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favoniuscodex · 3 years

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embrace. [zhongli x reader]

prompt: lifting someone up out of excitement + zhongli // in which you take a commission and disappear for a few months. all zhongli wants is to be able to hold you in his arms again -- is that too much to ask? pairing: zhongli x gn!reader warnings: disappearance, description of injuries. it’s angst to fluff, okay? word count: ~1.6k words a/n: the spirit of sad zhongli consumed me and i really wanted to write this angst piece i guess. happy ending tho, dw. this is the power of the forehead zhongli pics.

Despite the countless years Zhongli had lived, it felt as if it had been eons since he last saw you. Each morning, he would awake to the other side of the bed being empty, your side of the still neatly made while the former archon’s half of the sheets had been jostled to the high heavens from his restlessness due to your absence. He had become accustomed to your brief absences as you were an adventurer. Your commissions often forced you away from his side for days at a time.

However, there had never been an absence as worrisome as your current one. For the last month, you had gone completely off the grid. Nobody had heard from you, nobody even knew if you were alive. What should have been a simple mission led to your complete disappearance. Zhongli had even gone as far to recruit Childe in the search for you, but even his Fatui connections had turned up nothing.

All Zhongli had left was continuous use of his resources to seek out any lead that might bring you home, but in the cold nights spent alone, Zhongli couldn’t help but bitterly weep over the fact that if he was still an archon, he would have found you by now. Stuck in this mortal form with limited powers, Zhongli feels the sheer vulnerability that ingrains itself within human DNA as he dresses up for work every day. He feels the hollow fear that paints his insides and dries quickly whenever he looks in the mirror. It leaves a film that feels as if it will never go away.

For once in his life, the almighty Morax feels useless. He detests experiencing such mortal woes, but he can almost hear Guizhong’s amused laughter in his ear about how Rex Lapis had fallen so hard and felt so desperate over the company of a mere mortal human.

She would have loved you, he realizes one day as he eats his breakfast alone. Before Zhongli can stop himself, tears are falling onto his plate as unfamiliar emotions consume him once more.

One month turns into two. Two turn into four. Four turn into six and Zhongli only grows more bitter. Even with the limitations of this weakened form he took on when he gave up his archonhood, his memory is still as strong as ever. Zhongli cherishes the way he can tell others stories about you, but despises the way your smile shines in his mind every time he closes his eyes. He detests the way his hand feels bare without yours in it. Most of all, Zhongli hates the way he can’t hear the three little words he had come to adore fall from your lips once more, even if their memory echoes around in his head.

In the mortal-centric world that Zhongli now traverses, there is little time for grief. Life moves on and unfortunately, Zhongli realizes, everyone expects him to as well. Work continues on as usual at Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, but Hu Tao’s pranks are softer and his colleagues are kinder in their words. Eventually, people stop asking about you. No news means nothing has changed and Zhongli can see in their eyes that they have no hope of your return.

He wonders if the mortals pity him for his loss.

Zhongli wonders if they would still feel differently if they knew he was Rex Lapis.

Rather than letting empty nights consume him as he sits in your shared home alone, Zhongli takes on more work. Hu Tao initially voices her concerns, but a sharp, yet desperate glance from Zhongli has her holding back her words and instead has her placing more paperwork upon Zhongli’s desk. If Zhongli can’t be efficient in searching for you, he might as well busy himself until you return.

You will return, he reassures himself. You have to.

Zhongli lies in bed with a new lover: Grief. It wraps her seductive arms around him, pulling him into her misery, entrenching him in the bitter aftertaste of love that has long since reached its expiry date. He hates her, yet she refuses to leave the bed, resting on your side and holding him close. If he squints, the hollow void of Grief materializes itself in the shape of you.

Zhongli requests more paperwork to avoid her company.

However, eight months after your disappearance, Zhongli’s outlook on the world flips on its head once more. The desolation that rages inside him is briefly distracted as commotion occurs outside of Zhongli’s office. The funeral consultant’s door is closed, yet the sheer noise of shuffling and yelling that appears to be coming from the desk of the receptionist causes him to poke his head out the doorframe.

Down the hall, he sees a frantic head of ginger hair, which quickly matches Zhongli’s eyes with its own cerulean ones. Childe, Zhongli notes with confusion. The two of them were friends, certainly, but not close enough to make impromptu visits to the other’s place of work.

“Zhongli!” Childe bellows down the hall and Zhongli wonders what situation could possibly result in Childe feeling the need to disrupt the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor in such an uncouth manner. Zhongli’s bewilderment grinds to an abrupt halt as Childe utters his next three words.

“We found them.”

The next moments are agonizingly slow, despite the immediate rush Zhongli throws himself into, hastily getting his things together and heading out the door. A simple nod from Hu Tao gives him the permission he needs to leave, but Zhongli would have fought Celestia if it meant he could see you again. The paperwork that rests on his desk is long since forgotten as he follows Childe’s hurried pace, the two of them nearly breaking out into a sprint as Childe guides Zhongli to your location.

When Zhongli sets eyes on you, you’re resting in an infirmary bed in the back of Northland Bank, one typically used for fallen Fatui agents. Amidst the Tsaritsa’s décor, your innocence looks out of place, but Zhongli’s heart swells nonetheless. Your figure is exhausted as your chest softly moves up and down, eyes shut in an uncomfortable rest. Bruises and scars mottle your skin, along with bandages that encase your arms and legs. Even with all of your injuries and your battered state, Zhongli swears he’s never seen a more relieving, beautiful sight.

You’re alive. Quietly, Zhongli moves to sit next to you and reaches out for your hand, but hesitates before he can take it in yours. The two of you had been apart for so long. You were in front of him now, yet your sleeping status still left a divide between the two of you. It was clear to Zhongli that you had been through hell and back, so he withdraws his hand, not wanting to bother your rest, and instead elects to sit on a chair near your bed.

Childe wordlessly excuses himself before Zhongli can issue his thanks, but the archon knows that Childe is more than aware of how much Zhongli appreciates the gesture of the Fatui both rescuing you and allowing you to recuperate on their premises. No debt goes unpaid, but Zhongli would have paid any amount of Mora just to see you safe again.

As Zhongli shifts his weight, the wooden chair lets out a noisy creak and, much to Zhongli’s horror, your eyes flutter open groggily at the noise.

“Zhongli,” You croon, moving to step out of the bed. At that moment, Zhongli realizes you’re farther in the healing process than expected, likely due to the work of one of the Fatui’s Vision-wielding healers. You stumble over to him and Zhongli immediately stands, capturing you in his firm arms before you can fall.

“Darling, you should rest,” Zhongli chides, but the look of love in your eyes as you glance at him silences his complaints. Warmth floods through his chest as your body heat merges with his. You are here. You have returned.

Before he can stop himself, Zhongli lets out a relieved laugh before lifting you up and twirling you around in a hug. You let out a noise of surprise before giggling along with him. As he sets you down, you use the opportunity to plant a kiss on Zhongli’s cheek before wrapping your arms around his torso, hugging him tightly. Your firm yet gentle touch reminds him of his godhood. With you, Zhongli feels unstoppable.

“I missed you,” You murmured, leaning in to listen to his heartbeat. “I thought of you every day.”

Once again overwhelmed by the utterly unfamiliar, utterly human emotions, Zhongli’s eyes well up with tears as you begin to hum a soft Liyuean melody as you hold him close, his hands rubbing small circles on your back as he returns your gesture. For all the times he had wished to hear those three little words from you again, Zhongli realizes what he desired most of all those months you had been missing: the ability to say the words to you himself.

Rather than be his typical longwinded self, Zhongli realizes that for all of the complexities that entrench the current situation, only simple words are needed to convey all that he feels in this moment. Therefore, rather than reciting affirmations that would rival that of the most glorious of weddings, Zhongli smiles softly and presses a kiss to your hair as you continue to listen to his heartbeat.

“I love you,” He murmurs and, as you bury your face in his chest, he feels you smile in return as you trace a heart with one of your fingers onto his back.

For all the months you had been gone, he now has a plethora more to make memories with you and Zhongli is determined to keep you safe throughout all of them.

#writing endings is hard lol #might remove the primogem banner if this doesnt show up in tags eventually #zhongli #genshin impact #zhongli x reader #genshin impact x reader #//zhongli

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

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Eye of the beholder

Summary: Modern!Poe x (any gender) artist!reader. Poe sits as a nude life model for Reader’s art class, and they think he’s the most beautiful work of art they’ve ever seen.

Author’s note: 13/14 for my last follower celebration (getting there!), using the prompt “You have fanfiction eyes.”, provided by the lovely @wheresthewater. P.s. sorta headcanon the art tutor as Yoda don’t @ me.

Word count: 2.7k. And hey look I even did a moodboard! :D

Warnings: nudity, duh!

You can’t believe your eyes as he enters the room, entirely nude, his dick swinging. He is without doubt the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Sculpted and yet somehow soft, muscles ripple under his skin as he takes up his position on the podium, in the centre of the circle of easels. You look over him as he settles in his pose- the soft curve of his belly, wide hips with pleasantly rounded thighs and ass. His broad hands. The sweep of those raven curls and the set of his strong nose, his chiselled jaw.

You feel like you’re in the presence of true art, transported back in time to when the likeness of gods were sculpted from marble. Except, you think the gods must have been created, verily, in his vision. You have never understood the feelings a muse might inspire, until now. You feel he should have sculptures dedicated to him. Sonnets written about him. You feel like your loins are writing sonnets, the longer you look, the words filtering out like ribbons which gather as a knot in the pit of you.

