steps to the side, the tiny thing skidding right past him with an undignified squawk. 

The fluffy mess shakes itself off, and he’s met with the confused face of… some sort of little bird creature. It can’t be much taller than his mid-thigh. It wears no clothes, but it does have a leather shoulder bag. It’s covered from head to taloned toe in thick, downy feathers. It has wings instead of arms, but longer, more dextrous phalanges form three functional fingers at each wrist. Little black talons poke through a generous amount of unkempt plumage at both the feet and pseudo-hands, and the face- large, black eyes rimmed with orange, with bright blue circular markings on the cheeks, framed by a wild mane of… well, feathers, but it takes the place of hair. Two little tufts stick out on top of its head, not unlike the “ears” of a great-horned owl. They’re covered in gray and black stripes and speckles- impressive camouflage. He’s sure if the little beast had actually tried to be stealthy, he never would have noticed them. 

But it wasn’t. It was dead-set on getting his attention. It didn’t take a genius to be able to guess that it mistook him for its own kind. He furrows his brow, watching it shake itself off and look back up at him, releasing a quizzical chirp. His mouth presses into a firm line. This was… probably a harpy chick. While harpies were typically depicted with bare faces and torsos, this was a cold environment. Probably just a climate-specific adaptation- or maybe they’re completely feathered as babies and they’ll lose coverage as they age. It chirps at him again, taking a tentative step forward, and he sighs. He’s not sure what to do here. He’s unfamiliar with whatever this species is, and he doesn’t want to inadvertently upset some territorial parents. While the little one seems to think he’s one of them, it’s entirely possible the adults would know better. He looks around- scanning the treeline, the clearing, the sky- and finding no hint of any other presence, he turns back to the creature before him, who has been inching closer and closer. He holds their gaze for a moment. “Where’d you come from, little one?”

They blink up at him. One of their little ear tufts twitches.

“... Can you understand me at all?” He tries.

They tilt their head at him, a little chrrr chrrr chrrr sound bubbling out of their throat.

Inconclusive, but probably not.

With a low chuckle, he crouches down- and that’s when they strike. They launch themselves forward, tackling Marco with a shrill cry. “Woah there,” he says as they cling to his coat, little feet scrabbling frantically as they struggle to get themselves up on top of his bent legs, sitting themselves right down on his lap. They’re not shy at all about getting settled, curling up and nuzzling his chest with a sweet trill. Marco huffs. “Well, aren’t you affectionate, yoi?” he muses, shifting his wings back into arms. Gently, he wraps an arm around the creature, supporting their weight by pressing them against his chest as he sits down cross-legged, settling them back into his lap.

They don’t really react, just continuing to nuzzle against the man. They’re awfully happy to be here, aren’t they? His hands run through the downy, speckled feathers on their back and his mouth presses into a firm line. Checking them over, he finally realizes just how dirty and unkempt they are- specifically in spots they wouldn’t be able to reach on their own. There’s an uninterrupted strip of grimy, disheveled feathers interspersed with the waxy sheaths of developing pin feathers down their spine- when he pulls his hand away, there’s a thin layer of grime on his fingertips. 

“... Who’s taking care of you, kiddo?” He murmurs, only met with the happy, idle twittering of the creature in his lap. “You’re real excited to see me huh…” He’s not sure what to do. They very well could be an orphan, or even a case of a hatchling being ejected from the nest by a stronger sibling. Or they could just be very, very lost. Gently, he pushes the creature’s shoulders back, so they can look each other in the face. “Blink three times if you understand me,” he says, voice firm. They just stare, tilting their head a little bit. Marco sighs. The language barrier is a problem. He takes a second to think, letting the kid snuggle up again. How much this creature takes after regular birds was unknown but some things could be inferred. The eagerness with which they latched onto him suggested a social species- the state of their feathers suggesting flock members assisted each other in grooming. At least at this age, anyway. If this creature had parents, he needed to figure out how to locate them- but as of right now, he had no way of telling if that was the case or not.

 He’s pulled out of his thoughts when the creature begins to rummage through their little bag- producing what looks like two small, dried pieces of meat and then holding one up to his face. They chirp, smiling brightly, practically shoving it against his chin. He looks at the creature's wide eyes, then at the shriveled, burnt looking scrap they’re offering. When he doesn’t accept it immediately, their little face scrunches up, mouth settling into a pout. They pull away, maintaining eye contact, and pop one into their mouth. They make a loud, exaggerated display of chewing(with their mouth closed, thankfully) and swallowing with an audible gulp. Marco huffs, a lazy smile spreading across his face. As unappetizing as it looks, he can smell the char on it, so at least it's been thoroughly sterilized at this point. Not that contaminants were something he worried much about with his particular devil fruit, but some things are just a matter of principle. Dubious meat is dubious. But the display was awfully cute, and he’d hate to disappoint them, so when they slowly hold it out to him again, he plucks it from their talons and swallows it whole. He does briefly taste the char he suspected, but the big grin from the hatchling is worth it.

He ruffles their hair, and they eagerly lean into the gesture. But when he tries to pull away, they grab onto his hand, hopping to their feet and gently trying to tug him along with them. “Oh? Got something to show me?” He gets a series of chirps in response, and they keep tugging. Well, he’s got plenty of time. Might as well see where they want to take him- it's probably his best bet at answering some of his questions.

-

Marco casually follows behind the little bird as they lead him through the snow. He’d gotten them to let go of his hand- they were so short he had to awkwardly bend down in order for them to reach it, and walking like that was very uncomfortable. At one point during their little walk, they had turned back to him and twittered with a quizzical tilt to their head, before flaring their wings out. He raised a brow, and they just repeated the gesture. “Sorry, kiddo, not sure I get what you mean…” they huff, stomping their little feet- before pointing to him and flaring their wings out a third time. A light goes off in his head. Ah, that’s what it is, huh? With a dramatic flourish of blue flame, his arms bloom into wings. He flares them just like they had, flapping a couple times for good measure- disturbing the pristine snow around the two of them in a ten-foot radius. He seems to have gotten it right- they cheer loudly, hopping up and down and twirling in a circle. He can’t help but soften at the sight- he wasn’t a conceited man, but appealing to his ego certainly didn’t hurt. After the little display he just followed along, listening to them chirp and warble endlessly. They may not understand each other, but there was no doubt they were a chatterbox. 

It isn’t long before they come upon a sort of crevice between two tall pools, hidden away by some simple foliage. The little one slips right in, but it’s a bit of a tight squeeze for Marco. The first thing he notices is just how warm it is in the little cave. Makes sense to him- perfect place to make a den. The walls are a soft, reddish brown, working with the pleasant warmth to directly contrast the bitter chill outside. There are a few old wooden crates and cracked, scavenged pottery shoved against the walls of the cavern- the former of which store a variety of pilfered knicknacks, most notably packs of crayons and paints along with what looks like a coarsely-bristled brush tied to a long stick. There’s a nest further in, made of loose furs and old rags primarily- but just beyond that, on the far wall, countless drawings have been pinned up, rows of wobbly child-like sketches displayed right next to their bed. Stepping further, eyes gradually adjusting, he notices something else:

Tally marks.

Hundreds of them- tiny, shallow tick marks etched into every wall of the cave, reaching only a little higher than his knee. Something in him twists, as he crouches down to run his fingers against the clumsily scratched lines. These ones are organized in groups of seven, rather than five. 

He hears another trill, the rustling of papers- and he looks back to see the little one bounding toward him, holding a drawing up above their head with a grin. They shove the paper towards him with an excited cry, earning a chuckle from the man, who graciously accepts it, raising the yellowed material up for a closer look. He goes still, a tightness blooming in his chest. In a childish crayon scrawl, the colors bleeding past the wobbly outlines, are three figures. One is the child standing before him, who is currently excitedly hopping from foot to foot in silent anticipation. They draw themselves as little more than a speckled puffball with big eyes, blue cheeks and their distinct ear tufts. The second figure is bigger, standing to the left of the child. The stripes on this figure are darker, with some browns mixed in with the black and gray stripes. The markings are similar to the child’s, with the blue cheeks and orange-rimmed eyes, but with a few key differences- namely the large tail feathers, black tipped wings and feet, with a hint of that same blue on the undersides of the wings.The drawing is actually… really good, for a kid- there’s an impressive amount of detail put into recreating the distinct markings of their family.

The third figure… confirms some of his suspicions. It’s slightly smaller than the second, but still larger than the child. And the plumage of this adult is primarily a bright, brilliant blue, save for white patches on the belly and face. There’s a tightness in his chest as he holds the paper, eyes flitting to the ever-hopeful face of the child. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. If these harpies matched up with the same types of sexual dimorphism as many bird species, the brightly colored ones are probably the males. This is clearly a family portrait, but the little one’s parents are nowhere to be seen. And the tally marks on the wall don’t reach very high, nor do the drawings they’ve hung up- if they had someone older looking after them, more of that wallspace would probably be utilized. Do they think he’s just another harpy, or their dad specifically? Probably not- if they were able to draw out the markings their parents had, then they’re probably able to see the difference.

“Kid…” he starts, taking a step forward and crouching down. They seem to view this as an invitation, because just like last time, they launch forward and flail their way onto his lap. He sighs, circling an arm around their waist and standing back up. They barely weigh anything at all. He wonders if their bones are hollow.

Now carrying the child, he approaches the wall featuring the rest of the drawings. His steps reverberate around the small cavern, the harpy purring against his chest. He steps into their makeshift nest, settling down in the various pelts, blankets and cushions. It smells a little musty, truthfully… reminds him of the few times he’d entered Ace’s room.

He shakes the thought out of his head, instead focusing on the drawings the little one had made. It’s… a lot of drawings of other Harpies, some scribbly mountains and trees… one seems to depict a gathering of twelve, with a bonfire in the middle and the bird people taking turns roasting nondescript lumps on sticks. He’s sure it’s meant to be meat, as two of them do almost look like rabbit silhouettes. Another depicts the child in his lap playing in the springs with other harpy children- all drawn with sweet little smiles and those big, black dot eyes. All the drawings they’ve pinned to the cave wall are happy scenes with a loving flock that is nowhere to be seen. Many figures celebrating, playing together, hunting and cooking game… none depict a Harpy by itself, all of them groups of at least three. Going off of these, he was right in suspecting they’re part of a highly social species, raised as part of a crowded and attentive flock. Abandonment seems out of the question if these idyllic little pictures are to be believed- but regardless of the circumstances behind their isolation, this was clearly some sort of desperate coping mechanism. Hanging pictures of the family they missed dearly, right by where they sleep? Examining another drawing of adult harpies fending off some large, fearsome thing- mostly black scribbles, big sharp teeth and eyes- while the chicks watch from behind them- the idea of abandonment at the talons of these bird-folk feels like nonsense. He doesn’t want to say anything for sure when all he has to go off are these pictures, but some deep, small but sharp sting of instinct within him makes the suggestion of neglect feel utterly wrong. Something worse had happened, the phoenix was all but certain. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he can’t help but hold the poor kid a little tighter. 

