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NEW CHAPTER HAS BEEN FINALLY POSTED!!!!!! spy vs spy fandom eat up. tw slight homophobic white spy at the beginning. he’s drunk and doesn’t know what ima do to him in the next few chapters
Chrysallus stares at the mirror, uncertainty in his eyes as they drift up to his hair.
A twitch of an ear. A swivel of the other.
Swish... swish... a cat tail dragging on the fabric of his coat, hidden from sight.
He's not sure why he went through this process. The mesmer had been tinkering with cosmetic tonics, for partial transformations, for little bits of entertainment here and there.
After that damn courtier (ex-courtier, he reminds himself) dropped a potion near him, Auri, and itself, they had sprouted cat ears and tails for a short time.
He's not sure when they wore off (each sylvari's partial transformation had worn off at different times, and no one really pointed it out to him), but he supposed he had gotten used to being... obvious to people.
Chrys reached up to touch the leafy cat ears on his head, almost feeling shy about them.
Something about these little additions made him feel... real. Felt seen.
He had been so used and bogged down by how "powerful" and "unreachable" he is in status, in power. He's so used to having to play the part of the unaffected commander, the unbreakable champion of Tyria. So used to being alone...
One would think he'd be better at managing the stress of it all, or getting help from all the trauma.
Since when has the Commander ever been in need of saving? Especially from himself?
Chrys shook the thoughts from his mind, then looks back at the ears on his head, seeing them fold back.
Before the ears, the only indication of his stress were the flowers that bloomed in his hair, or worse, the flowers that shredded his throat and incapacitated him afterwards.
When the "cat incident" happened, people seemed to understand his stress a lot better, especially any charr in the area (or anyone who's had a cat) were able to translate his body language with ease.
It no longer felt like he had to speak what was on his mind, or wish that others could read his mind.
Even before this incident, the mesmer had heard others refer to him as "Catmander" when they think he can't hear them.
The blue sylvari crosses his arms, still contemplating the ears that are now fully grown and visible on his head.
He feels people would judge him differently.
They would think him childish.
Acting like a sapling.
Acting a fool and treating everything like a joke.
Why did he even bother with this? Others would just make fun of him for this.
He just wants to be seen and understood when common socializing is difficult.
Is that so much to ask...?
His hands tightly grasp the sleeves of his coat, the anxiety gnawing on his mind with every second.
Chrysallus hears a loud noise and hides the cat ears and tail with mesmer magic, his thorns fluffing up.
Turns out it was one of his many cats knocking over something. He exhales, his ears and tail reappearing as he catches his breath from being startled.
He glances back at the mirror. Should he keep it? Should he get rid of them?
Chrys feels... well, not "whole", but like he doesn't need to hide, that he'll be treated better with them, expressing his emotions better than he can say.
On the other hand, his anxiety and paranoia is whispering into his mind, making the blue sylvari fear about being treated like a joke, and bringing down the rest of his friends, of his loved ones.
... Maybe he needs to hide out somewhere for a while, so he can think about this in a place where he can't be seen and judged by others before he's ready.
Auri might be upset, though. They said something about a mender appointment, but Chrys had forgotten when that was supposed to be; knowing his luck, it's sometime this week.
*i don’t use my oc’s name in this but i wrote it w her in mind but! feel free to change the pronouns in your mind and imagine your apprentice in her place!
This is my first time posting a fic lol, shred me if you want, english is my first language so if it’s trash, i so sory
She has rich parents who don’t pay much attention to her but are also disappointed in her lascivious ways
Ended up getting kicked out of school but instead of going home, she began training under a talented herbalist
Learned magic accidentally
Eventually left town with money, herbs, and a small makeshift medicine kit
Ended up in Vesuvia
Got famous on the way, she became really gifted
Got invited to the palace when she arrived
Befriended Nadia (who really doesn’t care who fucks who)
Jucio took an interest to her immediately
He pestered her but she wasn’t taking his shit
Still ended up sleeping with him a few nights later (it was terrible)
Meets Asra the day after at a luncheon (at breakfast-time) in the garden
He warns her that Lucenzo isn’t who she thinks he is and tells her about his “Scourge of the South”
She was hella convinced
Asra tells her to get out as soon as possible
Arranges for her to meet a friend at the Rowdy Rave
She goes to the coliseum later that day with Nadia and Lucio
Horrified at the bloodlust
Horrified at Lucio
Horrified at the violence and gore
Slips through the crowd as soon as it’s over
She basically sprints to the Rowdy Raven and shouts breathlessly “Is anyone here a doctor?!”