It’s not only how he looks -although you can’t deny your attraction is instant, a gulp bobbing down your throat as your fingers clench tight around the brush you hold in your good hand. It’s the air of him, at ease and confident, eyes falling warm upon the artists convened in the room. No hint of self-consciousness, only... comfort. Comfort in his body. Comfort with himself. You feel like he could make you feel that way too, make you step into the warmth of him and shrug your clothes to the floor. Step into him like he’s a painting; a mood, a feeling, a texture, mingling with him like paint and charcoal dust and sweeping lines of pencil merging on a canvas, creating art with your bodies.

He’s only just stepped into the room, but he is far from a blank canvas. He is art. His body is storied and he is speaking to you with it. You’d never had a body speak so loudly to you.

The pose he adopts is assured and practically kingly. You swear his eyes meet yours, ever so briefly, as he arranges himself, reclined sideward on a folded elbow, one knee raised to the sky, his top arm draped casually over the point of it. A white sheet is draped over part of his midsection, the fluid folds of it only highlighting the sturdiness of him, the hue of his smooth and tawny-bronze skin.

You swear he catches your eye as he settles there, a gulp bobbing down your throat as it does his. Your eyes fall across his face in return, stubble texturing his jaw like the rake of a pencil over roughened paper, veins in relief against his corded neck. His eyes are lit like undried umber, light pooling in them like drops of gleaming, watered paint. His curls are like sweeps of charcoal, as if created by someone running their fingers over canvas like one might run their fingers through his hair.

You don’t know where to look, at first, and yet, despite the beauty of him, of all of him, once you look into his eyes you can scarce look away.

You are grateful for the cool breeze drifting into the studio through the cracked, hatched window, and you shrug your cardigan away so the air can ground you. With all your thoughts of gods you are practically lifted from your feet.

For the next moments, you are oblivious to everything else, except his warm eyes and the cool air. Oblivious to the tutor’s instructions, to the ticking of the clock in the quiet room as your fellow artists studiously select their tools, oblivious to the blank canvas in front of you. It is only when you hear the brush of pastels, the whisk of brushes in jars of water, the crisp sound of mark-making on paper, that you realise you have... nothing. You look over your tools and you’re not sure how you could possibly rise to this challenge. How you could ever capture the sight before you.

It doesn’t help that you imagine he’s studying you too. Perhaps because you’re directly in front of him. Perhaps because you’re the only one in the room still staring at a blank piece of paper, yet to do anything. Never before have you felt so overwhelmed by inspiration that you feel thoroughly paralysed by it. You let out a huff of air in frustration, the sound a lot louder and more abrupt than you would have liked in the hushed studio.

You bristle like a misused brush, the fibres of you splayed out in all directions when the tutor softly pads over to you, whispering in his serene day-spa voice. “You don’t appear to have started. Are you having trouble?” Are you? You’ll say. How in the hell are you supposed to paint this man?

Even the whisper cuts through you like a knife through a citrus fruit, bitterness bleeding out from you as the tutor continues to single you out with precision.

“I’m... thinking.”, you defend, and you swear that amusement glints over the model’s burnt coffee eyes.

“You know, you’re always in your head. I’ve noticed this about you. You do great work, but you need to just... feel it.” The tutor is waving his arms now, in the way that one might express a mother penguin regurgitating food to its chicklets. “Let go. It’s an art class, not a thinking class.”

You deliver an undeserved death stare to the tutor as a titter snakes around the class, but his calm response only provokes you further. “Good. Feeling something? Even frustration? Use it. Get it down on paper.”

As irate as it made you, the advice worked. You stopped looking at the man in front of you. You started feeling him. You allowed yourself to get lost in it. It started to feel like a... a Force of some kind. Something coursing through you as you worked the paper, felt the textures beneath your fingers. Worked the shapes and light and divinity of him through your fingers. This didn’t call for brushes and pencil and careful marks. It called for touch. It called for art beneath your finger tips, the paint and charcoal dust and roughened paper smooth and harsh like him.

His eyes become increasingly intense as you work in a frenzy. Lost in the moment in a way the other artists in the room are not. In a way that you haven’t been in a long while.

You barely notice time passing, until the tutor stalks back over to you, curious to know what you’ve produced in your haze. He regards your canvas with a tilt of his head, looking earnestly between your creation and the model. You nibble on your lip and await the verdict, tension gathering in your shoulders.

“This is good. This is good. It’s very different to your other work, but...it’s inspired. I want to see more like this from you.”

You swell with pride, and the model pumps his eyebrows at you, as if in congratulations. You smile shyly back at him as the tutor declares the end of the session, swiftly handing your muse a robe to redress in before ushering him out towards the changing room.

You are the last one left in the studio as you take time to clean off the paint and mess on your arms, humming softly to yourself as you leisurely begin to stack paints away and drop scattered brushes into jars of turps. You smile softly to yourself as you realise that you finally feel... unblocked... You feel like you’ve shifted a dark part of you away, a light side filtering through, finally, like sunshine through a part in the clouds. You hadn’t painted like that since...

“Oh, I’m sorry”, your train of thought is glady interupted, as a voice as rich as burnt sienna sounds behind you. You turn, finding the model standing in the doorway. He is dressed now, of course, but he still appears to you like a god in modern-day clothing. His voice is so beautiful too that you wonder if you could paint the sound of it. “I left my wallet. Occupational hazard of taking my pants off in strange places.” You see him visibly cringe. “That came out weird. I can wait outside for half a mo, if ya wanna clear-up first.”

“No, you’re fine. Come in.”, you smile, unashamedly fluttering your eyelashes at him.

He bashfully nods a thank you to you and passes through the studio to seek his wallet out, returning with it in hand. “Got it!”, he announces.

“Good.”, you state, still floored every time you look at him, quite honestly.

“I’m Poe, by the way. Poe Dameron.”

You smile sweetly at him, and state your name, surprised you can manage to get words out at all. You’re usually so shy, but something about him makes you feel at ease. Maybe it’s because you’ve seen his junk. Don’t they say to imagine someone naked when you feel nervous?

Poe, as you now know him, points towards your still-standing easel. “I hope this isn’t a weird thing to ask. Do you mind if I see what you painted?”, he enquires softly, running a hand through his lustrous curls. “Please say if you’re not comfortable.”

You consider it for a moment, nibbling on your lip again, regarding him. There’s no judgment, only curiousity and warmth in his eyes, so you nod towards the easel. “Go for it.”

He smiles softly at you in gratitude and slots his hands into his pockets, sidling over towards you. He releases one hand to bristle over his stubble as his eyes pore over the canvas. Without thinking, his fingers dip towards the ridges of paint he finds there, and you grab his warm, broad hand with yours before he can do any damage. “Don’t touch it!”, you exclaim. “It’s still wet!”

He apologises for his momentary lapse in good sense and you look down at your hand wrapped around his, the veins and knuckles and callouses of him beneath your fingertips. He’s like sun on rough paper beneath your fingers. Like summer.

He makes no move to pull away. In fact, he turns in to you, his molten eyes on yours. There’s that gulp bobbing in your throat again. “What do you think?” you blurt, and you wonder why you’re suddenly so skilled at talking when you only wish he’d press those full, shapely lips on yours and shut you up.

He draws his brows together as you drop his hand and looks over the canvas again. “You’ve got talent, that’s for sure. I can barely draw a circle. It’s just...”, he shrugs a little. “Should I be offended that you only painted this part of me? Was the rest of my body not particularly inspiring?”

You look back over your work. You suppose it is strange, in a way, since he was sat in front of you in the nude. Strange that you have only painted his eyes. His intense, umber eyes are glowing there on your canvas, the shadows and the planes of his brows alongside the dancing of the light, and the soft brush of his lashes.

You press the back of your hands to your cheeks in an effort to cool the rising flush. “Oh. No, I mean, your body was plenty inspiring...”, you state, trying to keep your language somewhat objective. “It’s... hard to explain. It’s just. I mean, objectively speaking, you have such beautiful eyes. And..”, you continue nervously, sure you’ve already veered into highly subjective territory. “...I looked, and I couldn’t look away. When you looked back at me? The light was on you and there was just...”, When did your voice become so breathy? You can hardly keep speaking as you feel you need to pause for air.

“Just what?”, he encourages softly, his eyes appearing rapt with you.

“The way you looked at me... it was... something that I wanted to keep.”

His eyes study yours with vigour, as if he’s suddenly keenly aware of the effect they might have on you. “Objectively speakin’?” he probes, with a soft yet amused drawl.

“Of course.”, you state emphatically, even as you become lost again in the way he’s looking at you. You swear he’s... leaning in. Or maybe, yeah actually, that’s just you. How long have you been talking now? Twenty seconds?

“You have fanfiction eyes.”, you blurt, speaking the realisation freely and without filter the moment it wings its way into your head. Perhaps sent from the gods. You find yourself wishing that he could have just shut you up before you went and said that.

“I have what now?”, he asks in confusion, clearly trying to suppress a grin. “Fanfiction eyes?”

