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kentuckywrites · 3 years

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Imperium 2: Chapter 3

Sic faciet nives. (It will snow.)

Tatsu wasn’t a fan of the food jokes Lin made, but he was most certainly a fan of joining the Cocytios expedition. In fact, he quickly took Lin’s place as the most excited to venture into unknown territory, and the entire time at the dinner table was filled with Tatsu’s grand stories of the legendary Heropon who lived there. She didn’t quite get to ask how he knew of Cocytios before they did, and yet Elma couldn’t help but be amused at some of the stories he recited. His enthusiasm was contagious! It was almost as if Pongo being in trouble was an afterthought.

But after dinner, that was all Elma could think about. She went to sleep thinking about him, she woke up thinking about him, she even thought of him as the MMC workers helped set her consciousness up in her old mim. Pongo, the boy she’d recruited onto her team, the boy who didn’t know how to speak until Vandham described the Interceptors’ role during his BLADE training. The boy who went on to become a powerful protector, who built a Free Hug Stand in the Commercial District, who would put himself in harm’s way to keep his friends safe without question. He was once a shy and awkward rookie who talked too much and thought every human being was beautiful. But nowadays, Pongo was confident, he knew himself and the world around him - quite literally. He could handle himself out there.

Yet Nessa’s mere existence proved he was in far more trouble than he’d ever been in before. And that scared Elma far more than she wanted to admit.

She walked out of the MMC and immediately took a deep, cleansing breath. It wasn’t exactly weird, being back in her old mimeosome. In the beginning, returning to her original body felt like going back home after years of being away. Returning to her mimeosome now was like going back on vacation, a change of pace she didn’t know she needed after all this time. Mimeosomes didn’t need to worry about the same necessities that real bodies did. This would be important for Cocytios, and important for rescuing Pongo.

Elma quickly met up with Lin, Nessa and Tatsu outside of their barracks. Though they knew they wouldn’t be able to bring their Skells to Cocytios, it was decided they’d spare themselves the trouble of walking all the way to Primordia’s southern coast and opt to drive there instead. Lin had even managed to hook up their little yacht to her Skell and was fine tuning the hitch connecting the two when Elma approached. Nessa and Tatsu both watched, but didn’t make any move to help. Elma could only assume that at the very least, Nessa wasn’t as familiar with the technology. It was curious, how both of them looked on with the same sparkle in their eyes, the same childish wonder. She recalled Pongo having that same sparkle when he was first discovering the world and all its mysteries.

Nessa was the first to spot Elma approaching, and she whistled softly. She was wearing new armor, too. The brogs matched Elma’s own, though Nessa’s pair were blue, and the rest of her armor was mismatched from various other apparel lines and arms manufacturers. What made Elma smirk was the fact that it was...okay, it wasn’t leaving much to the imagination. At least Nessa could dish out her interest in such things while accepting the style herself.

“All ready to go?” Nessa asked her.

Elma nodded once. “I believe so. Lin, how about you?”

“Just making some last minute adjustments, then I’ll be good!” Lin kept working, and the squeak of a bolt tightening under a wrench accompanied her response. “Our Skells are full of fuel, so that won’t be an issue for the drive. We’ll be parking near one of the bases, and I’ve already called ahead to let them know we’re coming soon. They’ve promised to keep watch over our Skells and make sure nothing bad happens to them!”

“And what about me?” Nessa prompted, “Will I have to ride with someone, or am I getting my own little plaything?”

Lin paused. “Do you...do you know how to drive a Skell?”

“Absolutely not. But there’s a first time for everything, right?”

“I don’t trust that for a second. You’re not hurting any of my - any of Pongo’s babies. He paid a lot of credits for these, y’know.”

“Oh come on, if there’s anything I remember of him, it’s that he’s loaded,” Nessa said, crossing her arms and pouting in dramatic fashion, “Shame Mira couldn’t create me with a couple thousand credits in my pockets, though.”

“If Nessa not have credits before, how did Nessa get credits for new armor?” Tatsu asked innocently.

Nessa winked. “I raided Pongo’s stash. You won’t believe how much armor he’s got stored away. It’s like he’s got a piece of armor for every monster he’s killed.”

Lin finally finished making adjustments to the hitch, and she bounced straight up, turning to face the others while wiping the sweat off her brow. “Alrighty, that does it! I’m ready to go when you are!”

“Tatsu excited!!” Tatsu cheered, “Winterland home of legendary Heropon! Tatsu can’t wait to meet him and ask about dadapon!!”

“Right, your father is also a...Heropon,” Elma recalled, “We’ll have to wait and see. For now, Nessa, you can ride with me if you want. I may not have an extra seat like Lin has for Tatsu, but there should be plenty of room for us both.”

“How could I say no to such a generous offer?” Nessa beamed, “Let’s head out, Team Elma! To Cocytios!”

Elma didn’t say anything when Nessa initially walked up to the wrong Skell - the Amdusias Hades belonged to Lin, a stronger hitting Skell that was well equipped and well handled under the Outfitter’s care. At first glance, it was the most powerful between the two Skells parked, and Nessa patted its leg with a confident smile.

“Um…” Lin was the one to break the illusion, “You know that’s my Skell, right? Elma’s is the red Verus Cain over there.”

A flash of confusion, quick glances between the two Skell models, and finally, Nessa’s apologetic smile landed on Elma.

“Right, of course. Should’ve guessed by the unusually thematic coloring. Let’s get a move on, then!”

It was an uneventful drive to the coast, and the BLADEs maintaining the base camp were more than happy to keep watch over their Skells. Lin unhooked their yacht with ease, and with the help of the other BLADEs, they all managed to drag it into the ocean. From there, it was smooth sailing, and beautiful weather for it too. Lin handled the boat’s controls while Elma supervised and Nessa provided directions, but it wasn’t hard to get lost in the salty sea breeze, the warm sun that kissed Elma’s skin. She knew this bliss was temporary, as most things were, because Cocytios was supposed to be bitter and unrelenting. She was excited, of course, and she kept a keen eye out for any signs of land.

Yet it took them hours on the open sea before Nessa called out to them, pointing ahead. “I see it! We’re close!”

Lin squinted at that, trying to identify Cocytios’s coast. Lin and Elma both squinted, trying to make out the continent, and soon enough Elma saw distant shadows on the horizon. It was still a far ways off, but the shadows were tall and ominous, easy to spot once she put some effort into it. Mountains, she harbored a guess, and fairly tall ones at that. The closer the yacht got, the more Elma realized she was right. They were tall, snow-capped mountains that only seemed to grow taller and taller the closer they became. The tallest ones were even obscured by a layer of clouds, which were brimming with infant snowfall. But, to Elma’s surprise, she saw a familiar silhouette past the mountains. Were those…rings?

“Nessa,” Elma called to Nessa, leaving Lin’s side to approach the edge of the deck, “The ring structures embedded into the mountains...they appear similar to those that we found in Oblivia. Do you know their purpose?”

“Oh, the Perceptis Automata?” Nessa spoke the name as if it were common knowledge, “Those were weapons used in an ancient war. It mainly took place in Oblivia, Sylvalum and Cauldros, but some fighting occurred here, too. Not enough to damage the ecosystem, mind you, but enough to leave behind evidence.”

“I see,” Elma pondered for a moment. She remembered something about this war, something that Pongo had mentioned during the explanation of his origin. But the details escaped her. She supposed she could learn more after the mission’s completion, after they’d rescued Pongo from whatever fate he’d befallen.

“Was war between legendary winterland Heropon and Miran gods?” Tatsu waddled up to Nessa, and Elma could practically see the stars in his eyes despite his glasses covering them up, “Like in Tale of Two Gods?”

Nessa raised a curious eyebrow. “That’s the story you were going on about yesterday, right? I ah...no, that’s not the one. This war was a really long time ago - longer than the Nopon have existed, I reckon.”

“Hmph!” He pouted, “Tatsu still want to find Heropon here. Tatsu has so many questions!”

“Maybe we’ll find a Nopon caravan here,” Elma said, “After all, there seems to be one caravan inhabiting every continent thus far. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and find one that would be willing to house us and provide some extra knowledge about the land.” When Tatsu opened his mouth to say something, she quickly added on, “But we shouldn’t depend entirely on that possibility. We need to be able to fend for ourselves and we can’t become reliant on ‘what ifs’.”

“If Tatsu know anything about legendary Heropon here, it’s that he always comes to help!” He kept up his enthusiasm, “Tatsu not lose hope that Heropon will help us if we find him!”

They continued to sail ever closer to the shore, and eventually, Lin turned off the engine and let the yacht come up close to where the sea kissed the land. All it took was a hop and a couple steps for Elma to officially be standing in Cocytios. She inhaled, the crisp winter air stinging her lungs. She’d made a good call, Elma concluded, coming in her mimeosome rather than her true form. Even now, she could feel the chill of the air pushing underneath her clothes and teasing all her goose bumps out of hiding.