Everyone just looks at her
Jules pops up all concerned and shit
“I’m a doctor, what’s wrong?! Who’s hurt??”
She’s like oh, do you know Asra?
Chaos ensues
Has to smuggle her ass through to the edge of the forest bc Ucio has guards scouring the city for his wayward “court magician” (she declined the job offer)
She dazzles him with her suave flirting and finesse until she ends up taking a fucking plunge into one of the canals
Ilya only has time to drag her out of the water, pry off a vampire eel and throw her over his shoulder because the guards spotted them and were coming in hot
When they reach the edge of the forest Muriel is waiting for them
She claims she’s fine and that she can stand and promptly eats shit
Falls towards Muriel instead of Julian
Muriel just lets her hit the ground bc he wasn’t expecting that at all
Julian has to stop the bleeding before they can even think about moving on
Muriel parts with Julian and carries her to his hut
She needs to recover for a few days, in that time Muriel discovers that she’s a mega flirt… just not with him. She can’t really talk properly around him…
Asra, and Julian (much to Muriel’s dismay), come through a few times to check on her
She immediately turns it on:
Asra is only a bit flustered at the beginning but starts to take it playfully
Ilya’s life is ruined
He can hardly form a proper sentence, she’s laying it on so thick
Might pass out from high blood pressure
One night, while Muriel’s with the chickens and Inanna, she asks Asra about Muriel’s scars (bc she can hardly look at him without actually making a whole fool of herself, nevermind ask him a personal question)
He pauses, “before I tell you, be patient and gentle with him?”, when she nods he pauses for a long time
Then all he says is “remember when I told you about the Scourge of the South...?”
She goes buckwild (Faust says Rowdy!)
Starts getting hysterical
“H-he did that to him!?!??!?!? That- that fucking monster!!!”
Tries to get up even though she’s still injured, Asra is like “oh shit chill”
“He’s killed so many people!! He’s like a fucking plague!”
Muriel overhears and just assumes she talking about him
Meanwhile, she’s still flipping tables inside calling The Count a variety of Bad Things
All of a sudden goes very still and very calm
“I’m going to kill him”
“N O”
Muriel’s heard enough (or so he thinks) and goes deeper into the forest with Inanna. He’s gone for hours
Meanwhile, she starts sobbing
Asra eventually calms her all the way down with some magic help, tea, and squeezes from Faust
She explains her whole predicament from sex with Lucio to her feelings for Muriel and how she feels like she owes it to Muriel to end The Count
Asra lets her cry on him until she falls asleep and he has to go back to the shop
It’s almost noon the next day and Muriel still isn’t back
She starts to panic “fuck, what if he heard me crying last night and thinks I’m fucking hysterical?”
Is restless as fuck
Finally over it, she puts on some clothes and leaves the hut (like a damned fool)
She calls out to Muriel for what feels like hours
She’s starting to feel dizzy… she hadn’t eaten that day and her wound? That shit hurted (but not as much as her heart!)
Decides to take a nap under a random tree, actually going into shock bc she fucked around and reopened the bite
Inanna smells the blood and leads an unknowing Muriel to her, sniffling at the unconscious magician (stupid head)
“What are you doing out here?!”
She jolts up and squints at him
“Puppy?”
He carries her back to the hut (bc he’s totally soft for her)
“What the hell were you thinking?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were safe”
“... what?”
He takes care of her bloodied clothes and redresses her wound
“... why … would you do something like that?”
“... I- I can’t tell you yet”
Muriel thinks it’s some assassination plot and gets hella closed off and also mad at himself because it was so fucking easy for her to get him right back where she wants him
He closes off immediately and she’s reminded of what Asra told her last night, why he’s a hermit who doesn’t trust anyone but him
Starts sniffling
“... what are you doing?”
Then she just flat out cries with them ghibli tears
“What’s wrong…??!” ol boy Muriel is starting to panic
She can only choke out “I am so sorry” over and over until she can’t speak properly
Muriel is still lost as hell “what do you have to be sorry for?”
She finally looks him in the eye “for sleeping with him! … for what he did to you”
Muriel is shook as fuck
“What he-? You.... you don’t think I’m a monster? That I’m a plague?”