“Uh-huh. You know... dreamy eyes.” Wait, are you still talking? “The kinda eyes that you could write a 100,000 word long-read about? Or...”, you shuffle your boot nervously over the boards of the floor, sweeping them through charcoal dust. “...the kinda eyes someone might wanna look into over a drink, or dinner, for example? Maybe at Gino’s? Which is still open for one more hour before last orders?”. You don’t know where your uncustomary boldness has come from. But you dearly hope it pays off.

To your delight, Poe grins broadly. “You’re kind of a dork, aren’t you?” You might read it as teasing, but his tone is kind, his eyes sweeping over you with interest. You simply shrug and he lifts a thumb towards your cheek. “Adorable as it is, if we’re gonna go for dinner, can I get this paint off your face first? I dunno how you managed to use so much red but you might scare the other diners.”

You nod permission, and the pad of his thumb sweeps over you, the rest of his hand cupping your face. “Did you get it?”, you ask hopefully, voice quaking slightly. Legs quaking slightly.

How long have you been talking with him? A minute? You’d thought he was a god. Perhaps he is. The immortality might explain why you already feel you’ve known him forever. But at the same time, there’s something so aproachable, so vulnerable and entirely human about him.

“Honestly? I made it much worse.”, he admits, shaking his head softly in apology. “I wasn’t gonna tell you, but I don’t know yet if that’s the kinda prank you’d find funny.”

An easy laugh lilts out of you and you promise to be back with him momentarily, once you’ve cleaned-up in the washroom.

When you return, Poe is breathtaking all over again, perched on the artist’s stool in the waning light. He grips his phone in those warm hands of his, the light filtering from below and illuminating the planes of his face in an entirely new way. He smiles up at you in greeting when you re-enter, and you approach him wordlessly as you stoop to gather your cardigan and bag from the floor.

His eyes fall on you and he mouths a soft “wow” as you glide towards him, the moonlight over the planes of your face too. Poe is looking at you as if you’re art. You’re not ready for it, quite honestly. You are used to being the beholder, not the object of beauty. He smiles softly at you and it’s completely disarming, his smile feeling far more familiar than should be possible after such a short length of time.

“So,”, he starts giddily. “I Googled some stuff about fanfiction while you were in the washroom, and now I have a question for you.”

“Go on.”, you encourage the beautiful man.

“Are we gonna be a slow burn or porn without plot, do you think?” He knows he’s charming enough to get away with a question as cheeky as that. At least, he’s charming enough to take the gamble that he will.

You purse your lips and bat your eyes at him. “Right now? Clearly a one-shot with an ambiguous ending. Prospect of continuation will depend entirely on how you do at dinner.”. There’s flirtation in your tone, and Poe looks at you hungrily then.

There’s something in his eyes, yet again; something in the way he’s looking at you that you want to keep. But you don’t want to paint it. You want to create art with touch. You want to feel the textures and explore with your fingers. “But...”, you concede, returning Poe’s hungry stare. “We do have time to make-out before we head to the restaurant.”

With an eager flicker of a smile he leans in, and when he puts his hands and lips on you it is like merging. Like creating art on a blank canvas. Your bodies storied and speaking to one another, you paint intention with your fingertips and the brush of your lips.

THE END

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darkpoisonouslove · 3 years

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“Bring Home to Family”

Summary: Being parents bleeds new colors into a typical wedding anniversary for Erendor and Samara when confessions start pouring in the newly established change in their relationship. Having a fuller family to look after elicits promises neither of them would have thought they'd have the occasion or the desire to make.

A/N: When am I gonna learn that looking at prompts/writing memes/anything that can spawn writing is not a good idea? Until then have this.

Erendor emerged from the walk-in closet to his bedchamber still swallowed in darkness that allowed almost no shadow to form behind Samara whose silhouette was just barely outlined in his private space by the meek moonlight finding its way into the room through the thick clouds suffocating the night sky. She hadn't gotten the lights upon entering only to give the spotlight to the reaction of his pulse towards the opening door, announcing her arrival.

She'd fallen behind after dinner to stop by the nursery and check up on Sky who was settling in his new home–after only a couple of months–better than she was in yet another year of marriage. He hadn't fallen for her attempts to hide it despite her kept promise to come find him after soothing her own worries. The warmth of the late spring evening made the air of distance around her tangible like it wasn't even as she was occupied with the vast uncertainty of the future to slip away from the now.

She hadn't reacted to his presence yet in spite of her habit of waking up at the slightest shift in the mattress that was rarely him leaving bed and just seeking the comfort to fall back asleep. He could have thought she was looking back on their wedding night or the more relaxed and enjoyed anniversaries that had followed if she weren't facing the window, her mind not with him. It was somewhere out there chasing something he couldn't see while she twisted and twirled the ring around her finger.

That was her usual state – observing the details that slipped his notice and considering what he wouldn't have caught on to even if his life depended on it. The ring fiddling was new though. She never drew anyone's attention to all the gold adorning her fingers when it spoke of itself. She never drew her own attention to the lack of a wedding band that separated her from all her ladies-in-waiting. She was the queen and that was what they all had to remember – as stated by the shining crown on her head.

The crown was given a rest now, though, his own keeping it company in the safe in his closet to leave him with just Samara. His wife.

"What's wrong with you?" He approached slowly, his voice already startling enough to trigger her defense mechanisms as it dragged her out of her own thoughts to where he demanded her attention. Sometimes there was no other way than brute force to draw her out on common ground, though. She'd just stay behind her own eyes where his gaze didn't dare poke, unreadable stillness falling over her as if merging with the trap her mind had become made it bearable to remain caught inside.

A tilt of her head in the direction of his words threatened to be the only acknowledgement he received before she stepped aside to free the space she'd just occupied for him. "I thought I'd get used to this by now," she let her voice keep his company even if it was just above a whisper – as if to prove to them both that she wasn't forcing it out against her will. "Our marriage." Her hands dropped at her sides slowly to attract no interest in the action when the rest of her was a more alluring sight. "It's still so... new," she still grasped at all the time he gave her just for the little word.

She always found the right thing to say, only, it was usually right there on the tip of her tongue. This speech–confession–was coming from the deep, from the pit of her stomach or from her heart maybe. Dread was not something he'd seen on her to be able to tell if that was what had wrapped her up like she was an anniversary surprise herself or if they could both relax in the wake of the words.

"It's hard to believe it's been so long... or that it has all been... real." Her voice had that who-would-have-thought lilt to it that could have shaken his ego to the core if it hadn't been her own mind bleeding on her the reality of their union. The reality she'd met all their other anniversaries in.

"You're thinking about the wedding you wanted?" Any other girl her age would have gotten hearts and flowers, piles of presents and a loving marriage. Instead she'd carried Eraklyon's Spine down a path of almost thousand steps–something they had in common, except she'd had to get through the mosaic his own reign had added to the splendid display of the kingdom's history–and hadn't bowed under the burden of the metal contraption on her back even while accepting the weight of the crown on her head. She'd passed the test of her will and decorum only to get none of the following ceremonies in her honor.

Her coronation had been compressed to just the essentials leaving her with all the duty and not even a touch of the glamor of the title of queen. Despite the royal bearings of the event, the two of them could have found a better balance between the appearances the ruling couple had to keep and the experiences any newlywed had the right to if it hadn't been for her mother's meddling. Though, meddling would imply that she had only inserted herself in their process when, in reality, she'd been the one who had orchestrated the whole thing.

Samara looked back to the darkness outside as if to decipher its secret of hiding the stars. Some of the light they would have shed on the palace had the sky been clear could have headed towards them years ago on a night during which he hadn't been a part of her life and she had had the opportunity to design her own life she hadn't devoted to the monarchy. It would have stung him to ward him off regardless of the weakness of being worn out by all that space it had traveled through by virtue of not coming from Eraklyon's sun. But the sky was covered by a curtain blocking it out from interfering to leave them alone in the quiet room where he could hear every one of her breaths and follow all the movements of her lips and her chest.

"There was never a wedding I wanted," Samara admitted, her rigid tone too familiar to be the voice of her wariness after she'd been nothing but a warrior queen, skilled beyond belief on the field of political intrigues. And in private she had shed the armor in which she'd secured every single one of her thoughts to protect them from even the strongest of blood magic.

His time for dreams had been crushed by the burden of fortifying the monarchy his parents had pushed on his head with little regard to his young age that could have collapsed under the weight of such monstrous responsibility as carrying the tradition of the dragon-taming kingdom. Samara, on the other hand, hadn't had permission to imagine her own future in a way that served her and no one else with her mother's ambitions strapped to her back to force on her the resilience to uphold Eraklyon's Spine. Even without him in her life, she would have never clawed out of her mother's iron fist the freedom to choose her own husband just like he hadn't had the power to choose his wife even though he'd carried the title of king from the ripe age of eighteen.

He'd looked for an ally, not for a woman to be happy with. He'd been looking for her family’s influence to keep his face from smashing in the ground under the neck-breaking value of the ancient piece on his head, not for the soothing support of her touch on his arm after a night of restless sleep.

His whole attention was on her to leave for him the tangible awareness that she could sense the insistent presence of his gaze on the outside of her dress. "But now there is?" He'd taken her hand to lead her into the palace and slip a crown on her head regardless of the circumstances and their feelings on the matter and it had changed the heart of Eraklyon to have a woman like her sitting on the throne beside him.