They’re completely oblivious to the inner turmoil welling up inside him, interpreting the slight squeeze as deliberate affection. Their eyelids droop and their feathers puff up as they settle against his warmth. It isn’t long at all before they’re snoring softly in his lap… Marco sighs, idly petting the little bird monster as they doze. “You make it real hard not to get attached, huh, yoi…” He mumbles, gently scratching their chin. Hmm. He wants to check something. Thinking back to their little family portrait, he leans them back and gently unfurls one of their arm-wings. Most of the feathers are still soft and downy, but he catches hints of those iridescent blue patches the mother in the drawing had right under her armpits. Checking their wings, gently detangling as he goes, he catches no further glimpses of those vibrant pinfeathers, and concludes that the child is most likely female- though he is unfamiliar with the child’s age and how quickly their species develops, so he wouldn’t know for sure until all the baby feathers were gone. Judging by the little blue sprigs, it wouldn’t be long-

Marco blinks, stopping his train of thought. When had he started thinking as if this kid was going to live with him? He hadn’t even known them for a day. Suspicious circumstances and heartstring-pulling be damned, it’s far too early to be acting this way. The ideal way this all turns out is that their real family is located, and they’re left with their kind. In the best-case scenario, he’d never even see their adult plumage, having sailed on with his family after reuniting the child with their own. If he did take them with him, he would have to figure out their specific needs on the fly, such as diet, exercise, hygiene, sleeping habits… though at least the size of the crew was unlikely to bother them once they’d integrated, if the large social groups in their artwork were anything to go by. 

Marco sighs. It’s simple- he just needs to know more. And now is the perfect time, seeing as the little one is sleeping like… well, a baby. He sits up, hands raising to their shoulders to gently pry them off from where their claws dig in to the fabric of his coat- and god is the little puffball tiny, one splayed hand covering the width of their speckled back- but as soon as he tries to pull them away, he hears a sleepy little whine and their three-fingered hands bunch up the wool. He frowns- taking in the way their eyes move behind their lids, and the drooping of their ear-tufts. Ugh. Damnit, they’re far too cute for their own good.

With an exaggeratedly resigned sigh, he pulls them back in, the little one cooing contentedly as they snuggle back into the warmth of his chest. He takes a second to adjust, moving the sleeping chick up to a more comfortable position before swinging his legs over the nest’s edge and standing up. He'll just... carry them while he has a look around, since they're so attached. So, with the little chick tucked against his chest with one arm, he begins his search. Starting with the wooden crates off to the side, he’s careful- sinking into a crouch and resting the harpy in the gap between his chest and the tops of his thighs. He picks through- this one is primarily art supplies, as he observed before. Packs of wax crayons dumped into a smaller box, paintbrushes- most in poor condition, he observes, the chipped handle of one resting against his palm as his thumb rubs over the frazzled, uneven bristles spiking outward. There’s a ripped canvas with a broken frame slotted into the box- when he goes to lift it, some chalk falls from where it had likely been resting on the wooden struts. The soft clatter makes the hatchling twitch, but nothing else. There are a few paint pots at the bottom as well, but they’re mostly empty or dried out. Curiously, he finds a couple small rectangular boxes with hinged lids as well, no bigger than his palms. They’re made of a thin, light colored wood and they remind him of Izo’s makeup- a thought that proves its merit when he flips the lid up to reveal the brightly colored chalky substance they have packed away inside. This one has three colors- yellow, orange, and red, and there’s a small mirror tucked into the underside of the lid. Snapping it closed, he opens the other- a sky blue, a darker cobalt pigment, and a deep purple. Hmm. He puts the palettes back where he found them, and turns his attention to the sleeping kid again. Leaning back, he rubs a thumb against the bright blue cheek spot, then pulls it away. Nothing. Those markings were natural, then. Well, it was left at the bottom of the box. If it was something they used with any regularity it would’ve been easier to reach. But the idea of birdfolk adding a little extra pigment to their plumage is one that tickles him.

He doesn’t find much else of note. He examines the brush on a stick he had seen earlier, finds some tools such as knives and scissors. One box has netting, rope, and fishing line- a broken rod laying at the bottom in two pieces. There’s a hole in the floor closer to the entrance of the cave, covered with an old pot lid- when he opens it, he finds a rabbit, two wrapped fish, and a handful of berries in a cheesecloth resting in a bed of snow.

But then, looking back to the inside of the cave, his eyes catch something he’d missed, somehow. Peeking out from under the nest, are more scraps of paper- the crinkled, triangular corners overlapping each other. More drawings… moving back toward the nest, he crouches slowly, careful with the child as usual. Reaching out, he tugs the crinkled papers out from under the furs they’ve been hidden under-

His heart leaps into his throat. His hand, tightening its grip, further crumpling the thin material.

The first picture is of a ship bearing the familiar emblem of the world government, scribbled navy blue and white trim topped by the golden figurehead all world noble ships have. He doesn’t need to look at the rest to know this poor child really is alone. The rest of the hidden drawings, pulled out from where they’ve been shoved and unfolded by his deft hand, are devastating- not just because of the contents. All of them less precise, more frantically drawn, indents or even tears where the kid had applied too much pressure while coloring. Tiny pinprick stains of water damage, if he looks close enough. One drawing is just a large fire. In another, adults and children alike trapped under nets. One shows suited men shooting some of the creatures as the ridiculous bubble-headed celestial dragon oversees. And there was yet another, depicting the familiar bright blue-plumed male flying away with the baby in his talons, little dots as tears falling from their eyes.

No wonder they were so happy to see him. No wonder they could overlook the glaring differences between him and their own kind.

The little one shifts, and Marco realizes how hard he’s breathing. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a moment to calm himself, for their sake- but it’s not easy. Well. He’d already wanted to take the little one with him. He didn’t see a world where Oyaji would say no, especially not once Marco told him everything. And if anyone else had an issue (though he doubted anyone would, other than the typical rational concerns when it comes to having a small child on a pirate ship), they would just have to deal with it. Marco was a commander, he did what he wanted.

But of course, he still has questions. In the brief time they’d spent in town, nobody had made any mention of harpies. He knows the small village is a very recent development- four years old, if he remembered right- is it possible that its presence is younger than the tragedy that befell the birdfolk? When visiting a new place with his family, local urban legends were quickly picked up on. Proud, hardworking folk like these often want others to be impressed with the places they call home- that’s why they’d put so much emphasis on the springs. It seemed odd that nobody had mentioned that this island once contained at least one whole flock of mythical creatures.

But looking at all the tally marks on the walls, the small, clustered groups of seven, seven, seven- he hadn’t counted them, but over four years of living alone looked very plausible if he assumed the kid counted accurately. Did… the kid know there was a human settlement? He would assume they did, but then again… the distance is a lot for someone so small. He only spotted the remote cluster of pools from the air, before he swooped down for a closer look. And all of their things look old, held together through improvised fixes- nothing new that would suggest they had stolen from town. Though if they did know of its presence, it was possible they avoided it on purpose. They only wanted Marco’s attention because he was a giant blue bird. They might not differentiate between world nobles and humans in general. With that in mind, he should be cautious with crew introductions.

Well, regardless of the kid’s relations (or lack thereof) with the other locals, they were coming with him. As well as he can using one hand, he gingerly stacks the previously hidden artwork, tapping it against the ground to line them up. He wishes he had some sort of folder… tucking them into his coat will have to do for now, so he slowly leans them back- prying their little fingers out of the grip they hold so he can unbutton the front enough to slide the papers in. Something to show the others- some sympathy for his cause wouldn’t hurt.

And with that, he lets himself partially transform- Wings, feet, tailfeathers. with a flourish of healing fire- that he washes over the child, just in case. She blinks, yawning- and he watches the flickering of his own flames in their dark, glassy eyes as they widen. They smile up at him with a chirp, and he returns it. “Have a nice nap, little one?” He croons. “How would you like to go on a little flight with me, yoi?” They twitter up at him, feathers puffing up. He sets them down on the floor- which they whine about, earning a laugh from him. He shifts from foot to foot before holding one up and making a grabbing motion with his talons. They perk right up- and sprint outside. Marco blinks, moving after them and squeezing himself through the jagged opening to their little hideout. That’s something he wasn’t looking forward to when he came back to pack up their belongings.

Out in the snow, the hatchling calls out to him- they’ve laid down on their belly, sinking into the powdery substance. He’s amused and impressed they got the message so fast. He thought he’d have to take a leaf out of their book and draw a picture of himself carrying them away. He approaches slowly, holding out one foot again- and when she doesn’t move, he slowly, gingerly wraps his talons around their midsection, the first of his three front toes resting just under the armpit. He tests his grip first, lifting them up while balancing on the other foot, which earns a giggle from them. It feels secure enough, and they don't seem uncomfortable. So using his free foot to propel himself upward, he flaps once, twice, and they’re off- Marco smiling widely at the excited trill they let out. While a little awkward to carry, they’re tiny and weigh nothing to him. They soar over the trees, and Marco climbs higher- even through the sound of the air rushing past his ears, he doesn’t miss the little gasp that escapes them once he’s gotten enough air to reveal the pinks and oranges of a horizon at sunset.

It doesn’t take long. His jaw clenches when he can feel their little body growing more and more tense, the closer he gets to the Moby Dick. When he begins his descent towards the deck, Oyaji and a few others in view- they emit a loud, piercing whine, starting to wriggle. He pulls up, wings flaring out to slow himself, and sticks the landing on one foot, balancing himself before gently setting the kid down with the other. They immediately latch onto Marco’s legs, feathers bristling in agitation. Whitebeard raises a brow, leaning forward in his seat. He’s still shirtless, despite the weather. “Marco,” he rumbles out in greeting. “What’s this you’ve brought to us?” He asks, gesturing to the cowering child clinging to Marco’s legs.

Some of the others have started to gather around, wanting to see what this is about. Marco sighs. First, he reaches into his coat for the bundle of artwork. “Tate, would you mind looking over these with Oyaji?” He asks, extending his arm to the nurse, who approaches slowly. He hands them off to the nurse, who is thankfully dressed for the weather unlike his father, and crouches down to try and dislodge the kid. They whine at him when he grips them by the shoulders, peeling them off of him to the amusement of his brothers. He flashes a quick glare to the men and their chuckling quiets down. “Come on kid, you’re fine, yoi” he chides, opting to lift them into his arms. They bury their face in his chest as he sits them on one arm, turning the other into a wing which he carefully folds around their trembling body. Hopefully, hiding them from view gives them a little security.

He looks back up to Tate, and to Oyaji- he’s leaning over her shoulder as the blonde woman examines each childish drawing, her face growing more troubled with each one. Oyaji keeps the same stony expression the entire time, save for the subtle narrowing of his father’s eyes. “This one spotted me flying, Oyaji. Chased after me from the ground.” He says, watching his old man’s eyes raise to meet his own. “... They think I’m one of them. They’ve been alone for a real long time, yoi. What you’ve got right there, that’s what happened to the rest.”