Nessa, Lin and Tatsu soon joined her, and the group stared into the vast expanse of fallen snow, of mountainous terrain and foreign land. When Nessa finally spoke, she didn’t break the silence. How could a silence be broken, when the wind promised so willingly to create sound at all times?

“Welcome to Cocytios,” Nessa extended her arms, smiling warmly in the cold, “I’d love to give the grand tour, but we’ve got ground to cover before dark.”

“Right,” Elma agreed, “Lead the way, Nessa.”

For a moment, Nessa looked honored that Elma had relinquished leadership to her, but she took the news in stride. Nessa soon walked ahead of the others, maintaining a steady pace. For now, the snow was light and feathery, and it didn’t have time to properly accumulate on the ground. Elma looked up at the mountains, at the path they now trekked along, at the cloudy sky and her team around her. Tatsu, having dressed warmly, stuck to Lin’s side like glue. Elma told herself to keep an eye on the little Nopon; he’d tire easily in these conditions, and she’d carry him if he started to fall behind.

Little conversation was had for a vast stretch of time. The wind was consistent and brutal against them, trying so desperately to push them back to the shore from whence they came. Elma observed halfway through their journey that there was a surprising lack of indigen activity. It was unsettling, especially since the snow hindered her vision considerably, so she couldn’t quite tell if there were actually indigens around. Perhaps some were camouflaged, perhaps some were in plain sight and stalking their every movement through the terrain. Elma kept her guard up either way, keeping a vigilant eye out for any surprises.

“So where exactly is Pongo?” Lin asked at one point, her voice raised to triumph over the wind, “Can Mira remember where he went?”

Nessa didn’t respond. She stopped walking, seemingly frozen in place for an unnatural second. Elma almost thought she was frozen before she finally moved again, turning to face Lin. Her eyes had gone white, the same white as the snow collecting around them, and her voice now harbored an echo, as if she was no longer the only person speaking from her body.

“I do not remember myself, but I do feel a strange presence to the southwest. I believe there may be a Ganglion fortress there, and since the Ganglion attacked Pongo before I lost connection to him, I would harbor he is down there.”

“Meh meh? Nessa sound funny,” Tatsu scowled.

“Oh, that would be correct. Tatsu, my name is Mira. I created both Pongo and Nessa. She allowed me to speak through her body for a short time to relay this information to you.”

“Mira? As in planet Mira?”

“Yes.”

“Tatsu thought Mira was planet! Planets can’t talk!”

“Well, this planet can, thank you very much.”

“Does planet usually have funny accent?”

Nessa - or rather, Mira - stared at Tatsu for a very, very long time. Elma wasn’t sure which was colder: the Cocytios weather or the sheer amount of annoyance radiating off of Mira’s body.

“Nessa usually has a funny accent. Mira, the planet, can sound like anything. I cannot change Nessa’s voice, however.”

Tatsu kept scowling, clearly confused or unconvinced or some mixture of the two. But Lin butted in before Tatsu could raise another question. “So how close are we to that possible fortress?”

“Oh, sweetie, that’s on the other side of the continent,” Mira shrugged, “It’ll take a while.”

“Is there anywhere we can camp nearby, then?” Elma asked, “It would be wise to set up shelter before the sun sets, if what Nessa told is true.”

“Yep, Cocytios’s most dangerous indigens like to emerge in the night hours.” Mira stopped for a moment, looking up as if it were trying to calculate something. “There is a cave nearby that should provide adequate shelter for the night. It is not far, but we should keep up the pace if we want to make it there before nightfall.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Elma confirmed, “Let’s move out.”

And so they continued through the monotonous scenery, with Elma keeping that ever vigilant eye just in case anything popped up. Mira had confirmed that most of the dangerous indigens would emerge at night, and the sun was only just beginning to lower in the sky, but Elma wasn’t about to take any chances. Somewhere along the way, she even asked Mira about possible indigen activity during the day, but Nessa had regained control at that point and could only pass along a cryptic message.

“Mira said we’ll be fine,” Nessa said, “That we shouldn’t worry our little heads about it.”

“Patronizing,” Lin muttered.

The sun was threatening to disappear past the horizon by the time Nessa found the cave Mira had told them about. The entrance was rather small, and the interior didn’t stretch too far into the mountainside it was carved into. But it was a decent enough spot to rest for the night, and Elma located some shrubs that they could use to form a fire. Eventually they’d all settled down, with Elma offering to take watch first, and soon night had fallen and the others had fallen into a peaceful sleep. It gave Elma more time alone with her thoughts, trying to process how quickly things had come to pass, what was going to greet them the next day. She could hear rustling outside, the echoes of indigens calling to each other. One caught her ear the most: a melodic wolf’s howl, multiple, creating a haunting symphony. It was hard to place how close they were, but something told Elma that she didn’t need to worry.

But then, something else caught her ear. Stone cracking, breaking somewhere. Elma looked up and noticed the stalactites hanging from the cave’s ceiling, and she mistakenly thought nothing of it.

And then, in glorious fashion, one by one, the stalactites fell. Elma couldn’t call out to the others before a rock hit her head and all went dark and quiet once more.

#xenoblade x #Imperium 2: Chapter 3 #yeah I kinda rushed the ending a bit i know #think of this as another exposition chapter before we get to the good stuff #see: chapter 4 probably #heheheheheeheh

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vedalkenrevinell · 5 years

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Facts about that one Vedalken that keeps blowing things up

BASICS - 1. Height? 5′9, very short for any Vedalken, especially a male 2. Eye and hair colour? Eyes are a very dark blue, almost navy, and his hair is black. 3. Do they need glasses? No. Rev only wears anything on his eyes to either help him magnify when doing real precision work or when he needs to see in the dark. 4. Scars and birthmark? Small scars on his hands from misfires, and one long scar on the outside of his left leg, from his knee to his ankle, from a rather unfortunate run in with his sister’s assistant construct. 5. Tattoos and piercings? None, though he has considered getting both for a very brief bit of time. 6. Right or left handed? Right handed, but has trained himself to be ambidextrous just in case something would happen to his dominant hand. 7. Any disabilities? Physical or mental. None, but the way his mind jumps around he may have a mild case of the Vedalken version of ADHD 8. Do they have any allergies? Pollen is tolerable but do not invite him to anything with a lot of plants. 9. Favourite colour? Blues and grays 10. Typical outfits? Wears simple, fitted clothing, with sleeves that he can roll up and pants that can be tucked into heavy boots, and he always has his tool belt. Nothing should be trailing because he prefers to not catch on fire if something should go wrong in one of his experiments. Can be seen wearing light armor when working with heavier explosives because he knows the danger of his trade. 11. Do they wear any makeup? None, he finds it impractical. 12. What weapon do they use, if any? In a pinch, will use the hammer from his tool belt, but is generally ready with the Thunder Cannon he’s been working on, even if it isn’t what he would call ‘ready’ yet.

PERSONALITY - 13. Are they more optimistic or pessimistic? He calls himself a realist, since optimism and pessimism are based in emotion and he tends to deal with fact. 14. Are they introverted or extroverted? Introverted, as he is not great at picking up on social signals. 15. What are their pet peeves? When things are not in the place they should be, whether that be his tools, his books, or someone else’s attitude. 16. What bad habits do they have? Tends to forget to eat, sleep, or generally take care of himself when near a breakthrough on a project. Also tends to be blunt even when he could lighten up the way he speaks. 17. Do they have any phobias? Rev specifically fears a situation where he will not be able to improve something. 18. How do they display affection? Very awkwardly. Small physical touches like a pat on the back are like his version of bear hugs. If he actually cares for someone, he tends to improve things for them, like armor, weapons, or just whatever he can find to fix up and make better. 19. How competitive are they? Only competitive with family, in that he wants to have very impressive inventions faster than they can think of them. 20. If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be? His height. He has been told that nobody would be interested in a Vedalken as small as he is, and though he will not admit that it bothers him, he does know it makes him a less than ideal mate. 21. Do they have any obscure hobbies or routines? Reading books that are not strictly factual, but have stories in them. This is only obscure because he won’t let anyone see him do it.

BACKSTORY - 22. What are the names and ages of their close family members? Parents, siblings, etc. Father: Zebel, 263 Mother: Idvinn, 252 Older sister: Sisana, 56 23. Is their family alive and are they still in contact with them? Rev’s family are all still around, and are in everyday contact with him via sending stones and letters 24. Where are they from? City, nation? Rev’s family are from Itresa in Eowesoa, and are apart now because of King Sobek’s death, each one stationed in a different Kingdom’s capital. 25. Did they have a childhood best friend? A human boy named Tomil. Tomil was a lighthearted boy who did his best to teach Rev various games and new phrases. Rev’s favorite non-factual book was a present from Tomil for his sixteenth birthday. 26. Have they had any pets? None that were a typical pet, but his family had a lot of constructs that served the same purpose. Currently he has one that is shaped like a short dog, which he has aptly named Dog. 27. Did they grow up rich or poor? What were their living conditions like? As the youngest in a line of diplomats working for the King, Rev grew up rich, but not in a typical sense. Most of his family’s wealth was put into invention material and books, so they lived fairly modestly in other respects, such as food and clothing. 28. What is their educational background? Fully educated by his parents and Vedalken tutors, most of his education geared toward logical thinking. 29. As a child, what did they want to be when they grew up? He always wanted to be a great inventor, but knew from a young age that if that did not quite work out, he would be a diplomat, as the rest of his family would be. 30. What advice would they give to their younger self? In honestly, Rev would probably give his younger self a book that goes into detail about what different races do and do not like to hear when they’re in a stressful situation. Save his younger self from getting knocked around a bit. 31. Growing up, were they ever bullied or were they the bully? Bullied. He was quiet and odd-looking, and they never really got a rise out of him, which only frustrated every one involved. 32. Who do they look up to/who is their role model? His parents, and his grandfather, who was a great Vedalken who could even tell a joke to make humans laugh.