She caught his eye, her irises illuminated like the sun was within reach by the surprise of him having gathered her words in his palm to sift through them in search of the real shine amidst the fool's gold. He could never raise a hand to shield his eyes from the shining wonder in hers that was both praise and gratitude. She held him upright as long as he held her. And she let herself go as he pulled her into his arms despite the rarity of the gesture. Everything did feel new anyway, not just in her mind, but in the space between them, too.

Samara bowed, pressing her forehead against his chest to leave only the crown of her head visible to him. It would have been a genius strategy of keeping him in the dark about the audience in her mind if not for the quiet words framing her honesty as a picture he would devote the whole palace to storing if it could offer the privacy of both their liking.

"We never really..." she ran a hand through her hair as if looking for a thread to tie her thought together. Or a ribbon to hold her in one complete package like a neatly wrapped gift in a box but she was no gift. That would imply she was an inanimate object and the idea was a slap in the face no physical entity would have allowed itself after all the gifts she'd given him and the whole kingdom.

He might have called her a blessing if he had belief in a higher force but the crown was the tallest institution he had seen. It would prickle anything looming over his head to repel the threat and leave his hand free to place on her shoulder instead of clutching at the hilt of a sword even with the blood covering it.

"We never truly committed to each other," Samara raised her head to hold his gaze, her voice just loud enough for him not to strain to hear it as all the strength had retreated into her straight spine. "We just signed our separate existence away." And had sworn their efforts in service of the stagnant land of their home.

"We had our own agreement." He hadn't laid with the serpent's offspring on their wedding night like he'd feared. She'd been so soft in his hands, every movement delicate like glass, including her breathing. Had she trusted him, it would've been an invitation to lay his head on her chest and listen to the honest cipher of her heart which he would've taken and let her snap his neck with an unnatural motion he'd caused in the rhythm of her existence had he trusted her.

It had been a mutually beneficial alliance that had kept her vulnerability in his eyes. Now she was covered in edges and tearing herself away from his embrace he had to loosen if he didn't want his pain poked in under his skin.

"We made a deal that was in its essence each of us hoping the trust we agreed to wouldn't blow up in our faces," she'd already put half a room between them to give the impact space to dissipate.

She was right. He'd only truly believed she was on his side and not ambushing him from the shadows to stab him in the back once her family had been out of the reach of their own influence as they'd fled from the relentless hunt for her inheritance Samara had set out on. And she hadn't had the comfort of the same reassurance on his territory with his will bearing down on her neck. She had only settled in the pull between them after he hadn't let her drown in the realization of her infertility. And she'd paid the price of needing the security of his arms around her in the first place.

He couldn't reach for her with the reminder of that so he had to broach the topic from the angle she'd chosen. "Since then every day has been a promise of sorts." Conviction escaped him through the haze of worry wrapped around him in a barrier to keep away from her anything that could assault her with the disbelief it caused.

Samara stopped in front of the mirror on the wall to give voice to the truth in her reflection. There was barely a movement in her, her head lowered as she waited for him to lift her chin – either with a gentle touch or with the indignation he'd trigger if he stepped over a line.

"We promised each other trust and we've kept our word all this time," he tried staying put, away from her. It had never been physical distance he'd had to overcome to reach her and that hadn't changed amidst the evolution of their marriage. "Year after year to make it to yet another celebration," she had a great touch for those making them all unforgettable in his mind unlike the events marking his reign. Before her, that was. "Another anniversary." He could never forget what their marriage carried to maintain the monarchy, the secret only she could understand weighing his conscience but holding his heart tied to hers by an invisible string, red like blood.

Samara ran a finger over the necklace he'd given her that now lay undisturbed by her touch on the table. She'd let him fasten it around her neck despite their marriage having started out as a noose over her life pulling her in a bigger gilded cage. She'd worn it through dinner in the garden where their privacy hadn't been breached with all the preparations in place before asking him to take it off to save it for a grand reveal during an official event.

She'd coined a little tradition for herself soon after the wedding–though, it had taken him a lot longer to notice–of wearing her favorite jewelry for her least favorite public appearances to strike a balance that wouldn't shake her in front of prying eyes. Only him she'd initiated to her secret by not finding the need to conceal the relief the jewelry locked around her. As if the different pieces were all protective charms that warded off intrusions upon her thoughts.

If she was reaching for his presence coating the necklace, then he hadn't grounded her in the trust between them she needed to bare her mind. "Do you know what my first impression of you was?" he asked because she didn't want pretty words–that was what all the jewelry was for–only real ones. And because it was one of the few things he hadn't trusted himself to confess yet.

He'd told her how tongue-tied his fear of her reading him like an open book had rendered him or how his mindfulness of her charm had filtered out the beauty from the appearance of any other woman. He'd told her about the distraction his admiration for her political knowledge and strategizing had brought him. He'd even told her about the attentiveness–almost frantically intense–she'd lured out to crush his arrogance with on their wedding night.

He'd never told her about that night, though. Their first meeting over dinner at her family's estate. That could stand to change after the recent development of their relationship.

"I thought that you would make me stop drinking."

Her eyebrows furrowed–far from subtly–as if to hold the confusion from collapsing on her. "How come?" She trusted him enough now not only to let it show, but to let him lift it off her shoulders too.

"I thought that if you poisoned me through the wine, no one would be the wiser." The crumbling of his facade sent her freezing like a statue waiting for the smallest of movements to doom her to the same. "Your mother would have found a way to keep the throne even in the event of my death." The monarchy had needed just so much to topple over but someone with her mother's cunning would have used the impact to push his lineage off the seat of power and cement herself there, and her family.

Samara's hand fell heavily on top of the nacre drop plated in massive gold he'd picked for her as if trying to crush it. All she accomplished was having it digging in the soft flesh of her palm which may as well have been the intention. Her planned movements were estimated to precision and the ones that didn't fit that criteria were shaped by his presence in reflection of his own actions.

"I thought you'd be the end of me," the words spilled with ease luring from her tears or blood to join them but the trust she'd placed in him held them back for the price of being given away. "I couldn't have been more wrong." It echoed back at her through the empty chamber to fill it.

She turned to him to allow him to approach her now that he wouldn't be sneaking up on her. She didn't say anything but her eyes followed him as he poured a glass of wine from the open bottle–he hadn't drank it but had prepared for the inevitability of giving into the temptation–on the table. She had gifted it to him – made from a rare sort of grapes cultivated with the warmth of dragon fire in the colder climate of the north for a perfect balance of the acidity and freshness of the flavor – his favorite. She'd gotten every detail right even if she hardly ever joined him for a drink.

"To beginnings," he raised the glass just above the level of her lips. He could climb on the roof of the palace to take it higher than anything else in the kingdom but her eyes were locked with his and he couldn't risk pulling them out with a symbolic act he couldn't follow through. "To the start of our life together, another year of marriage and being parents."

It was all beginnings with her and building their own fate. They'd given each other the chance to raise a son together and bring new life to their world. All thanks to her freeing them both from the distrust that would've been planted between them like a hedge of thorns to separate them if she hadn't taken his proposition of unity. She had been right – they'd signed away their separate existence. He could do so much as commit to her outside the reach of the crown.

"To you." He lifted the glass to his lips to drink, his eyes never closing as they maintained the contact with her to render all else null and void. It wasn't about the wine or the celebration. He hadn't even caught the flavor of the liquid washing down his throat and the crown–both of them–could have started banging on the inside of the safe in a desperate attempt at drawing his loyalty that he wouldn't have cared for.

It was all about her. About them. About the trust he gave her willingly and not through necessity.

Samara slipped the glass from his fingers before he'd even drawn in a breath to take a sip from it. A long gulp of wine that almost drained the whole glass to have her eyelids closing. A risk she never took to avoid the look of glazed over eyes and the lack of control over slurred speech. Alcohol dulled all her weapons against the world but she took part in the toast he made for them.

"To you," she looked at him to distinguish the anniversary from their wedding night that had been a shaky start to a foundation they built upon each year to find themselves on new territory. Territory he could guide them through if he listened to her directions.

"To us."

Her mouth found his to leave no need for a shift between them to accommodate their new stance. They'd drunk the same wine and eaten the same food, even had the red of heat burning in their cheeks and creeping up their necks as witnessed by the mirror. They were one whole even though their union hadn't been forged by blood.

It was forged in trust redder than the ruby on her finger, redder than the wine on their breaths, redder than all the hurt he'd lived through. It almost resembled the color of her lipstick she smeared over his lips as she kissed him, except it was redder than that too. It was deeper and not necessarily darker even as it came from the very bottom of their hearts where it had been pushed by the weight on their heads.

#winx club #winx erendor #winx samara #erendor x samara #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my writing

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smolikgrsj422 · 4 years

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Conclusion

The portfolio has included materials from the two projects this semester: the Soundscape Tour and the Object Presentation, discussions I have participated in on canvas, and my favourite quotes from the course readings. Each of these different ways of knowledge production has developed the ways in which I question and exist in the university. The amount of free-reign in the class has allowed me to express the topics and opinions that I find most relevant and interesting. Instead of following a strict prompt, I was able to come to a place of producing my own knowledge and finding ideas that I am passionate about.

Learning has changed over the years from something beautiful that generations pass on to the next and communities that grow and learn together to an individualistic attempt at gaining knowledge to reach capitalistic success. The neoliberal environment of the university has corrupted the engaging and collective way of learning. I often hear from professors that we are unable to edit or assist our peers with classwork and essays as it is a form of plagiarism, this is unfortunate because the simple act of peer-editing can enhance knowledge sevenfold. Having even just one other perspective on an idea or piece of writing is a way for people to have a strong argument and idea behind the paper. I find that I am often unable to come up with a thesis without some form of discussion, or even rant, with another person. Being able to verbalize my thinking and path of knowledge is beneficial to the finished product.