“These… these are awful,” Tate breathes, still fixated on the foreboding artwork. Marco nods, mouth set in a firm line. 

“Hmph. So you’re saying we’re keeping them, I take it?” the old man says, plucking one of the drawings from Tate’s hands and leaning back to examine it closer. 

Marco nods. “My responsibility, of course. The kiddo’s already… attached.” He sighs, feeling them shift against his chest. “They don’t speak any… human languages. I have no way of telling them that I am not what they think I am, yoi.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the deck, Whitebeard’s stern gaze sinking to the wing concealing the tiny creature. “And you are certain there are no others of their kind left here?” He asks, the unspoken meaning clear. He is not unsympathetic- it’s the same thought Marco had. It would be better to reunite them with their species, if possible.

Marco nods once again. “They’ve been living in a small cave, and they’ve scratched hundreds of tally marks into the walls. I didn’t count, but it’s been years, yoi. I think…” he sighs, pausing for a second. “None of the townsfolk said anything about bird people. I think this event predates the existence of the village, and this child has managed to remain hidden all this time, yoi.”

His father regards him from a moment, a warmth in his eyes few others would have recognized. “Let me get a look at them. Only for a moment.” Marco nods, retracting his wing. The little one sits with their face buried in his chest, trembling. He nudges them. They whine. He sighs, leaning them back, patting their head with his free hand and gesturing to Whitebeard. They hesitantly turn their head, and he feels them tense when they meet eyes with the Yonko. The towering man gives them a small smile, but it doesn’t help much. They recoil into Marco, pitchy squeak leaving their throat. The Phoenix sighs, letting them latch onto him and covering them from view once more. “Well, that’s it, then.” Whitebeard grunts. “What d’you need?”

“Somebody find Thatch- I need him to whip something up for ‘em. Some meat, add a sedative- I’m going back to their little hideaway to pack their things while they sleep.”

-

Thatch is located, and is reportedly happy to assist. Marco had moved the little beast to his own room, since being around so many humans all of a sudden had utterly terrified the poor thing.He swaddles them in blankets, and intends to leave them in bed- but his face softens when a hand shoots out to cling to him once more. He sighs at the little one glaring at him from the bundle of fabric. “I know, I know,” he coos. “I wish you understood me,” he laments, lifting their swaddled form into his arms. “But this is a good thing, yoi. We’re going to take care of you.” He makes his way over to his desk, opting to at least read over some reports while he waits for Thatch. Settling the child in his lap, he picks up some papers and leans back. 

A bit of guilt creeps up the back of his throat- the poor thing is still trembling. They aren’t being deliberately affectionate like they were before- no chirping, no squeaking, no nuzzling. Just laying where he put them. He sighs, using his free hand to rub their back. They don’t do anything, other than shift slightly. 

It doesn’t take long before he hears three knocks at his door- making the kid flinch. “It’s alright,” he murmurs, patting them softly before speaking up louder. “Come in.” Thatch enters, carrying a  covered platter on one hand.

“Hey, Marco!” the chef beams, strutting inside and setting the food down on the little corner table. The child clings to Marco’s chest tighter, at the sound of his voice. “Heard the big news- fatherhood is gonna look great on you, papa bird~” he teases in a sing-song voice. Marco rolls his eyes, adjusting the kid and standing up to face his crewmate. Thatch’s face softens when his eyes fall onto the bundle in Marco’s arms. “Aw. Still upset, huh?” He says, considerably more subdued now.

“Yeah,” he affirms, patting the bundled creature on the top of the head. “Can’t blame the poor kid- they don’t understand a word we say, so it’s not like I can do much to reassure them, yoi.”

Thatch sighs. “Well, I got the message,” he says, one hand on his hip as he removes the lid with a flourish. The child doesn’t move, but Marco can hear them sniffing. Thatch prepared various types of meat, cut into thin strips, arranged almost like a charcuterie board. There’s a peeled orange and some mixed berries as well. “I’ve got some cured meats, fruits, and I grilled a bit of pork- that’s what's got the sedative in it. Thought about doing chicken, too, but y’know…” He gestures vaguely, and Marco snorts with a shake of his head.

“Thanks, Thatch. And don’t leave just yet, alright?” He says, sliding into a chair. Thatch pulls up one of his own right across from them.

“Don’t have to tell me twice. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of ‘em, anyway. Everyone up top is gossiping.” He smiles, leaning back and propping a foot up on the opposing knee.

Marco returns the smile. “It’s your lucky day, then. You’ll be the first crewmate I introduce, yoi.” If he wants the kid to learn that the others won’t hurt them, the chef is a good place to start. He pries their little talons out of his shirt, shushing the undignified whine the action draws from them. He pulls the blanket down so it’s bunched around their waist, and spins them in his lap to face the tray of food. Thatch’s eyes widen, and a soft gasp falls from his lips. 

The kid regards him warily, leaning back against Marco’s chest. Their ear tufts are drooping back, and their talons find their way to the arm around their waist. “Hey there, little one. Oh, aren’t you cute?” Thatch greets, offering a small wave and a reassuring smile. “I heard all those brutes upstairs gave you a scare, huh? Poor thing,” he coos, before pushing the platter closer. They tense, but lean forward, sniffing the air. “Go ahead, kiddo, all yours.”

The hatchling is hesitant. Their little hands rise from Marco’s forearm, and both men watch their fists clench and unclench. When they turn back to look at Marco, their little face is scrunched up in worry- even if he can’t see their eyebrows through their thick, messy hair, he can tell they’re drawn tight. He gives them a relaxed smile, and slowly reaches out to pluck a piece of salami off of the plate. He makes sure they’re looking when he eats it, chewing slowly. He nods to Thatch. “You eat something too, yoi,” he says. The other man nods, opting for an orange slice. The kid’s little ear tufts perk up, just a little, and they lean forward. Some of the apprehension is beginning to melt away, but they still aren’t going for it. They look nervously back and forth between both men, head swiveling on their little neck. So Marco reaches out again- another piece of meat in his hand, holding it to their mouth as they had done to him. Slowly, they lean forward, biting the edge, and Marco lets go. It doesn’t even take a full second for the kid to realize how good it tastes, snapping it up instantly. They chew, swallow, lick their lips, go to reach for another-

And they freeze, just shy of touching the food. Marco could groan, but he doesn’t. Thatch gives the kid a nod, and when they look back to Marco, he does the same. Their dark glassy eyes go wide for a second. They pick up a blackberry, looking at both men for any reaction before eating it. This repeats a couple of times before they finally give in and start eating like the damn place is on fire, much to Thatch’s delight. The cured meats and fruits are snapped up in a flash, the thin prosciutto torn to shreds as they indulge. The pork is a bit chewier, taking them a little longer, but they eat everything before the drug even starts to set in. They’re licking their talons clean when Thatch pulls the platter back, and stands up. “Well, that was impressive,” he muses, smiling down at the child. They don’t cower against Marco anymore, instead leaning forward to chirp quizzically at the tall man. “Yep, I’m talkin’ to you, honey,” he laughs. “You’ll give Ace a run for his money, I know it.”

“Hope so. All of this is fluff, they’re a scrawny little thing underneath, yoi” Marco chuckles, rubbing the top of their head, relaxing when they lean up into his touch again. He was right. Food is a good way to help most creatures feel secure. 

“What do you need hope for? You know I won’t disappoint! They certainly seemed to like it, didn’t they? Oh, just look at them,” Thatch coos, watching as their eyes squint in satisfaction. 

The two speak a little longer, Thatch telling Marco that word had spread quickly. Oyaji had already given them a nickname, referring to them as “Pipsqueak” and sternly instructing his sons to leave them be for now. Marco told Thatch more about his encounter in turn- the way they’d exuberantly tackled him, the cave, the way the happy drawings had been pinned up by their bed- that particular detail had him dramatically slapping a hand over his heart. “Sent off to find some hot springs, and you come back with an orphan. You’re really taking after the old man, Marco.” He says with a sly smile. It doesn’t take too long for the kid to start nodding off- after around five minutes, there’s a big yawn, and they’re snuggling up to Marco again. He wraps an arm around them, gently preening their wings with his fingers. The speckled little creature all but melts against his chest.

“I think that’s your cue to get going, yoi,” he says.

Thatch sighs, dramatically slapping his hand over his heart. “So it is… how cruel.”

“Oh don’t pout about it, yoi. I actually let you see ‘em didn’t I? And you’ll be bringing them plenty more meals, I’m sure.”

“Of course I will! I’m aiming for the title of Favorite Uncle, after all!”

“You’ll have some stiff competition, yoi.”

“I’m a chef, my dear brother,” Thatch beams, spreading his arms. “Kids love food. Everybody loves food. I like my odds.”

Marco wouldn’t say it, but he did, too. Instead he just smiles, lifting the child into his arms. They rub a blue cheek against his chest, eyelids fluttering. “Yeah, yeah. Now go, yoi. Shoo. I’m sure I’ll be up shortly.” Thatch chuckles, gazing tenderly at the child before shaking his head. As his weathered hand grips the brass door handle, he shoots his brother a knowing smirk.

“You sure you’ll be back in time for them to wake up? I’m a busy man, but I’d be happy to keep an eye on-”

“I said shoo, yoi! Get on with it!”

Thatch laughs, the door swinging closed behind him with a creak. Marco sighs, shaking his head, but he’s still smiling. Turning his attention back to the kid, he holds them closer and stands up from his seat. He listens to their soft breathing, trying not to let the patch of drool seeping through his shirt bother him. He sets them down on the bed, carefully unwrapping the blanket to tuck them in properly. He lays them against the pillow, huffing at their drowsy face, their mouth still hanging open. He pulls the blanket up to their chin, patting them on the head. They nuzzle into his pillow, sigh, and quickly slip into slumber.

He stays for a moment, warm hand resting on top of their head as they doze. “Big day for you hmm?” He muses. It didn’t take long at all for him to commit to this, did it? He wishes they understood him. That he didn’t have to do things like this. But at the very least, his intentions were altruistic, and the child suspected nothing. And when they woke up, they’d have all their drawings hung up within view of their new nest.

[birdiely]

Something Uniquely Human

The first chapter of the Bill Cipher redemption fic is here boysss. (There's no billford in this fic btw sorry, gamers.)

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Smoke covered the horizon and the sky had faded into a deep red. Buildings empty, and the nearby forest devoid of all life. Rubble was scattered throughout the streets. Where there was usually the hustle and bustle of the day, the chirping of birds, and the humming of small bugs, only silence remained.

Stanford walked slowly, cautiously, throughout the abandoned town. He looked behind himself quickly, the overwhelming feeling of being watched taking over him. When there's nothing, he continued on. His breath was shallow and strained. He could hear his heartbeat in his chest. A deep, agonizing feeling swirled around in his stomach, begging him to run away, to hide and close his eyes. And yet he continued his slow descent down the road.