She finally understands his meaning even though her mind is a fog of pain, dizziness, and tears
“Of course I don’t think that! I was talking about- … about Lucio. You’re not disgusted at me…?” she croaks
He shakes head and strokes her head softly as a fresh wave of tears hit her
Muriel sits on his bed with her silently until she falls asleep, curled up in pelts with Inanna
He thinks back to when she said that she would “kill him” and breathes out a short huff of a laugh
She’s so small and so fierce… like… a little bear
He knows she can’t go back to the city because of The Capricorn™️ and he’s already gotten used to having her around and so has Inanna
“Alright, Little Bear, don’t worry anymore”
He lets her feed the chickens all the time and cooks her favorite dish whenever she gets cramps
Eventually lets her braid his hair with flowers
Asra brings them their bread when he visits
Julian stops by a lot less frequently than Asra, but one night has them both try a salty bitters and is #banned
She dances in the rain too much and just grins at an exasperated Muriel when she drips water all over the goddamn floor
She makes Muriel sleep on his bed with her, she won’t take no for an answer
Learns to cook his favorite meal and has Julian smuggle her some black mead as a birthday surprise for Muriel
He actually smiles at her to her face!
One morning she’s trying to wake him up because his arm is heavy and she needs to get up to feed the chickens and he just mumbles “what is it, Little Bear?” and she just drops dead right there
The boys are devastated (kidding)
She just can’t speak properly for hours but Muriel falls back asleep, oblivious
She goes swimming with Inanna on a hot summer afternoon but stays out late so he goes to find her for dinner
She neked
He wasn’t fucking ready
He’s red for the rest of the night and she’s like Muriel: 264; me: 1
Sometimes she sneaks kisses on his shoulders and arms but they’re so light he doesn’t notice
Gets caught once
“That was you??”
Can’t look him in the eye for a week
She was having a one-sided conversation with Inanna and hears a strange sound behind her
It was Muriel. He laughed. Out loud. Surprised everyone including himself
One night she and Muriel get caught in the rain
Strippinggggg
They’re both a mess in the duration of peeling off their soaked clothing
She sits wrapped in a pelt in front of the fire
There’s hella firewood so Muriel has no fucking excuse to leave
Just wraps a pelt around his waist and goes about making tea
Once that’s done, he’s forced to awkwardly sit by her in front of the fire
She’s getting bold now, letting the pelt slip down her shoulders and leaning against him
Poor man almost fucking combusts
Now or never, bitch
She stutters out some dumb confession and Muriel just looks away and smiles softly “I know, Little Bear”
After that, she can’t keep her hands off him
She always at least lightly lacing their fingers when they’re near
And she kisses his face A Lot
It always flusters him without fail
Likes to hug him all the time. She’s like a koala but cuter
Eventually convinces him to take off his collar
Asra comes over for a picnic and immediately senses the difference (cue The Smirk)
She tells him about Muriel’s nickname for her and he just eats it up lmao
Teases Muriel the most
“Can I help plan the wedding? We can invite Nadi!”
Before she feeds the chickens one morning, she goes to peck Muriel on the cheek
She m is s ed
Muriel was so red haha she just giggled and flitted away
Makes it a mission to see how riled up she can get him
He caved after 2 days when she tugged on his earlobe with her teeth
NSFW later---
I wrote this a couple of weeks ago but the discord said it was cute or whatever so here it is
phil watches, sometimes, fingers laced under his chin and elbows braced on the sill, as dream holds out his hands and laughs through the cloud of colors that smothers him. even though dream doesn’t need the constant surveillance anymore, at least this pair of eyes is one he doesn’t mind showing his back to, even if it’s off-putting at times. techno made his opinion on the butterflies clear; phil’s centuries older than him and has insect-eaters for company. not that dream would begrudge phil’s beloved flock a snack, but the proximity between chats is a little worrying at times.
“they’re lovely, mate,” phil offers once, shooing a curious crow away from the horde with a searching look.
dream hums. “they are,” he replies, emptying his voice deliberately, because: this isn’t a matter of loveliness, or even of preference. his butterflies carry his messages and watch his server. their beauty is one that predicates survival, blending into thickets and splaying owl-faced among the branches. though he may not have chosen them, they’re his now, and they folded down into his prisoner’s garb, his pools of blood, his oversized netherite chestplate. they melted down sam’s body for him.
phil’s eyeing him again, feathers rustling against the cold, like he knows what he’s thinking. dream lets a bright green butterfly crawl imperiously all over his face and bolts his mouth against his smile.
warnings: references to abuse, abusive relationship, references to torture, c!sam neg, vague body horror, death
for @lookinghalfacorpse's phenomenal fic the trees deny themselves nothing, which has been living in my head for the past month.
People always forget that Phil is millenniums old. That he’s put on every face there is. That he’s spoken every tongue that’s lived and died. He can clean any wound and ease any illness, and when the bombing was over and the dust had settled he’d limped through the crowd and offered potions and poultices, and consolation if they’d take it, so: of course they think he’s a senile old man who only knows pain and death. Of course.