The individualistic approach to learning in the Western system has created a feel of competition in all aspects of life, capitalism is to blame for this. Each person is trying to increase their own economic capital, education is a tool for us to move up in the world and reach ‘success.’ Since elementary school we have been in constant competition with our classmates, to who can draw the best to who can finish the math equation the quickest. Encouraging competition in children is beneficial in the capitalist system and forces children to focus on the task at hand to ensure they do the best they can. Yet this pressure to succeed is discouraging the collective nature in children and adults, instead of having a united community of learners, we have individuals who will not aid their friends in learning. I remember in high school feeling conflicted in whether I wanted to help my friends with their homework, I knew if I did not help it would bring me closer to the top of the class. I thankfully chose to help them because I valued our friendship over having the top grade for assignments but the conflict in myself was difficult to deal with.

Moving into university I have realized that the classroom has become even more separated, each student barely even wants to acknowledge others in the room let alone help them. Knowledge has become a trait that we hold dear and do not share with our peers, yet this is not the purpose of knowledge. We should feel the freedom and the urge to combine our knowledges with one another and create a collective knowledge that involves a significant amount of perspectives and opinions. This semester has taught me that we can still have university level education and merge our knowledges together. Through discussions, group projects, and having autonomy over the content of our projects we are able to move from the individual education towards collective. We were encouraged to converse with one another and share our ideas, this is out of character for a university classroom.

If we are hoping to change the ways in which knowledge is viewed in our society, we need to move away from the capitalist society we live in. Instead of valuing people only on their production value at work, we need to look at valuing each person for their contribution to society on a whole. Valuing all school, work, home life, relationships, etc as equally important to society will move towards creating a system that encourages holistic learning. We need to move away from education creating the active citizen who engages in work and production and move towards education assisting us all reach our goals and passions.

The ideal school system for me would be holistic in its approach. Instead of solely being in the school, learning would take place in all aspects of life and be recognized as equally important. This is not to say that learning does not already take place in every facet of life, but valuing them as equal would ensure a just education system. Education would follow passions and the course of someone’s life, not be limited to the beginning of a career. Since we are constantly learning, formal education would be accessible at every point in life. Employers would be accepting of education being an important part of life and would allocate a certain amount of time for each person to participate in formal education. Stretching to the ideal would be to make all forms of education accessible to anyone, whether its financial, timing, or disability related, education should be within reach to anyone. I think all forms of education can either be free if we lived in a socialist society that was supported by the government or for the time being could be placed on a sliding scale that would attempt to make in accessible to the lower class without putting them in further debt.

The ideal system of school is not so far away, moving from an individual system to a collective one would bring life back into education. There are schools and places around the world that have a thorough education system that is inclusive to all perspectives and opinions, bringing that to the Western system would just take reformation. Yet unfortunately, academics are stuck in their traditional and elitist ways and I do not see the academic system changing too drastically in the near future.

We need to look at knowledge and education through an intersectional lens and ensure that the needs of all those involved (and all those who could be involved) are met. Thinking about Indigenous, racialized, gendered, non-binary, queer, disabled, and many more marginalized people and how they would fit into the education can be a good first step. We can begin to decolonize the education system through actively participating in ensuring all needs are met of marginalized folks.

The ways in which we have learned and discussed learning in this course shows that introducing new ways of learning and producing knowledge are not too strenuous. Just taking the time to discuss with those around you to see how they would prefer to learn and show their learning can go a long way to creating a classroom where everyone is on equal footing to engage in learning. Having videos, presentations, audio, different forms of text, etc. are simple ways that classrooms can having alternative educations. Challenging the university is beneficial to not only those who are on the margins of education, but those who are already engaged have a more extensive understanding of the topics they learn.

It is common knowledge that we all learn differently and that learning in one way is not conducive to learning, so why are classrooms usually structured in a lecture style? And why are many of the projects, assignments, and assessments without variety? The capitalist structure only accepts one way of producing knowledge and that needs to change soon. Each act of challenging the norm and critiquing the academic progresses a collective and anti-capitalist approach to knowledge. Reforming education and the way we perceive knowledge in the West is the next step to having a just society where everyone is valued and protected by society. All types of knowledges are important to society.

#conclusion

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the-canary · 5 years

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Heartbeat, Heartbreak. - B.B (1/8)

Summary: Three musketeers until you started to fall in love. But, have you been living since then? (Modern!Reader/Bucky Barnes).

Prompt: “That’s disgusting. You’re lucky you’re cute.”

A/N: This for @notimetoblog‘s writing challenge. i know that this is a long time coming, since em is now at 2k but better late than never! this is new series to start after sunburst ends, it’s just that i have no impulse control. it is a mix of things, so i didn’t want to spoil too many things. switching up some things, but i hope you enjoy it!

Feedback is always welcomed.

In a semi-dark bar in Brooklyn, there is a man sitting somberly with a beer at hand. A piece of paper in front of him that he keeps staring at every couple of minutes. He looks heartsick for a second, like he had been waiting with a longing that had lasted years. However, the mood slightly picks up when a redhead comes his way, bright smile but tired green eyes as he smiles back. She asks for her favorite cocktail, as his name’s rolls easily of her lips.

“How have you been in, James?” Nat pats his shoulder, as if two soldiers leaning into together in the defeat of the week now behind them.

“Fine, the merge is going through smoothly,” Bucky declares with a bit of agony at the end because while he loved his company --in the family for generations-- he couldn’t compete with someone like Tony Stark, though he would make sure all of his employees made it through to the next step safely.

“How is the baby doing?”

“Colics, she’s been keeping me up all night this week,” Natasha laughs, already asking for another drink, “Sharon finally told me to take a break, kicked me out to meet with you.”

“That’s good,” Bucky laughs, because if you had asked him which one of his friends would be married with a baby, he certainly wouldn’t have said Nat, who always seemed to distant emotionally in their own relationship to make it work.

It just took one pretty blond from her graduate courses to change all that.

“But, you aren’t here to talk about Rose, are you?” Nat finally speaks up, as she stares at the little card in front of him -- 15th high school reunion.

It leaves a sour taste on both their mouths, much like anything that might remind them of their past failures, of her.

“No,” Bucky answers back, his drunken haze allows the sorrow to enter his tone more than it might’ve, “I was wondering if you got it too.”

“Two days ago,” Nat states, still pushing to get to the truth of what he wants, “But, that still isn’t what you want to talk about.”

“Do you think she’ll be there?”

Woop, there is it , Nat can’t help but think.

“I don’t know, James. It’s been almost fifteen years,” she tries to stay distant, nonchalant about the whole affair, “Maybe, she’s forgotten all about us.”

Bucky frowns, but Natasha had always had a slightly harder heart than his -- maybe, it came due to her family background, but she was fine with hiding what she truly felt about the the destruction of their trio. However, James had a soft heart for all his girls --his sisters, Nat, and the one that had broken it off-- he knew that even if seventy years passed from the last time he had saw her, he would still find himself thinking of her once a day, everyday.

He knew Natasha missed her too, but in a different and more sort of detached way, she couldn’t hide it especially with baby Rose’s middle name.

“I just want to ask one thing,” Bucky takes a sip of his drink, green eyes staring and waiting for what he would want, “If I found her, would you help me get her back?”

“Anthos can never heal from Milady, huh?”

On the other side of town, bright and upscale SoHo, there is more of a celebration. Friday night usually meant girls’ night in a certain apartment, as Darcy brought the snack, Jane brought the movies --which couldn’t be science films after Darcy got nightmares that one time-- and you brought the drinks. Everything was going as plan, as you pop into the room with the biggest grin on your face and three of the most expensive champagne bottles you could buy on the way back from work.

“Ohhh, what are we celebrating?” Darcy can’t help but giggle out, as she stares at the bottle before getting the cork opener. Jane smiles since she already knew a bit due to working in the same building as you -- word traveled fast in Stark Industries.

“Philips is retiring,” you declare while taking off your heels and taking a seat, “Ms. Potts has already declared the two people that are going to overlook the upcoming merger with a small company.”

“You and--?” Darcy can’t help but question only the last part because she knew you too well.

As workaholic lawyer that dedicated yourself in the mergers and acquisitions department of Stark Industries who had been looking for a roommate after your last --Jane-- had decided to get married. You worked weekends and overtime, only really taking Fridays off for them. Sometimes, there was a stray crush or date here and there, but you were solely focused on one thing and by the looks of it you were close to claiming it.

“--Rumlow,” you groan and lean back on the couch as two pairs of wide eyes look at you, “Ms. Potts wants us to personally court this CEO and see if we can sign the deal.”

“What do you know about them?” Jane asks, while leaning in just a bit as you shake your head.

“A complete mystery until Monday,” you state, while grabbing a glass, “Though I think that’s it’s more of a Mr. Stark idea. He likes keeping the whole attorney branch on their toes.”

“I could see that,” Darcy smiles before she starts drinking herself, “So more and more good news for you.”

You look at her confused for a moment, as she grins and gives you a small card that had an address from Brooklyn that you have not seen in a long while. You frown and immediately they know something is up because as much of a hardass that you might be at work, you were one of the kindest, stubborn people they knew. You showing fear or some type of negative emotion was usually rare and definitely a cause for concern.