Something broke behind him, a small crack traveled to his ears, making him spin around. His breath caught in his throat; nothing was there. The buildings, the road, the trees lining the horizon line–it was all gone. He found himself completely alone in a vacuum. Frantically, he whipped his head around, scanning the area desperate to find any discernible features. He looked down, he was standing on the only piece of grass for miles stretching on into eternity. The darkness around him threatened to swallow him whole. He was small and vulnerable in the great vastness of nothing. Fear was gripping him so hard he felt as though he would dissolve into a pile of ash at any second.

He looked out to a sea of stars. He could feel each one staring him down, judging him. Myriads and myriads of eyes all fall on him. An all too familiar laugh rang out and bounced around his head. He felt so sick; it was unbearable.

The ground beneath him crumbled and gave way. He fell, disappearing into the void. No one can hear him. No one is there to help him. He woke up.

—---------------------------------------

The smell of salt and fish filled the air. The sound of waves rising and falling had become so normal it faded into the background and eventually was tuned out.

Ford shot up with a gasp, hitting his head on the low roof above him and falling back down. He took a moment to breathe before sitting up with a groan in the small space under the deck of the Stan o’ War II. He swung his legs off of the bed and rubbed his hands over his face. He's always had chronic nightmares; ever since he shook hands the eldritch horror he was naive enough to call his friend. But the past few days had been different. They were getting worse, more vivid and surreal. The fear of his nightmare had followed him into the waking world. The nausea did too, so he forced himself out of bed and up to the main deck to eat and hopefully settle his stomach.

A familiar sight calmed his nerves, at least a little. Stanley sat laid back in a fold-out camping chair, cigarette in one hand, fishing pole in the other. He losely held onto the handle, more so holding it between his thighs. Ford walked passed him, sluggishly making his way to a small mini fridge, digging through it like a raccoon through a trash can, before crashing harshly in a chair of his own.

“You look like you're in a good mood,” Stan said, puffing out a cloud of smoke as he spoke. Ford turned his head towards him with a deep, tired, scowl etched onto his features. Stan turned his head too, not fully seeing him out of the corner of his eyes. He snorted in amusement when their eyes met and had to quickly turn away to choke down the laughter. Ford's face softened with a quiet, humored nose exhale.

“When do you think we'll get there?” Ford asked. Stan took another puff and answered, “We'll meet the port by 3…ish?” Ford hummed in response, looking out into the ocean. Still after all this time he finds himself completely mesmerized. “How many of those have you had?” He gestured to the cigarette. Stan lifted an empty pack and waved it in his face with a grin and a snicker. “Just today!?” “Hey, I gotta get it all in now y'know?” Stan put his hands up in mock defense.

They had been slowly making their way back to Gravity Falls for a few days now. Soos generously offered up the shack for them to stay in during their visit, and they were both over the moon to hear that Dipper and Mabel were coming back to visit as well. And yet Ford couldn't shake this gut wrenching feeling. As each day passed and as they grew closer and closer, he found himself more and more anxious. Today was the day they made it, and he was drowning in dread. He tried his best to logic his way through his fears but that didn't stop the nightmares from getting any worse.

Around evening they made it to the sleepy little town they had called home for so many years. Ford was terrified that by the time they got there there wouldn't even be a Gravity Falls left, his heart expected fire and terror and death. He was relieved when instead he was met with smiling faces and warm embraces. The sky was clear and blue, the familiar scent of pine and grass filled his senses, and the distant sounds of woodpeckers mirrored the distant calls of seabirds he had grown so used to. Yet, somehow, something still felt wrong.

When they finally walked the winding path to the Mystery Shack, Stanley smiled on seeing Soos’ face light up with their arrival. He wore a suit and a couple of shiny, silver rings. He ran towards the twins with his arms outstretched and almost tackled Stan to the ground with the force of his hug. Stan laughed it off and patted his back in return. When it was Ford's turn he grunted as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs.

“Oh dude, it's like, so good to see you two bros! It's been since forever!” “Yeah, feels good to be back,” said Stan, and they both followed Soos into the house. Melody was carrying a box from one of the back rooms. She stopped for a second when the three of them walked in. “Oh hey, look who it is! So good to see you guys,” she greeted. They exchanged a few words, but truthfully Ford wasn't paying close attention. The aching feeling in his chest only seemed to get worse now that they were physically in the shack. Soos led them to the spare bedroom, he had kept it clean and mostly empty apart from two twin sized beds and a dresser with nothing in it, just in case they ever visited. Stan and Ford thanked him for his generosity, and they spent a while unpacking and making the room feel like their own.

That night was uncomfortable to say the least. Ford lay staring at the ceiling of a room he hadn't been in in years, let alone slept in. The room was cold, there was a loud box fan rattling and struggling to stay on filling the small space with noise. Stan was in the bed next to his. Ford didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to shut his eyes and see horrors beyond human comprehension, and he didn't want to open them back up in another nightmare. To some extent he felt like a child, trying to stay up all night to avoid a bad dream, wanting to hide under his covers from the monster under his bed.

Stan must have noticed how lost in thought he was because he whispered in the dark room, “Hey, what're you thinking about, Sixer?” That snapped Ford out of it briefly, and he turned to his brother with a surprised expression, like he was shocked anyone could perceive him. “Hm? Oh, nothing. It's fine.” He answered. Stan scoffed, “Yeah, right. You look completely fine right now.” Ford didn't appreciate the sarcasm, he rolled his eyes. “Come on, tell me what's on your mind. ‘Share with the class,’ like Mabel says.” Ford smiled fondly before his face scrunched back into a grimace as his mind began to fill back up with what if's. “I'm just worried, I suppose.” “‘Bout what?”

Ford paused to think. What was he really afraid of? The world spontaneously bursting into flames? The earth opening up beneath his feet? His arch enemy coming back from the dead? He threw all of those thoughts away from him, writing them off as fantastical and impossible. Or at least highly improbable. “I don't know,” he sighed. “It's probably nothing and I'm just being paranoid again.” He chuckled humorlessly, but Stan nodded his head in understanding and suddenly he felt so much less alone. “It's just….a lot–being back here, being in this house.” “Yeah, I get you. But hey,” he reached over the space between them to lightly tap Ford's arm. “Try not to think about it too hard. By tomorrow everything will be fine.” Ford nodded his head and Stan rolled over to sleep.

Ford didn't get much sleep that night. He stared upwards, mind unable to put itself to rest. Stan on the other hand snored loudly next to him. The noise drowned out everything else, but Ford had grown used to that long ago.

—---------------------------------------

The next morning was better. Soos had made a big breakfast, laying out six plates on the table. The kitchen was bright and cheery, the morning sun lit up the room with a gentle orange and the open window let in the melodies of songbirds.

A light conversation was passed around the table. It was stopped abruptly at the sound of two knocks at the door. And then two more. And then the knocking turned into a rhythmic song. Everyone's eyes lit up hearing it; of course they knew who was on the other side, no one else would knock to the tune of Taking Over Midnight by &ndra. Soos swung open the front door excitedly, and the Stans followed close behind him to welcome the bright-eyed teens. Soos lifted Dipper and Mabel off the ground in a lung-collapsing hug. When they got through the door the two of them nearly knocked Stan to the ground with another round of tight hugs. They were almost his height now, although Mabel had a good two inches on Dipper, and Stan ruffled their hair affectionately.

The breakfast was filled with cheery conversation and fond laughter. The teens watched in amazement as Stan waved his arms around retelling their sailing stories. Ford smiled and rolled his eyes hearing how he was embellishing.

“And Poindexter here would've died! Lucky for him he had the world's best brother to save his skin.” Stan smugly wrapped his arm around Ford as he told the story. Ford chuckled and slapped his hand away. “That is not what happened.” “Right, like you would know? You were busy being all smoochy with that siren.” He made mocking kissing sounds at Ford and cupped his hands together. “Get a load of this guy.” Stan pointed his thumb towards his brother, cupping a hand over that side of his mouth as if he wasn't sitting right next to him. Ford opened his mouth to retort but his sentence was cut short by Mabel slamming both her hands on the table. “Shut up! You're telling me you met a real life mermaid?!” “Well, technically no.” Ford chimed in. “Mermaids are a purely fictional half-fish person derived from Greek mythology. What we encountered was a siren, who are almost completely fish and only appear human as a lure for exhausted sailormen.” Mabel slumped back down in her chair, slightly disappointed.

“That sounds incredible,��� said Dipper. “I can't believe you guys got to go on so many cool adventures while we've been stuck at highschool” “Hey, I think just being around that kid who tried to backflip into a bunch of cactuses was adventure enough.” Mabel elbowed Dipper as she spoke. “Cacti.” Dipper corrected. “That's what I said?”

They gathered their plates when they were done eating, taking their conversation with them as they washed dishes. The rest of the day went just as well. The teens took a while unpacking and setting up the attic. Mabel spent extra time making the small space look “aesthetic.” They spent a large part of the day just catching up in the living room. It felt nice; to be in the house everyone had suffered so much in 5 years ago, and instead be huddled up around the TV laughing and telling stories. For just a moment it made Ford feel calm, he felt like while he was here with the people he loved so much nothing else but them mattered. No one could hurt him.

But as day came to a close, as pinks and purples painted the sky, something just didn't feel right. Soos and Melody were in the kitchen making dinner, humming and dancing in between stirs of the pot. The pair of twins, meanwhile, had started a movie trilogy. However, by halfway through movie one it was clear the internet had absolutely no sense of what a good movie was, and they took to mocking it for entertainment instead. Ford laughed with the antics of his brother and Mabel for a while, but kept catching glimpses of an increasingly antsy Dipper out of the corner of his eyes that worried him. Eventually, shortly after they had started the second movie, it seems Dipper couldn't take it anymore. He stood, and tapped Ford discreetly as he left the room. Ford waited a second before following him so as to not look suspicious. When he did stand up Stan reached for him and snapped for his attention. “Grab me a soda on your way back, will ya?” “Sure,” he answered, brushing him off in his mind, and continued toward Dipper in the hallway.

“Grunkle Ford, can I talk to you about something?” “Of course, son. What's on your mind?” “Well, I…” he thought about it for a second and rocked on his heels awkwardly. “Nevermind actually, it's nothing, I'm sorry I bothered you.” “Dipper,” Ford put his hand on the boy's shoulder, “Is something wrong?” “Yeah, kinda. It's just that ever since we left home I've been having these awful nightmares. And now that we're physically here…But that's stupid.” Dipper kept his eyes anywhere but Ford's. Ford's previously soft and understanding expression hardened into one more serious. “That's not stupid, my boy,” He squeezed his shoulder and sighed. “They're just night terrors, Dipper. There's nothing here to be afraid of.” He wondered who he was really trying to convince, Dipper or himself. “I know,” He admitted with a look of defeat. A moment went by as Dipper carefully chose his next words. “I know you're probably right but lately I've been so worried that-” He trailed off. “Grunkle Ford I have to make sure it's still there–the statue–I just have to. Will you come with me?” He looked up at the older, young eyes full of grief and desperation. In too many ways he looked just like Ford. “Of course.” Ford replied. Truthfully he needed to see it too. He hoped that seeing the statue–now probably covered in moss and bird poop–would put both of them at ease.