But Sam, all of king and court magician, redstone genius and pickpocketing slummer, should know better.
And he does seem to remember, judging by the full-body flinch he greets Phil with at the door to his old workshop. All his fur roils on end, a forest of green, as he says, “Philza.”
“Hi, mate.” Phil folds his wings back demurely, watching Sam’s eyes follow the Void-black sheen of them. He steps over the threshold without waiting for an invitation to do so, steering Sam back towards his workbench with a thump on the back. He kicks the door closed behind him, and it creaks laboriously shut with a protesting groan. Sam’s gaze flickers to the door. Back to Phil’s wings. The fine, faint feathers dusting Phil’s cheeks prick up.
“Nice space you got here,” he says, real friendly-like, parking Sam’s ass in one of the only chairs that doesn’t have a chunk taken out of it for tinkering. “Gloomy and shit. Perfect for you. Is this body going blind yet?”
Sam straightens. “No,” he says mechanically. “My eyesight is perfect, thank you. I’ve improved both foveal acuity and the range of peripheral vision in my left eye. I could track in the dark.”
“Like you couldn’t before,” Phil teases. “Creeper vision and all, yeah? Though the wider periphery is nice. Bet you can see anything getting away.”
Sam’s voice comes out so stiff and starched Phil could probably make a sheaf of paper out of it. “In theory, yes.”
Phil draws his gaze away from Sam—who knows better than to run from the mythical angel that haunts every page of every history book—to observe the rows and rows of tinkertoys, the delicate baubles, the shiny trinkets. He can practically hear his feathers puffing up in glee. It’s really a shame he knows that Sam’s hands shaped them; all he wants to do is pulverize them into pretty glittering grime.
“Is there anything specific you needed, Phil?” Sam asks, apparently having regained enough of his wits to brave impatience. “I’m busy. I just got an important commission and I really need to get to it.”
“You’ll sit right there until I say you can leave or I will sprout wings of flame and turn your bones into glass,” says Phil mildly. “Is that clear?”
Silence rings out into the workshop. A leaky faucet somewhere drip-drip-drips into the hollow quiet. Sam shifts.
“...Crystal.”
“Perfect. Glad to see we’re on the same page.” Phil’s eyes flicker briefly to the ceiling, where Sam has, perhaps for posterity, installed a flimsy skylight. A crow—soon to be a whole murder of ‘em—pokes its inquisitive little head in, and Phil stifles a smile. Turning to face Sam, he tucks the smile behind the fan of his clawed fingers and asks, “Why did you lie to me?”
Sam jerks. “What?”
“You lied to me. You claimed you had no underhanded intentions with Dream, yet you took his leg and left him for dead. You claimed you were keeping no secrets, only to lie, repeatedly, to my face. You claimed you would do everything in your power to rectify your mistake, but you’ve instead made a bigger one.” Phil folds his hands over Benihime’s hilt, feeling her purr under his palm. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Sam?”
Sam, clearly not understanding what Phil’s saying, scoffs. “I never lied to you once,” he says matter-of-factly. “I adhered completely to my code of ethics as both an engineer and the Warden, and acted upon the best interests of everyone on this Server.”
“Taking out a perceived threat,” Phil agrees cheerfully. Sam stumbles over his words, caught off-guard by Phil’s concurrence, and it gives Phil the room to continue, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking about what you said over and over for the past three days, mate. Had a lot of time to sorta mull things over, as like.” A minute tense of the knuckles; in the back of his head, Benihime hisses. “But that’s not all that I’m here for.”
Sam lifts his head, shucking off his redstone-stained goggles. His eyes are round: comically surprised. “It’s not?” he says.
Phil smiles with all his teeth. His wings sharpen against the air. The shadows at his feet stretch and seethe. Sam recoils.
“It’s not. I’m here not only because of those things, but also because you used Dream.” Phil’s voice unspools in a low croon. Quietly, quietly, so not even the crows overhead can hear and whisk the sacred words back to his wife. “Before the Old World fell, they had a name for what you’re doing to Dream. They called it Stockholm Syndrome. Do you know what Stockholm Syndrome is, Sam?”
Sam, his green pelt gone over gray like the gunpowder he’ll fade into if Phil takes a knife to his skull, shakes his head. Ever an eager student, quick to confess to his ignorance. Between becoming empress of a kingdom and a girl in the wilds running with the wolves, Phil had spent a stint as a young king’s tutor, pleased by how quickly the cunning kid caught on. One of many regrets, in the end.