“Oh, there’s story behind this,” Jane states with a nod, knowing better how your head worked than Darcy did. It was five years compared to the year and half of living together that you had.

“There’s no story, but I’m not going,” you huff out, as you throw the card onto the coffee table.

Both of them still watching you like they don’t buy it, though they just have to be patient -- they knew if you drank enough, you would become a tell all drunk. It was a bit mean, but sober you kept everything under lock and key with a safe underneath the seat.

They get their answer an hour and a few drinks later, as you let out a heartfelt sob: “I don’t wanna see them again.”

“Who?” Jane says softly, as she comes over and starts cradling you like a mother.

You let out a sniff and murmur into her dress shirt: “Bucky and Nat…”

#notimetoblog550 #james buchanan barnes x reader #james bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes modern au #bucky barnes childhood friends au #bucky barnes ceo #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fan fic #bucky barnes fanfic #series: beat and break #fabiola trying to write

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stillebesat · 6 years

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The Butterfly Effect -Between Veil and Curtain (9/26)

Sanders Sides: Thomas, Roman, Patton Inspiration: from @writing-prompt-s “My domain is time,” said the Genie. “Instead of three wishes, you get three decisions. Go back and choose again.” Blurb: Roman has three chances to change his life for the better. Three chances to fix past mistakes. Three chances to totally screw it all up. But who said life is worth living unless one takes a little risk? Fic Type: Hurt/Comfort Overall Fic Warnings: Major Character Death (mentioned), Suicide (mentioned), Suicide Attempt, Partial Paralysis, Injuries, Blood, Punching/Fighting, Knives, Medicinal Misuse, Toxic Roommates (implied/mentioned), Acrophobia (fear of heights), Falling, Nausea, Bullying (implied/mentioned), Car Accident (mentioned), Prison (mentioned), Negative Self Talk, Panic Attack, Bomb (mention), Surgery (mentioned)

To Catch Up: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

A long semi translucent veil hung across the stage behind the Genie as he pulled Roman up center stage, heading directly for it.

Roman dug in his heels, pulling free from the Genie’s grip as shadowy figures appeared just beyond the veil, the muffled sound of voices ringing on the edge of recognition in his ears. This was crazy. This was CRAZY. Change the past?! “Is that…” He cleared his throat, forcefully pulling himself together. He was a professional actor! He shouldn’t let some simple voices and images from his past jar him so much. “Usually those curtains are red you know.” He remarked in a steadier voice, staring at the shimmering veil, heart pounding in his chest as he recognized one of the shadowy figures as Taz, the Prop Master. He hadn’t seen the old man in years, but it was hard to forget that particular rolling walk he had.

The Genie raised an eyebrow, glancing behind him as he kept his hands raised, his entire body still glowing like a rainbow disco ball. “I suppose…” He smiled, shaking his head as he held out his hand for Roman to take it again. “The Veil of Time isn’t your normal set of stage curtains though, Roman.”

Right. He kept his hand firmly down by his side as he scuffed his foot against the worn floorboards. His heart thudded in his chest as the shadowy figure of his co-star, Julia, passed close enough to the veil that he could almost make out the highlights in her hair. If he could nearly see her...how much longer before he saw himself? No.

Roman narrowed his eyes. He remembered not coming to the curtain until the very last second, after….trying to call Pat--- Roman cut off the thought, forcing a smile on his face as he looked back to the Genie. He shrugged, gesturing with the watch to the semi-darkened theatre around them. “They don’t go with the place, just saying.” Not that it really mattered. The old theatre had burned down from an electrical failure the year after he’d graduated college.

The Genie crossed his arms, a knowing gleam flashing in his eyes. “They’ll shift back to Red once you join in the past Roman...but unless you move those lead feet of yours….” He gave a one shoulder shrug. “You can’t change anything from the fringes of time.”

Roman swallowed. Busted. “This actually works?” He mumbled, forcing himself to move up next to the Genie. “Changing the past?”

“I wouldn’t have a job if it didn’t.” The Genie said, taking the hand holding the pocket watch.

Good point. “Well, what are we waiting for?” Roman asked, surging forward, pulling the Genie after him. “Let’s get this show on the ro--”

The veil of time whisked itself back at their approach, the veil thickening and darkening with every step past it that Roman took and fell back in place, a dark crimson red, as the past settled around them.

“-oad.” Roman whispered, jerking backwards into the Genie as he barely avoided getting hit by two of the tech crew, rushing by wheeling one of the many lamp posts into place. Just beyond them Taz had crouched down to search underneath some fake shrubbery, with Luis, his assistant, hovering nearby.

“I already looked there, sir.” Luis said, giving a nervous bob of his head to the Prop Master. “I swear, it was in the prop room when we left last night!”

“Well, it’s not there now, Luis.” Taz said, biting back a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. “Go check again. Maybe it fell underneath the table. And if it’s not there...just…” He waved a hand. “Go, see if you can find an extra umbrella somewhere alright?”

“Yessir!” Luis nearly bowed before he darted off towards the prop closet, leaving Taz to move to the next set piece in his fruitless search.

“I didn’t take you for the gawking type, you know.” The Genie said conversationally.

Roman snapped his mouth shut, swallowing. “I didn’t realize it would be so….real.” He whispered. Was this how Marty McFly felt the first time he went back in time? Had Hermione had the same reaction with the Time Turner? “Can they---can we--”

The Genie shook his head, giving Roman a shove towards the brick wall where he knew his younger self waited. “You’re basically a ghost, Roman. They can’t see, feel, or hear us.”

Oh. Roman furrowed his brow. “Then how do I---” His heart stopped as they rounded a partial house set. There he was. Just where he knew his younger self would be.

Young Roman loitered near the exit, his eyes constantly flicking up to the clock on the wall as he fidgeted in place. Geez...had Roman actually thought he didn’t look guilty just standing there? His younger self basically had ‘I know where the umbrella is!’ painted across his pale face.

“Change the past?” The Genie finished for him.

“Well yah.” Roman said, dragging his eyes away from the teenager, and half turned to the Genie. “How can I make me--him--” He shook his head, holding out the pocket watch. “You know...not make the choice I don’t want to make if I can’t talk to uh..me?”

“To put it simply.” The Genie said, lifting the chain of the watch over Roman’s head. “You’re going to merge with yourself.” He said, dropping his hand to Roman’s, pulling his fingers free from the watch to allow the device to rest against his chest..

Roman blinked, flexing his fingers. “Merge--I’m going to possess myself?”

The Genie tsked. “You humans always use that word.” He muttered, shaking his head. “Possession means taking control. You’re not doing that, Roman. You’re merging.” He gestured to the teenager. ”For a short time, current you and past you will be one person. There will be no fighting for dominance. No controlling of past self’s actions. You will be living this moment as yourself. You will be teenage you once more, but retain current you’s knowledge, which is why.” His eyes darkened as he jabbed a finger at Roman’s chest, tapping the watch. “You. Do. Not. Talk. About. The. Future.”

Roman took a step back, waving his hands defensively. “Got it. I got it. Don’t talk about Time travel.” It was just like Fight Club. Rule One. You don’t talk about Fight Club. “I can’t change other people’s decisions nor tell them about the future, I was paying attention when you told me the first time.”

Relief flashed through the Genie’s eyes as he nodded, taking a step back. “Good.” He exhaled, fingers twitching as he glanced to Roman’s younger self. “You’re sure this is the choice you want to change?” He asked as the teenager suddenly dropped a hand to his pocket.

Roman tensed, his heart rate picking up. The text. Patton had just shown up. “Of course.” If he could stop--if he could change this.

The Genie nodded. “Then one last rule, Roman.” He said, blocking Roman’s pathway to his younger self. “Time is a fickle thing. It does not like changing and the timestream will not retain it’s new course if this Warp is not done properly.”

Roman frowned, fidgeting in place as he looked around the Genie to his younger self. “Not stay--IF TIME WON’T--”

The Genie cut Roman off with a wave of a multi colored hand. “You have three choices, Roman.” He said, firmly. “Three chances to change the past. There are no halfsies here. If you choose to change one decision you must change two more or else the alterations to your lifeline will not stay.” He shook his head. “It’s an all or nothing deal, Roman. All. Or. Nothing. At the end of your third decision you will have the opportunity to keep all three changes….” His hands clenched, the rainbow on his skin shifting to more blues and purples as his eyes darkened. “Or none of them. Therefore.” He jerked his head to young Roman as the teenager pushed open the door. “Is this the choice you want to change?”

To save Patton from his current half-life?

Roman shoved past the Genie and ran, a zing of cold electricity rushing through him as he slid into himself just as young Roman lowered the fedora over his eyes.

To Be Continued Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26

#The Butterfly Effect #stillebesat #TS Big Bang #Sanders Sides #Thomas Sanders #Roman #Creativity #Taz #Luis #reposting #accidentally deleted the first one #gah #silly fingers #soo tired

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shadowdianne · 6 years

Note

If you're still doing prompts, could we have one of them running away from their wedding for any reason and then talking it out afterwards?

You could! ;) Thanks for the prompt! I hope you like it

And sorry for the wait; july and august had been an interesting couple of months with little internet on my part…

Her hands shook as she looked to the scribbled paper, back hurting asshe tried to sit up straighter on the floor, back resting on the side of thebed. The words on the paper were blurry to her eyes but it didn’t matter as sheknew them by heart.