“We'll be back,” Ford said and he strode through the living room with Dipper trailing close behind him towards the front door. Stan waved at him half heartedly, paying too close attention to the movie to even process what was being said. The door to the Mystery Shack creaked open and shut. A wave of thick summer air hit them both and wrapped around them like a sweater. The walk out to the forest was filled with awkward small talk and light banter. Ford secretly hoped that if he kept talking the eeriness of their destination wouldn't consume him. He wondered if Dipper felt the same way.

The forest was lush and small animals filled the air with song and trills. To anyone else but the Pines family it would've been calming and serene. After an agonizingly long walk, they finally arrived at the small clearing where the statue lay.

They stopped in their tracks, and all conversation was forgotten. Ford's heart sunk to his stomach, and his stomach threatened to vomit it back up and onto the grass. A beating so loud it rang in his ears drowned out any outside noise and engulfed his thoughts. His face drained of all color and his hands felt numb.

Where there was once the ominous statue of a being long since dead, a reminder that the world would never again be blighted by the evil that lurks beyond this world, there was now a body lying curled up in the grass. A lanky, tan man with mostly blonde hair apart from his dark roots lay motionless in front of them. Remnants of stone peppered the area around him. “Dipper. Get back in the house.” Ford couldn't take his eyes off the scene. “But-” “Now!” Dipper tried to protest but was quickly shut down. He ran the opposite direction back towards the Shack.

Ford's mind raced a mile a minute and any explanation to what was happening just raised more questions than it answered. He had no idea how long he had been staring, but it must have been a while because soon his concentration was broken by the sound of Stanley shouting his name behind him. He broke out of his trance and looked over to Stan with a horrified face. “Stanford what's wrong? Dipper said something happened,” He was holding a crowbar and had it raised like a bat. Ford's mouth opened but no words came out. He continued to stare at the figure in utter disbelief, and Stan followed his gaze. Stan dropped his weapon slightly, “Oh sugar honey iced tea.”

[medusas-graveyard]

Unhealthy Obsession.

Okay wait actually, remembering how it took a while for Pariah Dark to get sealed off just means that they were some bending in his sworn oath, right?

Okay another angst prompt, consider; softly insane! Danny.

(Tw: Dark!Danny, morally ambiguous? No one's having a great time tbh but like it's poetically soft imo. Also our boy's officially lost it :∆ his words are cryptic.)

Final warning: This is depressingly sad for Danny's part, sure. But he's also unjustified so I'll classify this as [Dead Dove: Do not eat]

Danny's adopted by the Waynes just like, a bit little short time before his coronation (also he's around 16-18 years old because I'm dragging the desperate for validation because he never felt seen unless someone praises him trope). At that time span he's this very rarely seen brother that's absolutely trying his best between juggling his very impromptu 'how to be a proper monarch' lessons (read: the ancients drilling manors, rules, oaths, etc to his poor head because they don't want a repeat Pariah Dark) and being a present family members because he genuinely loves them. (They know about the vigilante stuff and the Waynes understandably backed away from convincing him, seeing how Danny already has shit ton on his plate.)

Until one day something big happens that almost ended the world, and Bruce dies. It was just him and his dad there, with no other bird or bat in sight. No one knew yet— no one needs to know. Kronos' carefully crafted human, no— prince finally shatters after all the pressure, and all he thinks is how unfair the world has been to him.

It's a very, very slow descent to insanity, what he had been through.

He lost so much, he won't lose anything again. And amidst the eerie scenery of a prince cradling the body of his father, was the sight of himself stitching him back together— giving him a new life. He whispered apologies after apologies to the unconscious man; and for a second Kronos would've pitied him.

Except he didn't. He knew he can't.

After all the chaos they finally had each other again, and Danny stood contently as he watched Alfred personally tend to his family's wounds, big or small. He also watched as his family bicker with each other after all they've been through, and realized something; all of this will die.

Alfred, Bruce, his brothers, Cass and Steph— they're all painfully mortal. He'll outlive his family, and in the end he'll be alone. He doesn't want to be left alone.

And what is to do when you realize your family is painfully, awfully mortal?

...you either curse them with immortality, or place a generational curse on them so you'll all meet in every life, of course! (Oh, did I mention about cursing your family so they'll all get reincarnated everytime they die to make them find each other by everytime?)

... except these curses are incredibly forbidden, because they go against the nature of life and death.

Which leads to the sight of Danny being cuffed from his neck, his arms, his wrists, and his legs. His expression is deadly calm, he smiles softly contrast to the Waynes that are watching in horror. He watches as his family's face contorts to something unreadable when his captors reads over his charges, and he couldn't bring himself to feel remorse.

"By the name of the Infinite realms, Prince Phantom is sentence to imprisonment, for the charges of tempering with the cycle of life and breaking the Royal oath."

"He will be serving until the day of his coronation by the terms of the infinite realms, under the watchful gaze of the ghost of time. The guilty may be there farewells before they are sent to their sentence."

Danny smiles at them; soft but undeniably cruel. He bows at them, like how he would bow on days where his father would teach him how to ballroom dance.

"this is not a goodbye, it is merely a see you later." He starts, voice full of merit. "May we meet again, and may the circumstances of our next meeting a better one."

His smile turns sharper then, the contrast between it and his soft eyes sends an unpleasant shiver. "For our destiny are tied, and our Fates will overlap with each other."

"You cannot change our destiny. For the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb, and our bond has tied us together."

"None of you will run from me— none of you can run from me."

"Because I will chase you down and hunt you until our family is complete."

[illuminamint-writes]

Summary: After receiving a curious message in code in the mail, Grian finds himself slowly turning into a bird.

Grian comes back to consciousness with a crack.

The crack, he quickly realises with a scream torn from his throat, is the crack of bone.

Grian heaves in pained, desperate gasps and flings himself out of his bed. His lungs feel like they’re going to burst, and maybe he has respawned with all of his health back to max, but the pain remains. It burns, a fledgling fire in his hands.

Tears sting at his eyes, but over the sound of the coarse, horrifying crunching , over the sound of his screams, he does not notice.

He jerks as more bone cracks, and though the agony rises up his arms, rattling his bones, sizzling each nerve, he knows where it originates. He doesn’t want to look at them. He knows he has to.

[Read Chapter 11 on Ao3!]

[takeyourcyanide]

I Know That The Writing’s On The Wall

AO3

Fandom: Soul Eater

Character: Franken Stein

Word Count: 744

Tags: Minor Violence, Blood and Gore, Random & Short, Nausea, References to Addiction, Descent into Madness

Summary: Four separate signs of the times. Things, happenings, signs that were present at the beginning of Stein’s episode of madness. Sort of like documentation.

Notes: This is another defrag fic, a bit of an exercise to hopefully get me back into the groove of writing, as there is a fic I’d really like to finish. May the head fog clear.

I contemplated even posting this one.

The title is inspired by a lyric in the song ‘Candy’ by Paolo Nutini. I can also recommend Marina’s (formerly known as Marina and the Diamonds) cover of the song. Both are quite lovely, in my opinion.

I would like to add that this fic is technically four separate chapters on AO3. Here you go, anyway.

A gust of wintry air cascaded out of the vents, embracing Stein, even despite whatever warmth the stitched-up lab coat he’d slept in provided him. It left his screw frigid to the touch, though he allowed his fingertips to ache as he rather sloppily turned it.

A bird, somewhere not too distant, chirped in the same cadence, in the same tone for a solid minute or so. The pleasant scent of stale cigarette smoke mixed with the lingering scent of various different chemicals soothed the exhausted restlessness causing his limbs to gradually tear apart.

He’d walked through the simultaneously welcomed and agitation-inducing darkness of his laboratory, his body moving on its own towards the kitchen.

‘Perhaps a little piece of my brain remembered some semblance of a former routine,’ he pondered, as he forced something bland, something tasteless down his throat, suppressing a repulsed gag.

He attempted to distract himself from his terribly slow chewing, from the taste and the texture of the unwanted food in his mouth, swallowing.

He stared down at the rest of the bar he held, grimacing. He allowed himself a sigh, as he tossed the item into the trash with the rest of the food he couldn’t bring himself to finish without vomiting.

-

Stein cranked his screw, the loud screeching in his ears a sound he was long desensitized to.

“Okay, class,” two words managed to successfully leave him, directed to the ones with the expectant and oddly concerned gazes. “Today, we’re going to……

…Uh…”

“Are we dissecting something again?” An annoyed grumble came from somewhere in the front row.

“No. ..We’re…”

His head began to violently throb with each frantic turn of the protruding steel.

‘Think, Goddamnit!’

“We’re.. um..”

“Are you-“

“Oh! Yes. Yes, that’s right. We’re going to be delving further into the history of the field of phasmology.”

-

Fingers massaging his temples, a bluish light flooding his eyes.

Each sentence he tried to read appeared as an entirely different sentence at first, before his second reading.

He spun in his chair once, twice.

He bit into his lip, and he turned his screw.

He whipped his head around, the sensation of a hand touching his scalp, tugging on his hair an obnoxious, somewhat unnerving distraction.

He was unable to focus on his work.

He banged his head against the painted wood of his desk, exacerbating his already disorienting headache.

Stein, with a sigh, pushed himself and his chair away from his computer, allowing the screen to darken until it became blank, until the only thing he could see on the screen was a reflection of himself and his worn appearance.

-

Reminders of dissection and cigarettes left his body and him in agony.

They were all-consuming, all that he could possibly think about, save for the frequent agitated ramble.

He’d pace the halls, he’d jerk and twitch.

He’d dreamt numerous times that he had the comfort of a cigarette hanging from his lips, the comfort of nicotine relaxing his rattled mind, the comfort of the taste and smell of smoke looming on his tongue, looming in his nostrils, and looming in the air around him.

He’d dreamt of a warm body lying on, strapped down to his dissection table, as he’d bring his scalpel of choice down onto the softness of the subject’s skin, digging the blade, with precision, down into the tissue, leaving an incision teeming with blood, shining under his surgical light, in its wake. He’d dreamt of removing each layer - flesh, fat, and muscle - leaving organs and bones left to collect and thoroughly analyze with a giddy, ear-to-ear smile on his face. He’d dreamt of injecting a subject with hydrogen peroxide. He’d even dreamt of harvesting an individual’s bones for the sake of creating his own *authentic* ‘classroom skeleton’ of sorts.

And each time he’d wake up, he’d wake up horrendously pained and disappointed that he could not live within those dreams.

Or perhaps he could. Would it be worth it to go down that path? Would it be worth it to sacrifice all that he had built for himself, all that he had promised to himself as soon as his deterioration became far more overtly imminent?