PRESENT - 33. Do they currently have a place of residence? Lives above his workshop in Khaggon 34. What is their most treasured possession? Either the storybook Tomil gave him or his newest type of firearm. 35. What is their drink of choice? Apple cider, does not care if it’s just apple juice and you say it’s cider or if it’s actually alcoholic. 36. Which king/queen are they loyal to, if any? Not particularly loyal to any king or queen, but does prefer Rolland a little bit more because he is living under Rolland and Rolland never asked for the mess that’s happening around him, as far as Rev can tell. 37. Have they ever killed anyone? A few people, if they tried to attack him first, but he has never raised a hand without logical reason. 38. What was their last promise and did they keep it? His last promise was to his sister that he would send along his old prototype papers for Dog to let her improve on the design. He has deliberately put that off.

LOVE - 39. What was their first kiss like, if they’ve had one? Has not had one yet, and isn’t in a particular rush since his people usually live to at least 350 years old. 40. Are they in a relationship/have a love interest? No, though he is curious as to how relationships work. 41. Have they ever been in love? Yes, but he never realized that it had happened. 42. Have they ever had their heart broken? Yes, same as above.

SPIRITUALITY - 43. Do they follow a god, if so who? No. 44. What do they think happens to them after death? His last will and testament will be followed and hopefully someone remembers him after. 45. What is their spirit animal? Probably a beaver or something because he won’t stop working

#romtask #character development #about

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pkmntrainergreyze · 5 years

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You. Alone (Gerard Way Imagine)

Continuation of this imagine: https://urietarded-boyd.tumblr.com/post/163861624236/there-might-be-something-across-the-booth-gerard

Warning ⚠: This short story includes stalking and kidnapping. If you find those topics sensitive I highly suggest you skip this oneshot

The more he inched closer to peak into (Y/n)'s window, the more fogged up the glass became.

Gerard's glove-less hands trembled as the cold began forming icecaps in his nails. The poor clothing decisions sprang more evident when he realized the neighbors could see his black plastered form in a cherry rooftop, but right now, he couldn't care less.

The red haired boy's nostrils flared in her scent, he was diving through her silky (h/c) locks. Though truth be told, his delusions is far from the cold, damp reality.

Mindlessly, he began drawing the figure inside, gaze barely faltering on his muse. She has his mother's eyes.

Meanwhile, (Y/n) indulged herself in the snacks that scattered her bed. Netflix was turned on and filtered in the (genre) section. She lived in a world so unaware, a blessing for the man outside and a curse in her near future.

Who cares if Frank called dibs on her on seventh grade?

He wouldn't take care of her like he would.

He thought to scoot closer, to add details to the sketch's lashes. But as soon as he left a toe out a loud squeak echoed.

She blinked to his direction.

His dark chocolate pupils blew moon-sized. He scurried to flatten his back down to hide, breathing heavily. He hoped to God she hadn't seen a glimpse of him.

For a boy out in a -7° December night with nothing but his skeleton printed jacket and pajamas, he sure felt bubbly lukewarm inside at the thought of (Y/n) thinking about him, in the dead of the night— no, the objective is to NOT to be seen! Damn it Gerard!

With that, the windows bursted open, with a perplexed girl bobbing her head out. She seemed agitated while she looked outside.

Nothing.

"Geez" She pouted and shrugged the weight off her chest.

One cannot simply flop to their bed knowing the slightest chance of having a stalker outside. So she retreated back to her windows and sealed it shut, and draped the red curtains like how they end a show.

But it was far from over.

The stage was set, and the microphone had never looked so lonely in her life. Yet she couldn't seem to inch closer to accompany it. Her feet seem to stub if she tried to move closer.

Instead, she stepped back and sat to the farthest seat, scoffing and cursing at the obstacles preventing her access to the front row.

A brunette was beside her, crunching tacos. The scent was so spread out she could sniff the fresh vegetables without effort. She felt something light fell on her foot. Something very green. She was about to turn and scold whoever ruined the mood. Who would put so much lettuce on their tacos?!

Oh, hello Tyler Joseph.

He's the singer of twentyonepilots, and also one of Miss Flack's students. He's not the most favorite, but he couldn't be categorized as a teacher's pet either. He attend the same music class, and when he does he's silently taking notes in the corner. They talk sometimes, but for the most part her cousin Josh is around to start the conversation. Without the dandelion-coloured boy, the topic would solely be about music sheets, his parents at school, or his brothers.

Which happens once a month.

She shut her mouth tight. Tyler seemed obscure from her exasperation however, as he continued to chew rather loudly. She cleared her throat and he looked at her with a inquirer's nod.

She paused for a moment, eyes glued on the chipped food as she spoke "Aren't you supposed to cover Twist And Shout after Pierce The Veil?"

Tyler squeaked and jumped. A landslide of taco chunks fell to the ground. Some of condiments fell on (Y/n)'s shoes as well. The two gawked, it took quite a while before an explosion of apologies bursted from Tyler's mouth.

She inevitably facepalmed.

"Imsosorry!!!"

"It's fine Tyler" She forgave him once again "a little vegetable wouldn't hurt anyone"

She never mentioned an as I told you, she haven't noticed that she had it in her to be so patient.

He stared at his own unstained pair of shoes, avoiding eye contact.

(Wasn't the saying supposed to be water?)

"Are you here to watch Frank's band?" Once Tyler asked the question, a mental image of the guitarist jumping around resurfaced inside her head. She nodded, with a Cheshire grin.

"Hell yeah!–well, and yours too"

He nodded back and chewed his taco slowly, eyes roaming around the gymnasium.

"Also, where's Josh? I saw Miss Flack's trying to find him to set up the drum kit"

"Probably with Brendon" He rolled his eyes and snarled "having a good time"

At a split second, she saw Tyler's right eye twitch. This time he devoured his food rather harsher, and rather than his usual soothing voice she received quite a feral bark. She decided it's best not to push him further.

As the silence resumes, his dinner did the same. She boredly stared at the stage, both nervous and excited about her friend's performance as if it was her own. Both have mutual feelings about that microphone, yet one had it more repressed than the other.

They just sat, undisturbed.

Well, until Mark— Tyler's best friend— rushed over with an unlaced shoe flying out, nearly hitting (Y/n).

Like any other calm, a storm arises. Mark entered, his shoe flying out like a stray bullet. As she looked down she noticed the last of his blue shoes were unlaced. If he had been a little more careful then the chances of her landing on Dream world would be very thin. He stood there, unapologetic, agitated.

"Josh has been gone for 13 minutes Tyler!" He yelled, forcefully grabbing Tyler's shoulder and shaking it, making it seem like a seizure than a wake-up call. Tyler can be heard muttering questions, too bad Mark's roars outnumbered his "Where the heck is he?!"

In the midst of a misunderstanding and choking noises, the faintest sound of bells and chimes resonated from your pocket. Her cellphone kept vibrating, screaming for her to take it. When she did fished it out, Mark managed to stop himself from committing a murder.

She pointed to her phone, then the backdoor. Mark sheepishly told her to continue after nodding in understanding. Tyler took it as an opportunity to strip himself a breath. (Y/n) walked out of the door, leaning her back

Maybe she should have helped Tyler regain his breathing, get to know Mark better, and stayed safe in general.

She tapped twice and saw the caller's ID. The string of numbers did not belong to he contacts, nor her history of blocked spam numbers. She furrowed her eyebrows in irritation. Great, another one of those you won a hundred thousand dollars, just give us your address, credit card and other bullshit!

As she tapped the green phone icon, she schemed a way to deal with the... transaction.

Once she slid her fingers to answer the phone, there was no turning back.

"Hello?" She tried to hide her groan, she really did to play safe in case it was her mom, but the guttering sound reached her throat.

"Good evening (Y/n)!" The voice chirped. Gerard? Hmm, when did she gave him her number. Well, he is Frank's friend after all. Doesn't change the fact it feels strange to hear his voice on the phone...

"Um, is this Gerard?" She chuckled and the voice didn't return the happy echoes.

"I have Josh with me"

The voice dropped dead. And there it was again, the feeling of being watched. Her laughter came to a stop. Her paranoia was toggled on. She gasped slightly.