Lips trembling with soft sobs, she muttered the first few words, theblack ink forming squiggly lines that mocked her as the silent room filled withthe sound of her voice, unnaturally loud to her ears despite her soft tone.

“I think I fell in love with youlittle by little. In a way that I didn’t realize at first; a warm feeling that….”

Stopping, words getting trapped between her tongue and teeth, Emmaclutched the piece of paper and sighed, shoulders sagging and trembling as shetried to keep herself going. It was no use, however, as the same wave of shamethat had been pulsing through her veins ever since close to an hour ago asphyxiatedthem.

Lies, she thought, looking beyond the paper, beyond the fabric pooledaround her ankles and feet. Lies since she couldn’t go through them, throughthe feelings she had wanted to express a month ago, when she had sat withHenry, nervous, expectant, trembling, and had tried to come up with somethingthat would be at least a fraction of what she knew Regina’s vows would be.

Lies since there she was, hiding in a room that she didn’t feel likehers anymore as she had run from the wedding, away from a smiling Regina sofull of trust and love she felt nauseous even now. Lies because, at the end,she was a coward.

Savior. She struggled to keep herself at bay as she thought again on thetitle she still got to hear from time to time from the citizens of Storybrooke,the ones who knew who she was, the ones that hadn’t appeared after the merge.Hero.

Some hero she was, she thought putting the paper away, remembering thatvery same morning in where both Regina and herself had looked at each other andhad kissed before going to finish the last details on the celebration; nerveseating their stomachs and a promise to get a time for themselves after thewhole wedding was over hanging from their lips.

Deranged perhaps, stupid definetely, unworthy probably..

She had tried to walk down the aisle, created by fairies and sorceress,under the eyes of hundreds. She had tried to do it but, ultimately, she had runwhile letting her magic speed up her steps, a cloud of dirty-white hued magicforming vague footsteps on the ground below.

Divorced.

That was a third name she had heard ever since Snow had started to telleveryone how, in fact, a wedding was going to take place. Divorced andconfused.

She hadn’t written vows, not really, for her previous wedding. Theceremony itself feeling a tie strong enough between him and the woman she hadmorphed into in order to create what everyone told her she needed to create; toaccept. She hadn’t had a thing to say to be honest, words feeling difficult andheavy as she tried to navigate through them.

However, the words on this one were powerful, complicated, intricateand, as such, as she had been looking at herself on an unenchanted mirror, shehad felt a fear that had always been with her, a fear that had always been hercompanion.

The fear of, again, not being enough. Enough for the ones who had cometo the wedding, the ones who saw her as an anomaly, as the product of truelove, as a mere story Storybrooke had once had. As a part of a prophecy writtenwithout names. Enough for her family, the one she had changed the day she hadtaken off the ring that felt more of a heavy stone than an everlasting comfort.Enough for the woman who kissed like fire and battled with the same passion.The woman she had been in love with for so long it was almost risible how much.The woman who had trusted her again and again for her to give her her back: blind,stupid and afraid.

She couldn’t be the woman they wanted her to be. She was no Hero, noSavior, no Emma. She was a coward, a divorced woman who had almost destroyedherself to the point in where her very own shadow felt shaky under the paleafternoon sunrays that filtered through the closed windows of the room.

She had bolted; wanting to run far away, cry and explode with everyheartbeat, magic bristling and crackling inside of her.

Covering her eyes with the palms of her hands, she almost didn’t hearthe soft knocks on the parted door of the room but, eventually, she felt thetelling gentle waves of a magic she wouldn’t mistake for anyone else’s.

“It’s open.” She mumbled, throat raw and nose blocked.

“That doesn’t mean I can enter.”

Regina’s tone was gentle, and its softness made Emma sob as she turned,looking just from above the mattress, eyes red as she looked into the brunette’sstill wedding-dress-clothed form.

Eyes red herself, Regina seemed tired and sad and yet not angry.

“I’m a horrible person.”

The sentence came out in a jumbled way, vowels missing and consonantsbarely making through. Regina, however, seemed to understand her as she sighedand entered into the room, wave after wave of gentle purple mist following herfor a second before dissipating.

Sitting next to her, Regina hold one finger up as Emma opened her mouth,ready to ask her to stop ruining her dress; the one that made her look evenmore gorgeous than usual, the one that was, as just the wedding was, fit for aQueen.

“Don’t.” The brunette’s voice had enough brashness to make Emma nodmeekly, not really knowing what to say.

At the silence that ensued, Regina sighed and picked up the paper of thevows, hand trembling as she glanced at them. Closing her eyes, she let magicreturn in the form of sparks around her, tinting the air.

“I was mad.” She admitted, eyes still closed. “I didn’t… I didn’t knowwhat to do. Henry was the one who told me to talk to you.”

Despite everything, Emma laughed softly, a dry chuckle that made herribs expand uncomfortably on the snug fabric that covered her. It didn’t matterhow old that kid was; he never lost a chance to meddle.

Perhaps, she thought, putting her forehead against her hands, fingerspressed into her flesh, she owned him something. To both him and Regina.

Voice wobbly, she spoke, not once looking at Regina, not knowing if shewould be able to answer if she did.

“I felt that, everything was going too fast, that everyone else wasgoing too fast. Looking at us, at you, at me; trying to write us in anarrative, in a book, trying to put is in the last page of a story; a Happyending and nothing else beyond that. I felt that we were rushing into it, withtitles and dances and… I felt paralyzed. I want to be worthy to you, Regina, toour family. But I didn’t feel worthy, just a fraud.”

Silence filled the room, its weight growing until Emma couldn’t breathe.

“I love you. I always will, Regina. We have been through far too muchfor me to deny that. But I don’t know if I can do this; be this. I just want usto be us.”

The last sentence floated slowly upwards, to a point where Emma couldn’tsense it anymore as she felt more and more like a child asking to keep playingon a game they shouldn’t be playing; about to get discovered, about to getpunished.

Instead, all she heard was a sigh as she felt strong hands around hers,pulling them away.

“Idiot.”

Regina’s eyes shone as Emma glanced up, lips parted and throat seizing.

Kneeling now in front of her, Regina glanced at their hands and spoke,voice shaky.

“I want an ‘us’ too. No matter if we have a ring or not that says so.You should know that.”

Sobbing, Emma nodded blindly as Regina hugged her, tighter enough thatshe was able to feel the steady beat of her power molding to hers, patientlywaiting; strong and raw.

“I’m sorry.” She muttered, faintly. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.” She heard, a kiss dropped on the crown of her head. “I knowEmma.”

#swan queen #prompt #swanqueen #anon

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the-everlasting-dream · 6 years

Text

The Phantom - Kenji x MC AU

Summary: Set after the events of Hero Book 1, Kenji finally locates an elusive murderer but nothing could prepare him for what he finds instead.

A/N: My first time writing for Hero and Kenji so I apologise if I haven’t gotten the character quite right. This fic was sitting unfinished on my laptop for over 2 months, uninspired. I needed a deadline to kick my ass into finishing for Angst Day of the April Fan Challenge hosted by @laniquelove . I love Kenji dearly but this one really broke my heart to write so prepare yourselves

Prompt used will be highlighted in bold.

Word count: 4800+ Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Optional song accompaniment: Heartless - Kanye West Cover by Post Malone (love the original but Post’s has more of the soulful vibe I’m after)

Tags: @chantelle-x0x @choicessa @topsyturvy-dream and @mariawalkerwrites coz I’ve been teasing this all month.

It had been one year since Silas Prescott had unleashed his unstable Prism energy force on the city and while the rest of its population gradually recovered from the terror, Kenji Katsaros found himself in a stagnant loop, unable to move on from the disaster that had claimed the woman he cared for.

As promised, Dax and Poppy began the search almost immediately for Alexa, scouring local and international satellites, monitoring Earth’s exosphere for any trace of Prism energy. Their efforts were greatly enhanced when Grayson offered his father’s facility for their operation but after 12 months with no result, the doubt began to settle in and they began to assume the worst.

Meiko Katsaros noticed the change in her son first. She saw it in the way his usually bright eyes seemed to lose their fire, his trademark air of mischief seemed to have disappeared entirely. She saw it in the way he threw himself into his gym sessions - they'd never gone through so many punching bags in such a short time. She saw it every night as they had dinner together in the way Kenji would limply push his food across the plate until he realised she’d noticed, shovelling it into his mouth mindlessly and vanishing from the table before she could breech the subject. Meiko wished she could be there to comfort him but as DA, her job required her full attention especially after Silas' attack and with more people affected by the Prism's energy, the numbers of superhuman persons was at an all time high.

At his mother’s behest, Kenji returned to his duties as manager of The Grand, more to please her than anything, assuming some semblance of normalcy but it was clear to his friends that he was no longer the same person. Things that had once brought amusement like dancing and partying were wasted on him as he dully moved through life, without vigour, a shell of his former self often to be found sitting in the recesses of the club, nursing an untouched whiskey.

The city now hailed Talos the Man of Bronze as some sort of hero after witnessing his actions that day. Law enforcement officials had contacted him regarding contractual work, wishing to work together to impede the steady rise of crime that unfolded in the wake of the disaster. Kenji readily threw himself into the task as it served a dual and somewhat oxymoronic purpose. It took his mind off his worries but in doing so he felt strangely closer to Alexa.