Anything to experience that cocktail of pure euphoria, sadistic pleasure, and the complete satiation of his supposedly “morbid” curiosities, no? Anything to take the edge off and refresh himself, no? Anything to be in touch with who he truly was, with what his soul truly was, no?

[oletus-manors-log]

Hey! I just wanted to say I love your work and your recent Orpheus drabble was super good! I was wondering if you could do a short story about Orpheus confessing to the survivor!reader? (GN) I understand that short story’s might take longer then headcanons and dabbles, so please take as much time as you need! Thanks again 🫶

OBSERVER'S NOTE :

“ Hello, and thank you so much for the compliment for my recent work on Orpheus! As for the confession, I believe I can make it work with the headcannons I have listed in the past.

I'm not too sure if there's anything else you'd like for me to add with the story, so I decided to make it happen in a... Special match. Although it can be a terrible place to confess... Well, sometimes it can work out in your favor. ”

Golden Hour

The match, needless to say, was a mess.

Orpheus couldn't tell whether he regretted having to come in because he's up against himself (or, really, what he sees himself as), or the fact that he's seeing the slow descent of the match after the first 60 second chair.

As he saw the raven bird chase after the enchantress and with the journalist on her second chair, he stuck to decoding in wedding hall. The pallets were thrown in advance by him, so it would make things easier.

Since the progress wasn't done before he arrived, he had done quick work on decoding it. Although, he didn't seem to notice when someone else joined him during the halfway mark of the cipher, one cipher actually done and Alice rescued off of it.

"Seems like you're struggling over there, aren't you?"

He flinched and looked over towards the speaker, noticing that it was Alice. Ah, she was patched up— good, that means that someone rescued her.

"Perhaps," he said idly, focusing his attention on the cipher machine before it malfunctioned and electrocuted him. "But it isn't like miss Dorval is struggling against him. She's been kiting for us and you're on your last legs after being chaired twice."

Alice shakes her head as she turned the knobs of the machine.

"I'll be fine. I'll just have to stay out of sight for the time being— it can't be that hard, can't it?"

... Hm, she only has one film left, he noted, sparing a glance at the camera. She will have to make sure he doesn't catch her— her mirages of me when I was younger is... Quite a feat. It could keep him distracted if such a miracle can happen.

[ Beware! The hunter has changed target! ]

The two looked up as a crow flies over to their cipher. Orpheus shoves Alice off of it so it would fly over to the novelist, sprinting like a madman to the pallet to vault and start running out.

"Keep decoding!"

He ran straight to the church, feeling smoke permeate the air as it swirled and manifested behind him. The sound of a deafening thud echoed as Nightmare, their hunter of the match, appeared behind him, causing him to falter if not for the reminder that he would be killed if he stayed standing.

"I did not expect for you to take it instead of miss DeRoss, Orpheus," spoke the nightmarish entity as it chased him, footsteps thundering as the novelist sprinted to the window to vault. "Why? Are you trying to relive the feeling of a good chase from the past?"

Truly, he fits the name and title for himself— Nightmare, the novelist thought bitterly. It's almost like he was "invited" to haunt the poor novelist even in (metaphorically, of course) death.

"I believe we both know why. I don't wish for her to die in this match after you targeted her."

"Hm? But why not? It's quite... Amusing, is it not?" He scoffed, his gaze focused on him as the novelist continued to keep distance, making sure to break out of line of sight from the latter so he can't focus on him. "For her to take your place after she was grown, after you went missing—"

"I don't want to be reminded of that incident."

"Oh, I know that. But you'd know better than for me to let it go, would you?"

Ah, he should have known. Why the hell would he let it go, hm?

Instead of replying, he went through a pallet— this time, passing by someone he didn't expect.

SLAM!

"Go!"

He felt the wind push him as he turned to see a certain survivor stunning the looming hunter, attire ragged despite wearing it for God knows how long. He could only whisper a "good luck" as he sprinted to the window, vaulting over it before running off.

The only thing he could hear from outside of the church was the aggravated yell of Nightmare, followed by daring taunts that he could recognize all too well.

... You never change, do you? Ever the daredevil, he thought with a chuckle, this time sprinting to another cipher to decode.

Despite the mishaps from before, Orpheus could see that it proceeded as smoothly as it possibly could, considering the bird had his sights on you and not the novelist. Unfortunately for Nightmare, you were one of the few that never saw danger as one to be feared.

In the survivor faction, you were a force to be reckoned with; someone with such a job that can spell trouble to those whose never heard of it.

Your occupation was of a trickster, one assigned like the Acrobat and the Weeping Clown if it weren't for your malicious streak. Reckoned by many hunters as a "hunter in a survivor's body", you were called by many as a horseman of chaos, bringing about destruction in your wake.

So far, only few had managed to keep you down, but even the novelist knew you would find a way to make them regret their misdeeds.

Truthfully. Orpheus feared you. Unlike him, you saw danger akin to a pet, and not once did he understood what makes you tick. But perhaps, much like your occupation, you live your life in constant terror.

The way your eyes gleam as you evade Nightmare's attacks was one of such cases, and he couldn't help but fathom on how you look so... Alive.

... So free.

Alas, it had been the last cipher and he had it primed. Nightmare had already chaired you once, but by some miracle, Alice had got you out of the chair and you were kiting the man like your life depended on it. And, well, it did— you were keeping Alice from being chaired the third time as both of you were injured.

But it didn't last long when he saw the crow fly over to his cipher, and he could hear the ping from you and Alice that he's switching targets.

Back to me, I suppose.

Pulling away from the cipher, he pinged that it was primed and started sprinting, hearing the wind pull itself and manifest the living terror in his waking life. To him, he saw the man as one of monstrosity, whereas most cannot see it that way. It terrified him that only a few, such as him, can see the raven for what he is.

Swiftly getting hit with the sharp tip, he stumbled from the window he was about to vault, causing yet another deep gash to form on his back. He gritted in pain as he felt blood seep through and taint his white coat, coating it in crimson.

—And then, the two could hear the deafening pop.

Thus, the sirens follow, and mark the 'endgame' of their match.

With the sudden boost of adrenaline, he sped off, his legs screaming as he heard Nightmare's ghoulish calls. Still, he paid no heed as he looked back, constantly pinging the rest of his team of Nightmare's ventures.

Detention... A trait that no man or monster understood. Miss Nightingale briefed everyone on it when they first came here, and he still recall what she told to their group.

Detention is a trait that every hunter possesses— a trait that, when activated, causes the hunter to give into the carnal desires to kill any survivor in its wake.

No one understood how to counter it. If anything, all they can do was run. Run until they were sure that it was safe.

For those who do not will be slaughtered in its wake.

Reaching the open gates, he could hear your calls as you yelled for him to get out— that you would cover for him.

His eyes widened at this. At the state of Nightmare and with Detention of all things, the last thing he'd want is for you to be slaughtered instead of him.

He cannot have that. He won't have that. Over his dead corpse.

"No!" he yelled, yanking your wrist when you went back to bodyblock for him, pulling you forward with such strength that many do not think he would have the capability to posses. "Go! Get out, now!"

With one last curse to have Nightmare go through such pain, you and the others got out, leaving the deserted church and the cries of Nightmare in the wake of a survivor's win.

After the stressful match, he had to go to Emily as he was still injured from Nightmare. Despite the adrenaline for when the last cipher was popped, he felt the fatigue crash on him hard after they had left, and he didn't want to deal with Emily getting (justifiably) upset at his own recklessness.

Although, there was another reason on why he had to go to Emily. It was for something else... Something that he wanted to speak to her about. Alone.

"... I see," Emily murmured, currently patching up Orpheus's back with a few stitches. Checking for other injuries, she sighed, facing the novelist with a knowing look in her eye.

"I don't wish to undermine your efforts, Orpheus, but they're... Well, they live up to their occupation. Are you sure you'd want to look for them? Even I'm not sure on where they have went off to this time."

Orpheus chuckled, giving her a smile as he answered, "I'm sure. I believe I know my limits, miss Dyer. After all, I have dealt with them the longest, have I not?"

You were... A mystery to him. Something that needed to be solved. Despite how long you and him were, in the lack of terms, friends... He never really knew the answer for his question since he's known you.

Just what it is that makes you so interesting to him?

"I suppose you'd be right on that," Emily replied, shaking her head as she wrapped the bandages around his waist. "Well, I believe they went to Moonlit River Park. I tried to ask why, but all they said was that they have a show to prepare and didn't want to be late."

Tying it off right afterwards, she dug through her pockets and handed Orpheus a note. The paper was yellow and worn, but he could recognize the handwriting peeking out... Couple with a few scribbles. You were always fond of drawing in your notes, he noticed.

"Here," she said, smiling exasperatedly. "They also wanted me to give you this. Now, don't strain yourself too much, okay?"

With a nod, the brunette took the note and bid his goodbyes to the doctor, leaving the clinic. He walked down the hall, opening the note that she gave him to see what you wrote for him.

In the note, it reads...

Hello, hello, mister novelist! Surprised to get a note from yours truly, are you? ☆

Now, now... I know you must be wondering where I went! And you know me well by now, Orpheus— I am not one to give such a straight answer. Why, if I am, I'd certainly lose the title of being a 'trickster', wouldn't I?

Anyway, I'd like to play a... Game with you. How does hide and seek sound? It'd be like those we play in matches. Ah, but with less killing, of course.

I want you to find me. The doctor already told me where I am, so I implore you, Orpheus—

"—find me, and find the piece I seek."

... A peculiar note indeed.

Now, he was no detective. Unlike Alice, he never dabbled quite well into detective work; he used to do that if he needed first hand experience on writing a thriller book. However, with the manor hosting various events that does consist of solving mysteries...

Well. He cannot say that he didn't have experience on dealing with them in his downtime.

Checking the back of the note, he raised an eyebrow at the sight of the note. From an unobservant eye, they'd chalk it off as something normal. But to him, he knew you enough to have something hidden in an ordinary object.

Raising up the note against the light, he hummed at the sight, reading the note more clearly.

Big tent.

...

How cheeky.

Rolling his eyes out of amusement, he lowered the note and trudged on to Moonlit River Park. This time... He has a date, and he isn't going to be late.

Arriving at the big tent of Moonlit River Park, he can see the sight of the thrown pallets around and some abandoned attractions on stage. The basement was sealed, so he assumed that it would be open on the two story building.

What was it? Hullabaloo? He should to check the name again when he sees it.

Walking on the stairs of the stage, he inspected the entire tent, noticing the sight of a note plastered on the wall. It was the same as the letter he retrieved from Emily, so he had no hesitation to take it.

Checking the front of the note, he red through what you wrote this time.

If you found this note, then I was right to put my faith in you, Orpheus. You know my tricks enough to figure out where my note was lying about, huh? Maybe I should up the ante of this game of ours...

Haha! I'm kidding, of course. Why would I? It'd be terrible if your 2nd hint is in a place you can't find so easily.