"If you want to get him, go to the boiler room"

You furrowed your eyebrows. Can't Tyler do that instead? He is the one that should be looking for him in the first place.

"I'll call Ty—"

"No"

(Y/n) turned perplexed. She mimicked his word without breath.

"I want you"

"You. Alone"

Click.

The call was over.

Her breath hitched and body rigid. She clinged to her phone, uneasy. Hell, kind of conversation was that? It sounded psychotic, but she has no evidence to make it valid. It's just small talk. Small talk that made her feel uncomfortable. Strange, it's not like the quiet young raven haired artist gave a death threat.

But it doesn't seem harmless either.

She sighed, shaking. Where was the boiler room again? Beside the janitor's closet? No, that's class 304.

She shook her head. It's probably under the gym.

Her footsteps echoed throughout the hall. It was noiseless. As she furthered down the boiler, sweat balled down her forehead. She isn't even feeling the heat just yet, making her sweat cold, fear induced.

It's just Gerard. He's harmless.

Right?

Dang it. The hell is Josh doing on the boiler room with Gerard anyways? Why does she have to fetch him? He's a grown man with two feet.

Fuck, did he sprain an ankle again—

Boiler Room.

The words were carved in metal, or painted wood. She stood in front of it, reluctantly opening the door.

There stood a sable haired boy, wearing a red bandana and a lustrous leather jacket. It was just him.

Gerard alone.

"Where's Josh?" She held the doorknob firmly. One foot in the boiler room and one foot out the door. Gerard stared at her eyes, too long for her taste. When she was about to snap him he broke out of the trance himself. He fumbled to reach a tablet behind him and passed it to her.

Her heart dropped to the floor along with her jaw.

A man she hoped wasn't her cousin was tied down. She was all too familiar to figure out it was one of the school's student chairs. If it was possible to gawk even further she would have a heart attack after seeing Josh's figure tattered in bruises and knife deep cuts. He was stained in brown, dried blood from oxidation.

If Tyler was here, he would say he'd rather have Josh ignore him for a week than see him like this.

"W-was it you?!" She looked at Gerard, eyes wide and awoken by the bitterest truth of what was in front of her. A monster.

Gerard gazed back, stoic. She could feel the remorse-less Gerard felt without fitting his shoes— and she was utterly digusted. She want to vomit at his leather jacket, or alternatively, lunge forward and choke him for this sick prank.

Yet the opposite can be said for him. The ugly emotions that broke her made her the most beautiful woman to walk on earth. Oh, he was having a good time.

"Y-You..." Both words and emotions piled up in her throat, asking permission to slip out. When she did, the invisible hand that choked her finally left her be "Y-You psychopath!"

"Well I'd consider you a fool if you didn't notice" Gerard scoffed, amused.

(Y/n)'s nose scrunched at this, unable to comprehend how the man before her made it sound like antisocial personality disorder is okay.

Gerard folded his arms and raised his chin, snickering faintly.

(Y/n) looked back at the tablet, hands shaking "Josh, is that you?"

Josh moved, mumbling words similar to white noise. "(Y/n)?"

She froze in disbelief.

"You're a smart girl, you know what I'm about to say next"

There are multiple possibilities, and the obvious one is the one who desperately cleave to be wrong. She shook her head, groaning on the mental pain he had caused her.

But what else does her stalker want from her?

He stared at her, with patient eyes that dared to command her to say something.

Out of both fear and naivety, she did.

"You... want me to date you" She sobbed "for Josh to be free?"

Gerard sighed, staring at the ground. This time, instead of her own impulse, she felt his disappointment.

But why? What's with the sudden shift in the atmosphere?

"You flatter yourself too much"

What?

He chuckled "Ahh, just kidding. Yes. That's correct"

With that, the shift came to be consumed by the side she wished hadn't won.

Despair.

This 'man' just played with her emotions like strings in a puppet.

She can't remove her eyes on the tablet. It was the exact opposite of love at first sight— the deranged brother of it.

It's twisted. Too catatonic and too callous.

"Soooo..." He drags in, making (Y/n) jump. He bobbed his head in her shoulder and peaks in to see the light in those (e/c) eyes drain "what's it gonna be?"

Neither.

Josh has been with her since thick and thin. The man whom she wished was her brother instead of a cousin that visits her every weekend will die.

The boy that knows her darkest secrets.

"I'm..."

The brother who continues to support her.

"I'm yours"

The man that tried to get rid of Gerard Arthur Way last night.

Gerard grinned, so wide he might as well cut off his cheeks. He rushed towards her, pulling her tighter. He finally breathed into her scent. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Is the same man she saved with her decision.

He can finally make up for the time his family did not appreciate him. All the support he didn't got. All the jealousy he built up after hearing his mother shower his brother with compliments.

His dream just became a reality.

But it costed (Y/n)'s sanity.

This isn't what her parents have taught her about love. This isn't her mom's bed time stories or the Disney princess collection CDs her dad brought home. Love is mature. It's about trust and the feeling of security and lasts for what her classmates do not believe in; forever.

And most especially, it's not a choice.

She can't just go and say from the bottom of your heart that she'll love this monstrosity for the rest of her life.

That is ill

But if going out with a man like him is what people think makes up the definition of love.

Then they don't believe in love.

#gerard way x reader #gerard way imagines #gerard way imagine #my chemical romance #imagines #x readers #tyler joseph #josh dun #frank iero

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dracusfyre · 6 years

Text

Square R4: Read the Fine Print

Rating: General

Warnings: None

Relationship: Loki/Tony Stark

Summary: Thor convinces Odin to agree to another punishment for Loki after the Attack on New York, and needs Tony's help. For Square R4: Soul Bond

@tonystarkbingo

Also on AO3

“You want me to what?” Tony said incredulously.

Thor frowned, looking confused. “I want you to be a guarantor of Loki’s behavior,” he repeated slowly. “What part is confusing you?”

Tony blinked a couple of times as he tried to wrap his mind around Thor’s proposal. His eyes went unbidden over Thor’s shoulder to Loki, who was standing with his arms clasped behind his back, face carefully blank. Too blank, Tony thought, narrowing his eyes at him. When Loki saw the look on Tony’s face the corner of his mouth curled just the smallest bit, which made Tony’s scowl deepen. “Why me?” He asked finally, looking back at Thor. He knew Loki was behind this somehow, he just needed to figure out how. And why.

Thor started to answer, but then he glanced over his shoulder at his brother and led Tony some distance away. “Stark, the only other option that my father will agree to is prison,” he said quietly. “Before my mother and I intervened, he had even spoken of execution.”

“Christ!” Tony blurted. “Execution is a bit much, but prison? I think prison is good, what’s wrong with-”

“I cannot abide the thought of my brother locked away, as if there is no hope for redemption,” Thor said over Tony’s protests. When Tony still hesitated, Thor said, “Please, Stark. I know I ask much of you, but I believe you are the only one who would treat him fairly. I would do it myself, but Loki refused.”

Behind Thor, Loki was walking slowly around Tony’s living room as if he were already measuring for drapes, the presumptuous bastard. Tony opened his mouth to say no, this was a terrible idea, Thor should pick someone else, when he noticed that there was a tense line to Loki’s shoulders that made Tony think that he was not as relaxed as he was trying to appear. “I gotta think about it,” Tony said instead, sighing.

“I can give you one day,” Thor said, clasping Tony on the shoulder. “Thank you, Stark.”

Beware the read more

***

“I don't want to be his jailer!” Tony complained into the phone, pacing restlessly around his condo. He grabbed a pair of coffee mugs and a glass and walked them to the sink.

“To be fair, it sounds more like a parole officer,” Pepper said reasonably, like the horrible person she was.

“That's not much better. I still don’t understand why Thor asked me. Why not Steve? Steve’s all about duty and whatnot.”

“Oh, I think it makes perfect sense.”

“What?”

“Aren't you the one who says that no one is irredeemable?” Pepper pointed out, and Tony made a face. “You think I haven't noticed that since Afghanistan you've started donating to criminal rehabilitation programs? This is your chance to put your mouth where your money is.” There was a long silence where Tony thought of and discarded a half a dozen responses to that before Pepper said, “That didn't come out right,” sounding embarrassed.

“No, but I understood what you were getting at.” He sighed. It was probably clear to both of them that he was going to do it, as long as it didn’t come with some ridiculous condition like being handcuffed together or something. “So, how are you and Mr. Potts doing?” he asked, mostly to change the subject. “Still going to name your first born after me?”

***

“Ok, Thor, lay it on me. What does this thing entail?”

Thor’s eyes lightened in relief. “So you are agreeing?”

“Conditionally!” Tony said quickly, before Thor could get too excited. “I want to know all the details first. Like, for example, how you are going to ensure that Loki doesn’t just magic himself away? Or kill me?”

“There is a spell that even Loki cannot break,” Thor said. He patted his pants like he was looking for something before pulling out a carved wooden tube from a pocket. Tony stared because he didn’t know that Thor’s getup had pockets. “My mother prepared it,” Thor explained as he pulled out a sheet of paper and unrolled it. Tony stared at the unfamiliar writing on the paper before they blurred and rearranged themselves into English, revealing what looked like a contract.