“It means Dream knows how you think about him. He understands. He empathizes. He knows what you think he is, and he agrees. He might like you, Sam. He might even like you a lot, so much that he will ignore anyone trying to save him because you have convinced him he should not be saved. Maybe even that he does not deserve to be saved.” Techno had told him about the incident in the barn, and they both have eyes; you don’t survive centuries amongst the Servers without developing a sixth sense for interpersonal relations. Besides, Phil came before Techno. Much, much before, when there were names for these things, and people knew that you could look at your captor like a lover. Times have changed. People, it seems, have not.
“I don’t know all the details of what you and Quackity did to him in that prison. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. But I care that somehow, while doing what you fucks did, you convinced him that he is not a person, and that he does not deserve love, and that he doesn’t get to live.” The lurid, limpid fury that Phil had carefully banked before leaving burns back to life in his chest now, saying what he knows to be true out loud. “And he believes those things in part because he thinks he loves you.”
Phil didn’t tell Techno—he would have had a fit, and maybe snapped Sam’s neck, not that Phil would’ve been too pressed to stop him—but he’d walked in on an entirely different thing just a day or two after Dream’s first steps. He’d closed the door the moment he realized what was going on, but skin on skin, Sam holding Dream like a worshiper at the feet of an idol: Sam is fooling himself too. “And I think you might have used him. Just a thought.”
The air of the workshop is cold in Phil’s lungs as he draws in a careful breath. He’s always wary of losing his temper. It’s one thing to do it in front of Techno, who’s plenty immortal himself and could probably withstand an accidental eyeful; it’s another thing entirely to do it in a place not specially warded and enchanted and lined brick to brick with sigils to keep the eldritch from spilling everywhere. Once it gets out, there’s no getting it back in, so: deep breaths. Bit by bit, the inferno simmers low. His feathers ease back down. Benihime’s howls fade away.
Sam swallows hard, his throat bobbing in the dark. His new eye throws off bits of light when he blinks. He stands, and he smooths off his pants, and there are a thousand, a million words caught in Phil’s throat, held fast only by the pacts of gods, as the measly little mongrel of a creeper before him says, “I only do what he lets happen to him.”
Dream’s earnest face, his faint smile, drift in a golden-brown smudge across Phil’s eyes. “He only does what I let him do to me.”
Philza remembers a time before the gods walked the earth. A time before monsters and a time before the Builders. He even remembers a time before the Servers, though that’s a secret sealed in blood and ichor he’ll only divulge if he wishes to die. He remembers floods and famines and foul, fetid plagues. He remembers every bone broken, every life lost. He remembers the Nether before it was a ruin of hellfire. He remembers the End before the night swallowed it whole. He remembers the Ancient Cities when they were not so ancient, before the sculk sprayed its spores, before the Warden—the real one, not a plaything for a pathetic, mewling nuisance to emulate—came through the Builders’ doorway.
Phil has been empresses, wild children, healers, teachers, gods in human skin. Phil is the oldest thing he knows.
He feels every inch his age and horror and terrible, untethered knowledge as he sheds his skin into tongues of flame.
His limbs are End in their own way, cold Void, but that’s just because of his ill-advised dealings with the Ender King. The rest of him is Blaze Empress to the bone, blessed by Hell, kissed by Death. What manner of creature could stand against his full glory, the sheer brutality of his rage? Certainly not a silly little wannabe immortal with wide, stupefied eyes and a dumb, slack mouth. Certainly not a pitiful sack of meat and bone that whirls to pick up a golden trident and is struck down between the shoulder blades with the tip of a blade whittled so finely it winnows the ligaments of his vertebrae and sticks him to the wall opposite, where he screams and curses and makes all manner of noise.
Phil chuckles, amused. It’s a sound that no mortal was meant to hear. Quite possibly it ruptures one or both of Sam’s cochleae, because the man’s ears start to bleed as he shrieks. It’s a shame. Phil had a whole spiel ready to go.
Glossy black bodies wobble across the skylight, squawk in alarm; as one, the murder takes off to tattle to his wife. Phil throws his head back, all glorious mane of sun and storm, and cackles. Benihime has already pierced Sam’s heart, is poisoning him from the inside, a slow death by unstoppable self-mutilation: informing Death would be a mercy.
Phil folds himself back demurely into his facsimile of a body. In this way, he and Sam share something. He smooths his hair back under his hat, ducks under the doorframe, and gives the workshop a fond little pat on the wall. He’s about ten paces away when the whole thing, outbuildings and all, burst into flame. He’s twenty when he starts to laugh.