Anyway, to find where it is, the answer is what you're reading. If you're confused or, mayhaps, lost... Read it again. You'll see what I mean.

... See? What in the world...

His brows furrowed as he red through the note again. There was something in those words, and if he can take your statement for what it is...

...

Rereading through it again, he can see a pattern. From your writing, it was hard to tell, but there were letters that are emphasized more than others.

... I'm at 2nd stop. Hah, how cheeky of you.

Tucking the note away, he left the stage and raised one of the flaps, running out of it. The faint chime of the circus music echoed around the map, haunting yet nostalgic for those that have witnessed its glory. For Orpheus, though, that brought some... Awful memories of his losses there.

... Ah, he can't be reminiscing now. He needn't remember what happened in one of his visits here.

Reaching the other side of the large map, he could see a bird perched up on the rails, perking up to see the novelist arriving by the stairs. With a chirp, the blue bird flew to him, its claws carrying another letter.

Whispering a 'thanks' to the bird, he watched it fly off before opening the third letter in his hands.

Moonlit River Park is a beautiful place, isn't it? Regardless of what many may think, the circus holds a special place in my heart. Such a shame that the tragedy has ruined it for what it's worth...

... Such is beauty, I suppose. The manor holds such unique yet curious people, just like you.

Where am I going with this? Hm, good question. I wish I have the answer to that, but I'm not sure if I have one. After all, I lack the voice to speak of such a thing, or to answer your inquiries.

Now, if you wish to look for where I really am, you'd know where to find me this time.

Why, I can see you now, little novelist. Look over to your left.

Look ove—

"Boo."

Orpheus could feel his heart give out for a moment, his head whipping to see you peering over him with a cheeky grin. Seeing the look of fear in his face, you couldn't help but laugh, your voice ringing in the air of the abandoned park.

"Ahaha! You should've seen the look on your face, Orphy," you said, amusement ringing in your voice. Jabbing him lightly, you snickered, "Perhaps I should subject you more to such simple mysteries. I'm surprised you manage to get through them!"

Orpheus scoffed. Despite your streak, he swore that you were but a child to someone like him.

"Hmph, and you should know that I have a weak heart. Not everyone can keep a straight face when they're snuck up from behind."

"Yes, yes," you drawled, patting his shoulder. "I suppose that's true. I'll spare you the... Worse I can bring, then."

... Just for me? How kind, he thought, but he didn't voice that out to you in fear of being seen as ungrateful.

"That aside, do you need me for something, [Name]?" he asked, finally facing you, raising an eyebrow at your demeanor. "Forgive me for saying this, but you never reach out to me first other than to cause mischief."

"Oh! Right, about that..."

You paused, your head turning slightly to the side. With a sheepish laugh, you continued, "I just... Wanted to bring you here. I remember you telling me that you never got to see the park when it wasn't used for matches— well, not without Memory, but that's understandable— so-"

Ah... So that's why.

...

Despite your behavior, you have a kind heart.

That is one thing he cannot deny that he liked about you. You may have a sadistic streak, but your kindness will always shine through it.

"... And I thought of getting Antonio as well, because he was planning to perform, and—"

"[Name]," he said, cutting you off. You perked up at him, humming to let him know you were listening. Orpheus couldn't help but let a chuckle slip, giving you a smile that was different from his usual poker face.

This one was more of sincerity— an emotion rarely seen of the novelist.

"Thank you," he continued, his eyes closing for a bit as he let out a soft laugh. "But please, you don't need to do this much for me. If anything, just being here with you is enough."

Before he can stop himself, he reached out to grab your hand, fingers interlocking with yours.

"... If I'm being honest, I am not a man seeking of such lavish and desire simplicity. However, since meeting you, you showed me just how adding a bit of uniqueness and extravagance can make things more memorable."

He could see your eyes widen at his confession, but he continued, as if he didn't wish to stop.

"Truly, I must blame you for claiming my heart as your own— you do it so effortlessly, it feels more like you've know how to weave me into your tales. However, as unfortunate for some, I don't think I'll be able to blame you for stealing it."

Tightening his grip, he reached out and grasped your cheek— watching as you relaxed on his hold.

"Not when I'm about to do a crime of my own, little trickster."

Under the guise of the sundown, the rays begin to emit such a glow that can make things more enchanting to the observant eye.

And a kiss was sealed, the untold confession of the novelist marked in the midst of golden hour.

© ᴏʟᴇᴛᴜs-ᴍᴀɴᴏʀs-ʟᴏɢ | 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹 ✧ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛs ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀʀᴇ | ᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ʀɪɢʜᴛғᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀs

[the-lonelybarricade]

A Ripple, A Tidal Wave - Part I

Summary: An AU where Feyre encounters a very different faerie in the woods. One she decides not to kill.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023. Starfall = fallen star = sad, injured bat, right?

Read on AO3

-

The forest had become a labyrinth of snow and ice.

Feyre flexed her fingers. They’d gone stiff from the cold. The worn leather from her father’s old carving glove hardly fought off the chill of the gusting wind that cut through the clearing, lashing against the thicket of trees at its parameter where she had been crouched for the better part of an hour.

It was impossible to keep her hands from going numb in these conditions. Still, she flexed them, praying for the blood to rush back into the fingers she had curled around her drawstring. Feyre had overheard the village’s hunters in the marketplace, talking about the wolf tracks they had seen. Pawprints as large as your head. An embellishment, surely, but that didn’t change that the wolves would only come this close to the village for the same reason that Feyre would delve this deep into the woods.

They were hungry.

Winter was harsh for everyone. Even the forest was restless—too quiet, too still. She wouldn’t have risked coming here, knowing there were wolves, if her family wasn’t desperate. As far as they were concerned, Ferye would either return with food, or be taken by the forest so that they had one less mouth to feed. It was favorable for them either way.

Unless Feyre returned empty handed, which was looking more and more likely the longer she crouched in the snow, watching the sun’s slow descent across the horizon through gritted teeth. Only a few more hours left of daylight. Soon she would need to turn back lest she try to navigate her way in the dark and double her chances of getting eaten by wolves.

In the back of her mind, she could already hear Nesta’s disapproving snort. The way her vicious eyes would cut immediately to Feyre’s empty hands, how she’d cross her arms over her chest and hurtle all number of accusations without saying anything at all. Nesta had a gift for communicating her every hostile thought with one single, withering glance. Feyre had witnessed her sister grind men to dust without so much as opening her mouth.

Sometimes, pinned beneath that look, Feyre wanted to cry to her, then why don’t you do it?

But Nesta wouldn’t. And neither would Elain. And their injured father couldn’t. So it was Feyre, stalking through the woods, letting the ice soak into her bones. One day, someone would ask what had turned Feyre Archeron so cold and she would point to the forest. It was here her heart had frozen over. It was here, she’d traded her innocence for survival.

Here, it was kill or be killed.

Feyre began rising from the snow-heavy brambles, stifling a groan at the protest of her stiff limbs. She froze, mid-way through stretching, as a great, terrible noise erupted through the forest. It was pure, blood-pumping instinct that threw Feyre’s body back to the ground, covering in the bramble like she expected blowback from the sound. Like the warning rumble of thunder before the lethal strike of lightning.

The howling wind stilled. There was no mass retreat of wildlife, no birds escaping to the skies. It was like everything held its breath, terrified of being caught by the creature as it bellowed another anguished roar.

It wasn’t like any wolf Feyre had ever heard.

She needed to leave. Now.

Still ducked beneath the bush, Feyre angled her head towards the forest, eyes darting across the tangled roots and underbrush to chart the best path back to the village. One that would offer coverage, would give her a fighting chance if the beast—whatever it was—decided to pursue.

The noise came again. Softer, now, more wounded. Had it been attacked? Or was it mimicking injury to lure its prey closer?

Her heart was beating so quickly that each beat leapt into her throat. The brush rustled on the other side of the clearing. It was coming towards her. It was too late to run. She drew her bow, ignoring the tremble in her fingers, how the air was collecting in front of her in short, breathless exhales.

Feyre peered through the thorns.

The wings stood out to her first. Large, membranous bat-like wings. They had been what caused the rustling, for they dragged against the ground, catching on the underbrush.

More startling than the wings, however, was that they belong to a man. No, a faerie. He was too far away to glimpse his pointed ears, but the wings certainly gave it away. He was stumbling forward, an arm slung protectively around his bleeding stomach while the other pushed aside the wayward tree branches. His entire body slumped inwards, around the wound at his center that trekked blood in a ruby-red path behind him.

When he made it to the center of the clearing, his knees gave out, and he stumbled face-first into the snow. Feyre held her position for several breaths, eyes fixed intently on his shoulders, watching their shallow rise and fall as pool of blood collected beneath him.

Her arrow was still notched, still aimed at him through the brush.

He was a faerie. She should have killed him for that fact alone.

His body twitched, then stilled.

Maybe he was already dead. Maybe she should shoot him, just for good measure. Put him out of his misery.

It would be a waste of an arrow, she decided. He looked dead. Besides, there was still the threat of whatever had done this to him. She pushed her aim higher, monitoring the thicket he had come from. She should be running. She should be gone.

Her aim dipped back to the male lying helpless in the snow.

Snow-tipped wind nudged playfully at the wisps of his blue-back hair. It was the color of the night sky when no stars touched it.

From the amount of blood coloring the snow beneath him, he was almost certainly dead.

Feyre lifted from her crouch. The icy snow crunched under her fraying boots. Her mouth felt dry.

He looked so… so still.

She drew her knife and edged closer, more of him coming into view. Those wings were so much larger—so much more stunning, more horrific—up close. Now, she could see the sun warming their leathery surface, glinting off the sharp claw that rested at each apex. A useless part of her stirred, the part that was fascinating by colors and shadows and the way the sunlight illuminated the veins in his wings. She felt oddly tempted to reach her hand out and touch them.

Except they twitched, and Feyre faltered a step back, nearly stumbling.

Not dead yet, then.

Her grip on the knife tightened. It was difficult to tell with his face in the snow, but Feyre thought he looked young, not much older than Nesta. Though the fae were immortal and he could just as easily be centuries old.

For a creature that could defy time itself, he didn’t look very intimidating now. If she looked past the wings, she could almost pretend he was just a wounded man. Someone who was suffering with every slowing breath. Someone who… someone who needed help.

Inwardly, she was screaming at herself, wondering why she didn’t just bury the knife in his back and run. Or better yet, the asharrow that had sat unused in her quiver for the last three years.

She touched his hair. It was soft, silken yet damp from the snow. She tightened her fingers and used that grip to, as delicately as she could, turn his head to the side. He groaned, a barely conscious sound that told her he was still alive.

For a moment, Feyre could do nothing but stare at the face before her. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, even with the sweat and snow clinging to his skin, and the way his face pinched in pain. He had full, sensuous lips that she ordinarily might have been tempted to study, were they not parted open to expel slow, shallow breaths.

His eyes were shut, and behind his eyelids she could see his pupils moving rapidly.