Tony grumbled to himself as he got up to find his reading glasses. “This doesn’t look like a spell,” Tony pointed out. “Also, do you really mean ten years? That is a hell of a commitment to do as a favor.”

“There will be very little required of you. You probably won’t even notice, most of the time.” Thor tapped the sheet of paper, which had long provisions of what Loki was and was not allowed to do. One of them, apparently, was ever set foot in Asgard again, which made Tony obscurely sad for Loki and then aggravated at himself that he even cared. “The spell does most of the monitoring. If Loki even considers disobeying any of these provisions, you will know.”

“And then what? Do I call you?”

“If you must, but the idea is that you can take care of it yourself. Stop him, talk to him, whatever you must. If the contract is broken, Loki will be taken straight to a cell in Asgard, with little hope of release.”

Tony took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Fucking magic contract. “And one of these provisions is that Loki can’t hurt me, right?”

“Of course. Any damage he inflicts on you will be returned to him two-fold.”

“Jesus! You guys don’t fuck around, do you?”

“We do not,” Thor said, face grave though there was a suspicious glint in his eyes. “Are you still willing to take on this responsibility?”

“So let me get this straight.” Tony leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “When we sign this contract, Loki is magically bound to obey its provisions, and if he starts to go wrong, it will let me know?”

“Yes.”

“How will I find him? What if he’s not on Earth?”

“Magic,” Thor answered. “If you need to go to him, it will take you.”

It physically pained Tony to have to accept magic as an answer, but he knew from experience that trying to understand it would only result in a headache. “And if he’s behaving himself, we both just go about our business as normal.”

“Yes. See, it is not that onerous of a burden,” Thor said cheerfully, and produced an elaborate quill pen from one of his mysterious pockets.

“Honestly, I’m surprised that Odin agreed. It doesn’t seem like much of a punishment at all.” Tony took the pen reluctantly, running his fingers over the soft, unfamiliar feather. “Not compared to execution.”

“To be honest, I think Loki would rather gnaw his own arm off than have someone monitoring his actions at all times,” Thor said with a small smile. “That itself is part of the punishment. But should he decide to try to make amends for his actions, he will be rewarded for it.”

“So more carrot than stick, then.” Tony sighed and realized that he was just procrastinating signing the damn thing, so he went to the last page of the document, interested to see that Loki had already signed it with a flourish that took over most of the signature space. “Just sign here?”

“Yes, but it, ah,” Thor cleared his throat, “it has to be blood.”

“God dammit. Of course it does.” Tony held his hand out because he knew Thor had probably come prepared for this eventuality.

Sure enough, Thor pulled out a short, broad knife wrapped in leather, something that didn’t look like his style at all. When he saw Tony looking at it, he explained, “Loki stabbed me with this some time ago. It aggravates him when I keep them.” It was sharp enough to draw blood on one of his fingers and Tony used it to painstakingly sign his name, because apparently signing magical contracts in blood with an alien god was his life now.

“Alright, Loki, it is done,” Thor said when Tony put down the pen. It was surprisingly anticlimactic; Tony expected something to happen as Thor rolled up the paperwork and put it back in the wooden tube, but nothing felt any different.

As they both stood, Loki appeared. “He signed?”

“Yes. You are fortunate, you get to keep your head for at least one more day,” Thor said, clapping his brother on the back. “Now behave yourself.”

Loki’s response to that was probably something rude and insulting in Asgardian, judging from the way Thor laughed.

“So that’s all?” Tony called out to Thor’s back as he walked outside, probably planning on hitching a rainbow ride back to Asgard.

“Like all deals, you have to shake on it,” he called back over his shoulder, and then with a brilliant flash of light and a roaring sound he was gone.

When Tony turned back to Loki he was standing with one hand outstretched, eyebrow raised. “You planned this,” Tony said accusingly.

“Well, yes,” Loki said, as if it were obvious. “I hardly wanted to be hidden away in Asgard’s dungeon or executed. So I planted an idea in Thor's fertile brain and let him run with it."

“Why me? Do you think I’m a soft touch, is that it?” Tony kept ignoring the outstretched hand, even though he knew it was childish.

“No. It’s because of all of Thor’s acquaintances, you are the only one who would let me explain myself rather than automatically assume that I am planning something sinister.” Loki sighed. “Now give me your hand, or the contract is void.”

“Fine,” Tony said reluctantly, and put his hand in Loki’s. As soon as their palms met and Loki’s long, slim fingers wrapped his, Tony felt a swell of relief, resentment, impatience, and underneath it all, anger like a banked fire. There was had a brief, disorienting sensation of seeing himself from someone else’s eyes and then, as Loki’s hand dropped away, most of it faded except for the faint undercurrent of emotions that weren’t his.

As Tony blinked, dazed, amusement threaded through those emotions. As Tony refocused to find Loki watching him with a small smile, he had the sudden urge to go out and yell at the sky. No wonder Thor had booked it before they had shaken hands, that fast-talking swindler.

“I take it Thor didn’t mention the soul bond?” Loki asked mildly, still amused by Tony’s irritation.

“He did not,” Tony said, turning on his heel and going straight for the booze. “Is this permanent?”

“It will last for the duration of the contract, yes. How else are you to monitor my behavior?” Loki followed him to the bar, smoothly grabbing the glass of whiskey as Tony poured it. Tony rolled his eyes and poured a new glass while Loki took a sip of his stolen booze. Tony could tell that he was intrigued by the dark, smokey flavor and wasn't that just a kick in the ass.

“God dammit,” Tony said as he drank his whole glass in one swallow and poured himself another.

#tonystarkbingo2018 #bingo fill #frostiron #loki x tony #dracusfyre #spoiler alert: it's gonna be enemies to lovers #muahaha

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thephantomcasebook · 6 years

Text

Wanted to spend another week with Chapter four of “The Wayfaring Stranger” so here’s a Preview.

County of Grantham March 1936

In the Season of 1936 there were many topics of fascination that percolated through London. The Spanish War, the coming grandeur of the Berlin Olympics that the Third Reich was planning, and of course, the Grantham County Power Plant. It seemed a strange topic, all things considered, but it was the details that most people were interested in. It was the first, fully modern, electrical plant in all of Yorkshire, which was a feat in itself. But the more interesting aspect had been that the power coils and generators, which cranked out a much more powerful and efficient charge, had been designed by Ms. Sybil Branson herself.

Never before had such a thing been attempted by a grown woman, much less, by a girl who was yet to have even been presented to the king … which ever brother that might be these days. There were many that doubted the validity and safety of these mad plans presented. Some called it the very apex of what it is to spoil a child. What qualifications did Sybil Branson have to take on such an experimental task? They warned Lord Grantham of the perils. He being, not only the grandfather, but one of the patrons of the new plant, along with his daughter Mary and Grandson George Crawley, who also had his reservations.

But George’s troubles were for other reasons than a lack of faith in his best friend.

It had been an uphill battle for the girl. She worked long and hard on her plans and blueprints, living in the quiet exclusivity of Crawley House, away from the distractions of Downton Abbey life. There were many long nights, George hunched over the study table pouring over medieval maps and texts, while over at his desk a lovely girl scribbled her formulas and calculations. She sipped coffee, pencil behind her ear, soothing her doubts in the smiling picture of both her mommy and mama on George’s desk. Every time she had misgivings about the enterprise, feeling that George wasn’t voicing some objection, if only to spare her. She only had to see the two women that were everything to her, and remind herself that if they could be revolutionary in their time, than so could she. The only thing she wished was that there was someone to tell her she was on the right track. The old professors, like all good Englishmen, were afraid of change. The board of directors was biting their nails in anticipation, good or ill, of the young girl’s designs.

Her family wasn’t any help either. George had some idea of what she was talking about, but recused himself of opinion, much to her anger. Donk pretended he knew about what his gorgeous genius was talking about. And mama just smiled and blinked, making it seem all so encouraging by kissing her on the cheek with as much enthusiasm as Lady Mary Crawley showed anything. But Daddy didn’t hear a word. Tom Branson would soon glaze over at his daughter’s passion, spending more time glowing proudly at his rare and special girl rather than the plans spread out before them. God, in those moments, had he wished Sybil had been there to see what a marvelous creature she gave her life to bring into this world. But when he began stroking her hair, the girl would only huff and bump his chest with her shoulder in chastisement of his distracted mind.

When the time came to present to the board, she was going up against two other firms in the whole Empire. She fretted all night, wondering what she should wear. She had kept her Aunt Rose, Mrs. Baxter, and Granny up half the night, raiding her, Aunt Rose, and even their Granny’s wardrobes for just the right clothes. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, she came into her room to find that Mama and Anna were laying out a new outfit for such an occasion. Lady Mary told the girl, with great arrogance, that she might not know how her daughter’s “Contraptions” might work, but she jolly well knew how to dress for success. Both her mama and Anna swore it as “the ticket”, the secret weapon she needed to get over the top. It was true that when she stepped out of her daddy’s car with Thomas Barrow, her temporary assistant, there was not a snappier looking young engineer in the world. With legs born for those high heels, body meant for that satin skirt, and combination of sun glasses and hat that oozed young and professional.