It wouldn’t even be necessary to stab him. She could leave him here and he would undoubtedly be dead by morning, buried beneath layers of snow. No one would miss him, certainly not in the mortal village. And judging by the mortal wound his own kind must have dealt him, Feyre doubted he would be missed beyond the wall, either.

She stared at him, feeling an unexpected sense of dread, of pity, rise within her. Objectively, she knew that it was absurd to feel bad for him. He was a faerie, and if he weren’t gravely injured, it would likely have been her blood seeping into the snow.

But no one would care if she didn’t come out of the woods, either.

It could have been her laying face down in the snow. No one would have bothered to come looking for her. No one would have helped.

Praying for mercy from the long forgotten gods—as if they would even indulge her for being so foolish—Feyre sheathed her knife. Their options were limited. Sundown was fast approaching and he was… he was ginormous. It wasn’t as if she could run to the village for help, they would sooner finish the job. And he was too heavy to carry back to the cottage. Not that she would. Nesta and Elain would never agree to help him.

No, she needed to take him somewhere close and out of the snow so that she could take a closer look at his wounds. The only thing that came to mind was a small, deserted hunter’s shack further in the forest, leftover from a time when humans felt comfortable enough to venture that close to the wall. Or a time when they were desperate enough to risk it.

The first difficult task would be getting him onto his back. She’d need to drag him a way’s through the forest and she couldn’t risk the dirt and undergrowth catching in his wound. With the wings, turning him over would be a cumbersome task—especially given that they looked heavy.

After several moments of deliberation, puzzling over the best approach, Feyre decided to forgo caution and just move him. It was better than letting him bleed out in the snow. But the second her hand curled around the edge of his wing, his eyes snapped opened.

Feyre dropped it immediately, letting the massive appendage fall back to the snow with a soft smack. He groaned.

His eyes fluttered shut again, giving her the confidence to step forward. “I’m trying to help you,” she said to him. “I don’t… I’ve never met someone with wings before. So you have to be patient with me.”

He made a gurgling noise in the back of his throat, like he was choking on something liquid. Then a moment later his wing fluttered, trying to lift it, and Feyre decided she could meet him halfway. With the faerie taking some of the weight off, she was able to fold the wing to the side.

“Thank you,” she said. Then, “If you thought that was bad, this next part isn't going to be very fun.”

Feyre could almost mistake his answering grunt for a laugh. She took that as permission to haul him upwards from beneath the shoulder, trying to both lift and roll him onto his side. He hissed—a weak, agonized sound that raised every hair on her arms.

“You’re almost there,” she said, not letting the noise deter her movements. If she did, it would only prolong the pain. “Just suck it up a little more.”

It felt like pushing a boulder up a hill. Feyre was panting by the time she got him propped on his side, and from there it was only a matter of letting gravity do the rest. She rolled him, inelegantly, onto his back, wincing at the way his wing had folded under him. It wasn’t perfect, or comfortable, but nothing about this experience would be.

He slumped into the snow once it was done, tilting his head back in exhaustion like he had been the one to lift a male twice his size. Though, from the wounds splitting across his torso—the worst of them a deep gash stretching from his sternum to his naval—Feyre supposed she shouldn’t be complaining.

The sight of the gore made her feel dizzy. She turned away, pressing a hand to her mouth like it might do anything to ease the rising bile in her throat. Feyre swallowed, trying to steady herself. Would whatever creature that had done this to him come for her next for trying to help? Would they come for Nesta and Elain?

“Rh—ys.”

It took Feyre a moment to register that he had spoken. Or tried to, at any rate.

“What?”

“Rhys,” he choked out, eyes opened to barely-there slits.

“Is that… your name?”

He just huffed, which Feyre took to mean yes.

“Well, Rhys,” she said, stepping around his body to kneel at his head. Her arms slid under his shoulders, securely his body beneath his armpits. “I hope those wings aren’t sensitive, because you and I have a long journey to make through those woods.”

[xxtheophilusxx]

A Surprising Day at Windrise

Summary: The story focuses on two Genshin Impact characters enjoying a playful interaction that strengthens their friendship and provides a moment of light-hearted relief.

Warnings: Tickling Word count: 1.3k

The sun was just beginning its descent, casting a warm, golden light across the rolling hills of Mondstadt. The world seemed at peace, bathed in a soft glow that made the leaves of the towering oak at Windrise shimmer like emeralds. A gentle breeze rustled through the branches, carrying with it the sweet scent of flowers from the nearby fields. It was the kind of day that invited anyone to slow down and savor the moment—a day where even the most dedicated adventurer might pause to rest.

Venti, the carefree bard with a secret as ancient as the winds themselves, leaned back against the massive oak tree, his lyre resting casually in his lap. His green eyes were half-closed as he hummed a tune, his voice blending seamlessly with the whispering wind. Every so often, his gaze would drift over to Aether, the Traveler who had seen more of Teyvat than most could ever dream of. But even the great Traveler deserved a moment of respite.

Aether lay on the grass beside Venti, his eyes closed, and for once, his thoughts were not on the next destination or the next enemy to defeat. Instead, he let himself be lulled by the gentle sounds of nature, the feel of the soft earth beneath him, and the subtle, soothing melody that Venti played. The peace of the moment settled over him like a warm blanket, and he couldn’t help but smile.

“You know, Aether,” Venti’s voice cut through the quiet, light and teasing, “you should let go more often. The world’s not going anywhere.”

Aether opened one eye, glancing at Venti with a knowing look. “Says the Archon who’s always running off to cause mischief.”

Venti’s laugh was like the wind—light, airy, and impossible to pin down. “Mischief? Moi? I’m simply spreading joy wherever I go.”

“Is that what you call it?” Aether replied, a smirk playing on his lips. He turned his gaze back to the sky, watching as a flock of birds passed overhead, their wings cutting gracefully through the golden light.

The two fell into a comfortable silence again, but Venti’s mind was far from quiet. He had always been attuned to the emotions of others—perhaps it was a gift of his nature, or perhaps it was just who he was. And right now, he sensed something in Aether, something the Traveler himself might not even be aware of. It wasn’t heavy, just a hint of lingering tension, like the last wisps of a storm that had long since passed.

Venti’s gaze sharpened, a playful idea taking root in his mind. With the stealth of a wind-blown leaf, he shifted closer to Aether, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. He could feel the energy in the air change, the calm before the inevitable storm of laughter he was about to unleash.

“Venti, what are you—” Aether began, sensing the shift in the air, but it was too late.

Venti’s fingers found their mark, poking at Aether’s sides with surprising precision. Aether’s reaction was immediate—a sharp intake of breath followed by a burst of laughter that broke the tranquil silence of Windrise. His eyes flew open, and he twisted away from the unexpected ticklish attack, but Venti was relentless.

“Hahaha! Venti, stop! What are you—ahaha—doing?” Aether’s voice was filled with surprised laughter as he tried to squirm away from the bard’s tickling fingers.

“Just a little stress relief,” Venti replied with a grin, his fingers dancing across Aether’s ribs. He could feel the Traveler’s muscles twitch and contract under his touch, could hear the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably from deep within him. It was a sound that made the world feel lighter, brighter, as if the very air around them was charged with joy.

Aether tried to push Venti’s hands away, but the bard was quick, his fingers darting from one ticklish spot to another, keeping Aether off balance and laughing. “This is… not… stress relief!” Aether managed to get out between laughs, his voice shaking with mirth.

“Isn’t it?” Venti teased, his hands finding Aether’s stomach, where the laughter burst out of him in full force. Aether’s laughter was contagious, pure and genuine, the kind that came from deep within, shaking his entire body.

“Hahahaha! V-Venti, please!” Aether’s protests were weak, his voice lost in the sea of laughter that spilled from him. His usually composed demeanor had crumbled completely, leaving behind only a carefree, joyful side that he rarely showed.

Venti laughed along with him, his own voice mixing with Aether’s in a harmonious melody of mirth. “See? You’re already feeling better, aren’t you?”

Aether’s response was more laughter, his eyes watering from the sheer force of it. Finally, with a burst of energy, he managed to grab hold of Venti’s wrists, using the momentum to flip their positions. Now it was Venti who found himself pinned to the ground, a look of mock surprise on his face.

“Oh, you’ve done it now,” Aether said, his voice low and teasing, a grin spreading across his face as he saw the playful fear in Venti’s eyes. He didn’t wait for Venti to respond; instead, he dove in, his fingers finding the bard’s sides, where he knew Venti was just as ticklish, if not more so.

Venti’s laughter exploded from him, a high, melodic sound that filled the air. He wriggled beneath Aether’s grip, trying in vain to escape the Traveler’s relentless fingers. “A-Aether, no! Hahaha! Not there! Hahahaha!”

But Aether was merciless, his fingers moving with practiced precision, dancing over Venti’s ribs, his stomach, his sides—anywhere he could reach. He could feel the bard’s body shake with laughter, could hear the desperation in his voice as he tried to plead for mercy through his giggles.

“Ticklish, Venti?” Aether asked, his voice filled with mock concern as he continued his ticklish assault. “You should’ve thought about that before starting this!”

Venti’s laughter was uncontrollable now, his voice breaking into breathless gasps between giggles. “Okay, okay! I-I surrender! Hahahaha! Mercy!”

Aether slowed his tickling, letting the bard catch his breath, though he didn’t fully release him. “Mercy, huh? Not so fun when it’s you, is it?”

Venti panted, still giggling as he lay back on the grass, the last of the laughter finally dying down. “You… are a worthy opponent, Traveler,” he managed to say, a wide grin still plastered on his face.

Aether finally let him go, rolling onto his back beside him, both of them breathing heavily from their impromptu tickle fight. The world around them seemed to have quieted, as if even nature had paused to listen to their laughter.

For a few moments, they lay there in silence, the only sound their slowing breaths and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. The sky above them was painted in hues of orange and pink, the sun dipping lower towards the horizon, casting long shadows across the grass.

“That… was something,” Aether finally said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. His body still buzzed with the remnants of laughter, the tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding completely melted away.

Venti turned his head to look at him, his green eyes soft with contentment. “Sometimes, the best way to clear your mind is to forget about everything and just… laugh.”

Aether nodded, feeling the truth in those words. “Thanks, Venti. I guess I needed that more than I realized.”

Venti sat up slowly, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied sigh. “Anytime, my friend. Anytime.”

As they stood up, brushing off the grass from their clothes, Aether caught Venti’s eye. There was still a spark of mischief there, a promise of more fun to come.

“You know, I think you’re still the ticklish one between us,” Aether teased, a playful grin forming on his lips.

Venti laughed, a sound as light and free as the wind itself. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that, Traveler. You never know when the wind might change…”

With that, the two friends began their walk back to Mondstadt, their laughter echoing behind them as the sun dipped below the horizon. The day had been one of unexpected fun and deepened bonds, leaving them both with a sense of lightness that would carry them through whatever challenges lay ahead.