When she arrived with Donk’s suitcase, rolled blue prints under arm, and coolly confident smirk, she was the talk of the Ripon office building.

The words of the day were affordable, modern, and easy to maintain. Sybbie, with Thomas’s help, presented her new machine to the world. Every weapon at her disposable was used on the board. She smirked at Donk, used Mama’s familiar turn of phrase to entice her. She near abused her credit as a daughter of a ‘working class bloke’ on those who valued such things. And for everyone else … well, Sybil Branson had been and would always be quite the fetchingly beautiful thing. But it was her charm that won the day, for it was considerable and inebriating once she got going. A girl raised by Ladies Cora and Mary Crawley was born to turn heads with her wit and social skills that rivaled the queens and princesses of old. But in the end, she found that the only hold out was George. He sat quietly, forefinger curled under nose, thumb under chin, elbow propped on the arm rest. He was a sphinx, unreadable, hardened to every trick employed by the lovely and fashionable girl. And when she was done, soaking in the standing ovation with a relieved smile, her heart sank to see that George was the only one still sitting, the weight of the world in his eyes.

For two days, the girl showed up to wait outside the deliberations. She paced the hallway, idly played a walking game of hopscotch with the linoleum tiling, and sat with her hand intertwined with Thomas’s in her lap as they stared at the door. But on the final day, suddenly, the door flew open to the sound of George matching shouts with their Donk and a waspish Lady Mary.

“Then, I’ll see you in Hell!”

The Earl and his pale and sleek business woman daughter looked shocked and deeply insulted at George’s final retort to Lady Mary’s parting words. Sybbie was also shocked watching a dark and furious George stalking away. His goggles were already on his forehead, while he shoved his hands into his long and supple leather gauntlets in disgust. Suddenly, papers and plans fell to the linoleum floor of the Ripon office building when Freddie Moorsum pursued the younger man down the hall. His glasses were obscured on a face in distress. He walked fast after George, though he was unable to keep up with the young racer.

“You can’t walk away, M’Lord! The county, the boys, they’re all counting on you to hold those toffy, high society, bastards, accountable! If you walk away from this you’ll damn yourself and it’ll haunt the county for generations! You know I’m right, you fool! Come back and fight damn ya! TAR YOUR HEELS COWARD!” He roared at the young man that disappeared around the corner, bumping a secretary whose files and papers went fluttering everywhere.

“Sir, I believe His Lordship is quite done with this conversation …” Thomas Barrow, ever the butler, and ever the guardian of Downton Abbey’s nursery, no matter how old the former occupants had gotten. He halted any further pursuit of a clearly enraged Master George.

“Get off me, Chump!” The pencil of a man with parted dark hair and his mother’s face under glasses slapped the svelte and athletic butler’s hand off his shoulder. He then turned to Sybbie who was watching in silent confusion. “Congratulations, and long live Morgana Le Fey, Queen of bones!” He snarled at the girl.

“I think that’s quite enough of that, Mr. Moorsum!” Lady Mary Crawley said with a dark look of rancor as she exited the room. It looked as if she might have left the conference room in order to go after George to continue their argument in private. But in his absence, and very outraged that someone would talk to her daughter in such a manner, Mary was cold and angry when the rest of the board exited.

“You’re all fools! You are all damned fools! They’ll die and all for a young girls pretty smile and tight arse in silk!” He shouted.

“How dare …!”

“Barrow, might you escort Mr. Moorsum out!” Lord Sinderby immediately bared Lord Grantham, who had made to aggressively stride forward in defense of his cherished and beloved little girl.

But there was not a hint of remorse in the man’s eyes for saying what he had. Somehow he thought, even for the friendship of his late mother, that Lord Grantham would see things clearly. Instead, he was infatuated with his genius granddaughter, believing that she could do no wrong. He took it as a slight and a betrayal to his mother’s memory.

“This way, sir!” Thomas Barrow’s hands were made out of iron in his angry grip on the lapels of the Engineer.

“You fools! The whole lot of ya! You’re all fools!” He raged in tears as he was dragged away by Mr. Barrow, Lord Sinderby following to make sure the accoster of his niece and nephew was truly gone.

For a long moment the raven haired young woman watched with a frown as her competitor disappeared with the strong arming Thomas, and a glaring Uncle Atticus with his hands behind his back. When she turned back her Donk looked incredibly rattled by the whole situation. But when she asked what had happened, Lady Mary only told her not to worry about it. But the girl saw that her mama’s eyes were cast down the hallway to the sound of George Crawley’s Indian Motorcycle revving angrily in the distance. They all flinched when they heard him speed off in a terrifying lit.

Sensing the trouble that was entering the girl’s mind, Lord Grantham ensured her, unconvincingly, that it was just the usual “Greek Drama” of the losing side of these local contract disputes. However, she had certainly not thought that George was one of these sore losers. But when she voiced this opinion, no one said a word for a long moment. Till, Lord Grantham assured his granddaughter that George wasn’t not on her side, it was only a question of something else entirely that had nothing to do with her. But she could tell that whatever George and Freddie Moorsum had fought with them over, for the last two days, had penetrated their Donk’s mind. And his heir’s point of argument, in particular, was entombed at the very center of his thoughts. Possibly, it even found incredible validity in the receding tide of the infighting. But Lord Grantham only smirked when catching Sybbie’s tenuously inquisitive eyes.

The old man took her in his arms paternally.

Suddenly, a big, toothy, grin came over the young woman’s pallid face when her grandfather whispered the word “Congratulations” in her ear while in their deep embrace. When she slipped back in his arms, mouth agape in shock, the old lord only nodded his head. It was just in time for Atticus and Thomas’s return. The girl gave a squeal and leapt into the butler’s arms, shouting to the roof tops that they did it. But Barrow only smoothed the girl’s hair back and corrected that she was the one who did it. To that the man got a kiss on the cheek. In fact, they all did, even those who were not her family. But when Lady Mary, half-teasingly, reminded her daughter that an excess of joy was as vulgar as an excess of tears, the girl jovially pounced on her mama. She swept her off her feet, pelting her entire face in a cascade of kisses in her arms as she rushed down the hall. The girl looked like a Hammer Film monster with its bride as she shuffled awkwardly with her mama in her arms. Before turning the corner, a resign but clearly annoyed Mary made a motion for everyone to follow.

When they got back home from Ripon, both family and staff were there to throw Sybbie a surprise celebration. The girl had never been so touched, getting suddenly weepy to see her granny standing with Marigold, Rachel, Aunt Edith, and Aunt Rose, along with all the faces of her happy childhood. All of them there to cheer and celebrate what she thought, at the time, would be her greatest accomplishment in her entire life. There was cake and punch, and a celebratory dinner planed with all of her and Marigold’s new friends for later. Her Donk stopped the festivities, momentarily, so that he might say a few words of his genius granddaughter. But all he could find in the moment, looking at her with such love, was that her mommy would be proud. She would be so very, very, proud of this day.

It was the only thing that Sybil Afton Branson had only ever wanted to hear all of her life.

#Downton Abbey #George Crawley #Sybbie Branson #Mary Crawley #Robert Crawley #Sorry for the Length #George has long hair because he just came back from years in Depression America #He is an extremely disheveled teenager #With a lot of issues with Mary and Robert

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kaaramel · 6 years

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10, for everyone?

(questions)

10. What is their favorite food/kind of food?

The canonical favorite foods for a de Montreal are “ramen, hot chocolate, schadenfreude” which I see no reason to change, although I have appended “direct current,” which Dulcinea prefers over alternating. She plugs in to charge when ‘sleeping’ and probably anytime she has privacy and would be sitting still for awhile anyway, but I don’t think she’s obligated to charge every night (she certainly doesn’t sleep every night). It’s just another energy source and she can replace it with food or vice versa.

In theory Waverly can eat anything as soon as they figure out a method for how, so they shouldn’t give up on ever tasting sunlight again just yet. In the meantime the swarm inside them really wants to eat books, especially old/rare/obscure books, but Waverly doesn’t let it have any. Waverly themself is not really sold yet on this eating thing in general and when they do put stuff in their actual mouth instead of letting the silverfish out to eat it for them it’s something dry and bland. Drinking a glass of water wouldn’t hurt them per se but it would suck, I guess it would feel roughly like a stomachache and a sort of sore and swollen mouth/throat for an hour or two.

NB has a sweet tooth. Sweet... beak. Sweet whatever idiom. E’ll eat basically anything if it’s got honey on it. Berry tarts. That sort of thing. Oh my god, kenku probably wouldn’t have capsaicin receptors. Catch Butter just eating handfuls out of a bag of habaneros like that’s an acceptable snack food. Mammalian visitors to Russetforge beware, kenku in general probably love springing those on unwary tourists.

Marcy has not quite progressed to the point of snacking on entire logs like her great-uncle did but she can and does chew on sticks and green twigs. Many a faithful #2 pencil has given its life in her service. She could switch to mechanical ones but now that the habit is established that is a recipe for accidentally eating shards of plastic. In terms of... uh, actual food she probably has a higher-than-average appreciation for veggies. For a favorite, maybe brussels sprouts? (Which are good, actually.) But she also probably has a wacky sugar blasted 90s cereal she loves.

I am not sure what Bookminister actually likes to eat! I know they have a thing about like, keeping foods separate on the plate. They would prefer to eat some rice, and some scrambled eggs, and some individual portions of vegetables, than mix it all up into fried rice anarchy. I think they like.. bread? Sure, alright. Carry on, you funky little librarian.

Rasp doesn’t eat and doesn’t have the structures to eat, period. They got invited to a fancy dinner once with the rest of their squad and 2/3 of the adventuring party just sat there being big rock people, awkwardly eating nothing, and getting smarmed at by the rich suspects we were investigating. The remaining 1/3 was highly distrustful of the weird green stuff (salad, Justice, that was a salad.)

Bihu.. haha oh jeez Bihu probably has some expensive tastes and can’t indulge any of that way out in the sticks. I don’t know if our fantasy China had figured out ice cream but if they had she’d be all over it. If I remember right she pretty much refused to ever drink the local alcoholic offerings because none of it was remotely up to her standards. Otherwise I wanna say she’s picked up a taste for fish but I don’t know enough about fish preparation to say any more details than that.

#thank youuuu #karma ocs #karma plays cmwge #karma plays pathfinder #karma plays coc #karma plays dnd #waverly arden #nightmares angel #famine's friends tabletop #long post #anonymous

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enygmass · 7 years

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As the former collections manager of an Edgar Allan Poe museum, I can't resist. "Berenice," with dealer's choice of characters.

Me @ myself: damn

[Um ok this got a bit long, like 1941 words long, but it’s Scriddler and I hope you’re ok w that bc I gotta get back to writing my boys. Well. I guess you can say mentions of Scriddler, but nothing solid. Also a bit dark on the relationship part.]

Berenice: loss, fixation, memory.

[ But as, in ethics, evil is a consequence of good, so, in fact, out of joy is sorrow born. ]

Often when one enters a career that binds them to work until the early hours of the morning, when the sun is tentatively peering its head up from the horizon and the city lights are fading away as an indicator to the people to wake up, they know better than to get expectations. When this career further includes activities that many would deem dangerous, or immoral, these expectations are further to be limited. The only expectation a criminal can have is the expectation that they will be inevitably caught. They cannot even anticipate success; if you do, you gain a large ego, and this is how you collapse.

Jonathan knew of a man who had begun to anticipate his success. Yes, he knew of this man quite intimately; he had spoken through bars to him and had been forced to share showers. Often when you share showers with someone that’s about the time you stop trying to be shy around each-other. There is nothing sacred when you’re both inmates at the exact same institution. Even when you try to hold your tongue from others, the walls whispered for you.

His first memory of this man was their initial encounter, not in Arkham, but crossing paths at a bookstore long before they became what they were now. He had been vibrant but irritable, turning the corners without looking and practically causing Jonathan to lose the stack of important novels that he intended to take home and hunch over for the evening. He had offered no apology and nor had Jonathan. They had exchanged a mutual blank stare as Jonathan readjusted the stack and pushed his glasses up, before they moved past each other and to their intended locations. He had failed to see him coming, but what he had not failed was to note the novel the man held in his hand as he passed; ‘The Fall of the Human Intellect’ by A. Parthasarathy. Both controversial and conceptual. A unique taste.

The second memory of the man was quite a time later, long after Jonathan had grown settled into the routine of chemicals and testing versus educating and grading. Late evening hours had become his equivalent of day time, and he had found himself frequenting renown locations of Underworld dwellers to generate some sort of interest in funding what he desired to create. He had a name by then; The Scarecrow was no longer associated with the figure in the cornfield. By now, people were thinking of gaseous substances and their rooted terror when the name was uttered. This was how he had found himself located at the Iceberg Lounge. If there was one man who liked things that could benefit him, it was Oswald Cobblepot.

Oswald Cobblepot, however, was preoccupied with another client and Jonathan had been subsequently forced to sit outside on some excuse of a chair to wait. He had discarded his now typical attire for something more casual, but a briefcase was gripped in his hand. Some things never change when you move from Professor to Rogue. The sound of the door opening, followed by the chatter of two men of which one he knew, had broken away the train of thought in return for attentiveness. There had been no anticipation, however, of seeing who he saw with Cobblepot that night. In fact, the last time Jonathan had recalled seeing him, they had nearly collided with one another at a dingy bookstore on the corner of Cherry Street. The man had recognized him as well, given the sly smile that had broken upon his face mere seconds after exiting the room.

The approach had been long and tedious, and when he had finally stopped in front of Jonathan, he had extended a hand as if it were a right.

“I don’t think we ever formally said hello. I’m Edward Nygma, but you might know me as The Riddler.”

Jonathan had stared at the hand for a moment before taking it. Edward had spoken with a self-confidence that was admirable, but perhaps a bit too obvious. If anything to Jonathan – a trained psychologist – it had felt superficial.

“Jonathan Crane, but you might know me as The Scarecrow.”

That had been the instigator of what was to become one of the tensest affairs Jonathan had ever had to formally deal with. He and Edward clashed personality-wise. Edward was extroverted, excitable, egotistical, and exhausting. Jonathan felt more inclined as an introverted, impassive, indecipherable individual. They had shared similar traits, however. Both were passionate about their work, both knew intellect served above all else, both were masterful at complex plans, and both hated the bat enough that they could tolerate working with one another for more than one evening. Perhaps that was where a majority of their toxicity began to form.

Jonathan had become fixated on the way Edward Nygma’s mind worked, and he had acknowledged this to himself. He had become fixated on his thought process, on what drove him, on what set Edward Nygma off to become The Riddler. Jonathan had known for a fact he was always fated to become The Scarecorw; childhood neglect and rejection from peers created a perfect recipe for a psychotic break. Edward Nygma, on the other hand, seemed far too composed for him to become The Riddler. This had made him something of a fascination; like a regular citizen listening to a convicted killer recount in grotesque detail their crimes, Jonathan had felt himself becoming more and more interested each time Edward opening his mouth to speak. When they had worked together in close confinement, within the cells of Arkham, Edward had opened his mouth a lot.

“Jeremiah can’t properly grasp the concept of what I’m telling him. I, personally, prefer Leland; at least she made an active effort to solve my riddles rather than telling me over and over how ‘this is unhealthy behavior’.”

They had been eating lunch, in their usual spot located away from most of the inmates. Often, they were joined by a few stragglers; Hatter, on occasion Harley although she spent the most time in her cell, and once in a while Harvey when he had nowhere else to be. This time they had been alone, however.

“It is unhealthy. It’s compulsive, and most of the time it’s the reason you end up here.” Jonathan had only been half minding the conversation, deterring the rest of his attention to the two guards who had been staring them down from the entrance. Each time they had leaned close to whisper to one another, Jonathan had been sure to look directly at them.

“I’m aware of that, Jonathan, and if I could control it I would. Jeremiah Arkham will last one more session with me before he ships me off to Young, or Thompkins, and I know this.” Jonathan had drawn one slender finger across the corner of his mouth, all while staring down the two guards still.

“How do you know so confidently?” He had still only half been listening at that point.

“Because I always know. I always know the outcome of these things. These Doctors, they’re like clockwork – they like their set systems, and when you twist one bolt just out of place, they send you over to the next Doctor instead. They don’t like to feel like they’re out of control.” Now he had looked to Edward, only to be met with a stern expression and a self-assured gaze. Edward had been hunched over his plate at that point, and Jonathan had known that Edward Nygma was exactly the mind he wanted to pry at.

Those moments had felt like eons ago.

Time changed, as did life along with it, and many years had passed since Jonathan had looked at those two guards in Arkham. They hadn’t done what he thought they would that evening, something he was relieved about. Men in positions of power could be ruthless; there were experiments to prove such things.

Time had also changed his standpoint with Edward. Although he had continued to study the man, falsifying their friendship to gain insight into his workings like some lab rat under scrutiny, becoming too involved with a subject often led to things getting far too personal. Yes, he had come to know this man quite intimately, surpassing the boundaries of physical contact to something even he was uncomfortable with. Perhaps this had been what had created the rift between them, the toxicity that had begun to form those years before. The toxicity that had eventually overflowed and created burns that would likely not heal for a long time now.

Edward had left two years ago, likely to catch bigger fish than what was lurking in Gotham City.

Too many people in this city now, all stealing or creating their own gimmicks. It isn’t as it should be.

His logic was sound, his thought process clear, but Jonathan had offered no insight. He had sat quietly with his back facing Edward as he spoke, only half listening as he had in Arkham, and using the rest of his attention to focus at the task at hand. Their conversations no longer held the interest they once did.

Metropolis is pointless, and I don’t feel like getting massacred by some Demi-God. Maybe there’s some other town nearby.

Edward had always talked, even when Jonathan had wanted him not to. The Iceberg Lounge, on heists, at dinner, in the bedroom, always talking, always saying what was on his mind.

What I’m trying to say here, Jonathan, is that we should go. Everyone else is moving on and we’re practically the last ones left. Are you even listening to me?

Jonathan had offered a sound of half-acknowledgment. Recollection of what had occurred next was vague, but he recalled a few other phrases being thrown about, before the sound of Edwards boots moving up the basement steps echoed out and faded to obscurity. Then there was sound no more. Sound no more, except for what was made by the beakers and the chemicals bubbling away.

After that, he had not seen Edward. Fall faded to winter – a peaceful one without the disruption - and winter to spring, which also passed with no disruption. Spring faded to summer, and to fall once more until a full year had passed since that discussion in the basement. Still no Edward. No letters, no messages, an absolute dead-air.

Jonathan had not minded. He had been accustomed to this for many years and had decided it was for the better. Research could be accomplished more successfully without the interruption of hands on your back, or lips on your neck, or fierce yelling in your ear about the stupidity of some vigilante. Although he did find himself reminiscing perhaps a bit too longingly on his relationship with Edward, memories he promptly pulled himself out of, the one thing that couldn’t be argued was that he could finally complete his work.

The only expectation a criminal can have is the expectation that they will be inevitably caught. A criminal should not expect to be able to maintain successful relationships especially if they are in the same career as you. They should not expect joy or a feeling of completion to be gained from such relationships. They should not expect success, they should not expect fame, and above all, they should not expect for happiness to be derived from the immoral path they elected to follow.

They cannot even anticipate success. But Jonathan had known a man who had anticipated his success – and wondered if he had achieved it yet.

#amys fanfiction #amy talks #jonathan crane #edward nygma #ok night #whatdoesthebatsay

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fantrolls-please-stop · 7 years

Text

Cloria Aemeon

Name: Cloria Aemeon Nicknames: - Violet Blood Bitch (by Syntea) - Complete Asshole (also by Syntea) - Good Fish Friend (by Demiti)

Species: Seadweller Troll Gender: Female Age: 6.46 sweeps (14 human years old) Derse or Prospit?: Derse Appearance: - Talksprite - Hero Mode - Trickster - Dead - Game Over - God Tier - Sprite Fetch Modus: The Nowhere Modus (Cloria has to reach into a “gap” in a box of which every item has no look or scent, only feel, whatever she picks out she can use until captchalogued again) Strife Specibus: Umbrellakind (her main strife specibus) & Fistkind (if she loses her main weapon) Weapon: A lavender parasol with a fancy design and a silver tip Game Entry Item: A purple ribbon Sprite: Jellysprite (A sprite prototyped with a jellyfish and a glowstick) Exile: Pre-exile Server Player: Demiti Ayagad Client Player: Syntea Nagati Title: Witch of Void

Witches are enthusiastic, confident and optimistic rebels. They break and change the physical and metaphysical “Rules” of their Aspect. Their challenge is to use their rule breaking powers in a morally conscious way

A Witch of Void would rebel against the notion that things are inherently meaningless or unimportant. They would break the rules of obscurity and indifference, finding the most hard to find things and moving away the Void that hid them, bringing them into awareness. They might also cover up and hide things that are important to them, not letting their discoveries truly see the Light and be shared with others. They might be kind of like hipsters in that regard, having a lot of obscure or hard to find interests and things, but not wanting them to become popular or well known.

They might even talk down or wave away people not already aware of their obscure interests, manipulating others with indifference and ignorance. They might be able to literally manipulate what people ignore or don’t ignore. They might manipulate people by merely acting indifferent or disregarding them, giving them the cold shoulder or the silent treatment. They might be more secretive people, manipulating others by pretending to be ignorant or unaware of things, or pretending to be indifferent towards something they actually like. They might not be very honest about or with their own emotions because of this.

They might also manipulate people with secrets, either ones they keep or ones they reveal. They could be good or bad secret keepers depending on their purposes. They can break the rules of what’s supposed to be hidden or irrelevant and clear away the shadow and mystery that surrounds things that would otherwise never see the Light. If they wanted to, they could easily delve into someone’s deepest darkest secrets to manipulate them. They might also simply just be quiet, silent and shy, not sharing any other their cool interests with others because reasons and also because they have trouble opening up to others.

Active or Passive?: Active Medium: Land of Stairs and Ice (LOSAI) (Stairs represent her need to keep going higher and higher and Ice represents her cold nature.) Denizen: Nike (The Goddess of Victory) Blood color: Amethyst Violet (A bit darker than Eridan’s blood but not too similar at the same time.) Symbol: Her symbol represents a gap, and the straight line is to represent to two boundaries Lusus: “Jelly Mom” A jellyfish armed with poisonous stingers that can paralyse a troll, but is kept in a tank and is mostly harmless Ancestor: “The Sempster” - a seamstress Hive: A cavern deep below the ocean surface, it has nearly everything barely visible on the outside due to it’s cavernous details similar to one of a rock, the only thing to recognize is the small door on the very top as glowing lanterns float around Trolltag: cacaesthesiaArmageddon (CA) Quirk: All sentences are within a “gap” and all o’s are capitalized Ex: -( Are you sure abOut that? )- Matesprit: None Kismesis: Syntea Nagati (Like so, another OC) Moirail: Demiti Ayagad (Another OC of mine) Auspistice: None General Appearance: (All characters must fill out from here down!) Do they need to wear glasses or contacts?: No but she wears contacts anyway If yes, are they nearsighted or farsighted?: No They should wear their glasses, but do they always?: No Weight: A/N Height: A/N Notable features: Her chipped horns, sensitive fins Hair: Long/Straight, one long ponytail Disabilities/Health Concerns: None Favorites and Least Favorites: Color: Violet, blue, green, anyfin representing the sea Music: Vaporwave Movie: None Book: None Food: Grubs, Lowblood troll meat, ESPECIALLY gold, green and sometimes… blue bloods :> Clothing: Silky white shirt and skirt, CAN be mistaken as a dress Prized possession(s): Her parasol Personality: Biggest goal: To know all the secrets of Alternian History, ALL of them Greatest fear: Death by Impalation (which ironically is how she dies) Darkest secret: She wears contacts Does anyone know?: No If yes, how did they find out?: Let’s say, Demiti bumped her arm in Cloria’s face causing one of the contacts to fall off (THIS IS STUPID.) Greatest strength: She is good at stealth (Because at ONE times she was babysitting 5 grubs, there were only 3 left to survive.) Greatest weakness: Can be killed easily if caught off guard Greatest accomplishment: Discovering multiple constellations (yet nobody cared) Biggest regret: Becoming a cannibal Are they more aggressive, assertive, or passive?: Aggressive Are they emotional or stoic?: Emotional Which do they trust more, their head or their heart?: Their heart Extra: - Linura Aemeon (Dancestor) - The Sempster - -( Cannibal bitch. )-

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Okay, I’ve found quite a few concerning things, hopefully we can straighten those out.

Firstly, her outfit. Trolls wear black and grey, an all white outfit like that as an every day thing would probably get her culled. (Yes, Vriska had a white dress for her fairy costume, but that was only an outfit she wore occasionally.) Honestly, her dancestor looks more like an alternian troll than she does, to me at least. Maybe think of switching their outfits?

I really like her Fetch modus, very creative idea! It really fits with her god tier, which I also enjoy. Her strife specibi also checks out fine. The info about her land is also pretty solid, good job on that!

Her trolltag, quirk, lusus, ancestor, and hive are all fine, I don’t see anything that should be changed.

Now for appearance (aside from clothes); Why exactly does she wear contacts, if she doesnt need them? That makes no sense to me, and isn’t really something that Alternia would support since its an extra waste of time to put in something unnecessary. That’s my biggest concern there. The only other thing is that if she’s a seadweller, it wouldn’t hurt to add fins to her hero mode drawings and such since with a ponytail, they’d be exposed.

For personality, there are some really good things, and others that could be tweaked. The goal to know all of alternian history is pretty unobtainable, but I can think of plenty of goals like that I’ve had, especially at the age of 14. I kind of like that about her. Also having her fear by death by impaling, while oddly specific, that is also fine! I want to know why her biggest secret is someone finding out she wears contacts, despite not needing them anyways. If she was self conscious about them in some way, couldn’t she just not wear them? The only other really big question is about her apparently being a cannibal. How did she become one? Why does she suddenly regret it? It doesn’t make much sense to me. If you’re going to keep that detail, I suggest adding a bit of info on it so it doesnt just seem like some “edgy” trait to give her on a whim.

(Side note - I like the designs of the ancestor and dancestor, they look really good!)

TL;DR : Fix the clothing colors, re-evaluate the contact wearing and cannibalism, and maybe give her a “dark secret” with more meaning.

*Mod Cactus*

#Seadweller #Ancestor #Dancestor #Edgy #3Edgy5me #submission

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