I have to do this… It's what she would have wanted, he thought each time he threw himself into another mission. This is what she would be proud of. She had been a hero. She is a hero. I wish she could have been here to see it.

Friday night at the Grand was in full swing and Kenji found himself in his usual booth. Earlier, several girls had approached him to dance, eager to get his number but he had politely turned them down, preferring his own thoughts to the loud atmosphere of the club. His brain returned to its usual patterns, thoughts of Alexa, of her whereabouts.

Was she safe? Was she even alive?

The sad knowing smile she gave him just before she vanished appeared once again in his mind along with each vivid detail of that fateful day that had been etched deeply on the surface of his brain. Not for the first time, he immersed himself in the memory.

Fuschia rays lit up the sky, beams of energy rippling across the scene. Several skyscrapers were on fire, the smoke rising gently above the chaos below. The salty taste of blood and metal mingled on his tongue as, screams, sirens, sounds of wreckage merging together in a horrific cacophony that grazed his eardrums, setting his teeth on edge.

He had been too weak, powerless to do anything but watch as the madman that was Silas Prescott violently slam Alexa into pavement, the asphalt splintering under the impact. Arcs of magenta energy emanated from his form as he hammered his fists into her body. From somewhere on his left, Kenji vaguely heard Eva calling out.

'Starfly!’

Anger raced through him as he shouted across the tumult.

‘Get away from her!’

With great difficulty, Kenji pushed himself up onto an elbow before a stab of pain cut through his chest. Desperately shoving the sensation aside, he staggered to his feet before another blast of energy slammed into his torso, overwhelmed his body and he sank to his knees. The edges of his vision began to blur as the pinkish glow around Silas seemed to intensify ten times over. Alexa’s eyes found his own amidst all the chaos, her gaze holding a thousand unspoken words as her lips curved into a sad smile. As realisation dawned on him, Kenji started forward, ignoring the ripple of agony that coursed through his body, determined to get to her.

‘Alexa no! There has to be another way!’

For a moment, he thought Minuet was using her abilities to slow down time as he watched the woman he cared so deeply for pull Silas up into the stratosphere, her figure gradually growing smaller and smaller as she disappeared into the clouds above them. Shortly after, a massive explosion unfolded from above, blinding beams of pink light piercing through the clouds. A soul-crushing, resounding howl of pain and loss ripped from Kenji's throat before his brain could register what was happening.

NOOOO!

His eyes frantically raked the boundless morning sky for that familiar black suit, searching for some sign, any sign that she was alright. Through the storm of emotions, he felt rather than saw Eva come up beside him.

‘Do you see her?’ His voice was a ragged mess as he struggled to his feet, his bronze exterior vanishing as he scanned the horizon. Time became foreign as Kenji fought waves of fatigue, blindly staggering through the carnage of the battle, searching for her in the rubble until he fell to his knees. Soft hands came to rest on his shoulders.

‘Kenji… Kenji please. You can’t go on like this,’ Poppy’s soft voice broke through his frenzied state. ‘You’re exhausted. You need to rest.’

He cast his eyes to the sky, remembering Alexa’s dark ones burning into his before she sacrificed herself for the planet. ‘I-I need to find her Poppy… She has to be alive… I need to tell her...'

‘I know,’ Poppy soothed, running a hand across his bronze back. ‘I know. We will do everything to find her. But you need to come with me. You’ can’t help find her if you’ve collapsed with exhaustion.’

As much as Kenji hated to admit it, she had a point and the fatigue hit him as he struggled to his feet, allowing her to lead him away.

His phone chimed loudly, sending Kenji screeching back to the present and a glance at the brightly illuminated screen revealed a text message from Dax.

Found the perp from the homicide. Sending the coordinates now.

In an instant, he had grabbed his jacket and exited the building, fingers tapping out a quick reply.

On my way.

A few weeks earlier there had been a murder of four of the city's biggest business tycoons after their embezzlement scandal that had put hundreds of employees out of a job, was uncovered. When the authorities had finally broken into their luxurious villas to arrest them, all the men were found dead, heads separated from their bodies by a few metres of space. One by one more of the city’s corrupt leaders and citizens were found dead in their homes after evidence of their deceit was exposed.

The killer had executed their dark task with maximum prejudice and violence and when traces of Prism energy had been detected on the latest crime scene the police departments had immediately enlisted Talos on the case. Up till now, they had had no solid leads and law enfacement was reduced to grasping at straws, stray comments on online forums, scouring for hidden codes in text messages. When the media discovered this, they'd a field day with the information, spinning tall tales of events that never happened, striking fear into the hearts of the citizens, awarding the menace a moniker of The Phantom.

Kenji had been the murderer’s tail for over almost three weeks now but each time he got close they seemed to evade his reach. This was the strongest lead the team had ever picked up. If the information was held, he was close, so close to catching the bastard he could taste it on his tongue.

He was not letting them get away this time.

Touching the ear piece on the left side of his head, Kenji frowned, skeptically eyeing the decrepit steel warehouse before him. 'Dax you sure this is the place?'

The cool night air grazed his bronze form as he stared at the line of abandoned buildings at the docks edge, their silhouettes illuminated by the light of the pale full moon. The entire scene was eerily quiet save for water rippling gently against the jetties. A blueish hologram of the bushy haired lab assistant flickered up from the device on his bronze wrist.

'About 87% sure Talos. Prism energy here is at an all time high here, too high for any Liquid Prism user and the readings only match perfectly with the ones of the crime scene.’

‘Huh..’ Kenji heard Poppy say. 'If I didn’t know any better I’d say it was..’

‘Focus Poppy!’ Dax snapped. 'We have a murderer to catch.'

Kenji grunted in response. 'That's good enough for me. I'm going in.'

'Be careful Kenji.' Poppy's voice was thick with worry.

Brushing her words aside, he made for the building, ready to finally bring justice to the madman who had terrorised the city.

The main door to the structure was padlocked with chains but Kenji located a small side door and pushed it open, wincing as the hinges creak loudly. Moonlight splintered through the steel plated walls and cracked window panes, illuminating the dust warehouse floor littered with haphazardly stacked wooden boxes and large misshapen pieces of metal. Kenji's foot brushed a pile of rusty chains and he winced as a metallic clink echoed through the building. Rounding a wall of boxes, he was about to abandon the search before he saw a pale stream of moonlight entering through the open skylight.

A lone figure knelt in the square of light on lowest floor of the warehouse, a head of dark hair bowed, hands clenching in tight fists resting on bent knees.

At the sight, cold anger swelled up inside Kenji, tickling the back of his throat and flooding his sinuses and he struggled to fathom how a maniac who had killed at least a dozen people in cold blood could sit to calmly so peacefully like that, with the knowledge that they had taken life from other human beings. Sure the victims had’t been completely innocent, he might almost go so far as to say they deserved it. Almost.

While Kenji spared no drop of empathy for those businessman and media moguls who had been killed, his firm grip on morality reminded him that they had been human beings, like everyone else and there was no excuse for the violence that had brought them to their end.

Gritted his teeth, Kenji wound up for a punch, his right arm morphing into a hammer-like appendage - an ability he’d developed during the last year to transform any part of his bronze form into an object he projected from his mind. Pure rage seethed through him and his muscles tensed to coordinate for the perfect surprise attack. He poised to leap out from his hiding place behind a wall of boxes, his brain already beginning the process of coordinating an ambush when a stray puff of wind rippled through the warehouse, gently shifting the greasy hair covering the killer’s face. Recognition jolted through him and Kenji willed himself to reverse the motion, his body fighting to stabilise as two opposing actions collided, throwing him off balance towards the floor.

Her face. It was a face he knew, eyes he recognised, lips he’d kissed and caressed so lovingly.

Alexa.

Her name echoed in his mind with a new meaning almost as if her physical presence shook him out of the trance he had been in for the last 12 months. In that time Kenji’d pictured this encounter a thousand times, imagined each possible way it could play out in every moment waking or sleeping. He was too surprised to be angry, the adrenaline coursing through his veins temporarily keeping all the vast spectrum of emotions her presence had trigged at bay for now at least. His breath caught in his throat, a thousand questions swirling in his head.

How did she survive? Where had she been all this time? Why didn’t she come back to the lab? What was she doing in this place?

Unsure of what to say, Kenji hesitantly inched his way towards her, not caring to conceal the sounds his footsteps made against the dusty floor. Her eyes were downcast, and she did not make any move to acknowledge his presence. Only when he was a few metres away, did he dare to address her hesitantly.

‘Alexa.'

Her name sounded so foreign on his tongue after a year of unease almost as if he had forgotten to how to pronounce it.

‘WHAT?!?’ His friends voices overlapped as they shrieked their resulting surprise in his ear. With her gaze trained steadily on the floor beneath her, she snapped an arm up in his direction, fingers splayed outward, palm facing him as sparks of pink energy flickering dangerously between her digits. Kenji immediately froze, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

‘I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to talk.'

Ignoring Dax and Poppy’s screeches of protest, he flipped the tiny switch on the earpiece, severing the connection.

‘Just you and me. A-Are you okay?’ He asked, punctuating the question with a tentative step forward. She ignored his question and though her arm remained outstretched, pink lightning vanished.

‘I’m gonna come closer now okay?,’ he told her, fighting to keep his voice even. When she made no move, he took a few steps closer to her kneeling figure.

In this unstable state, Kenji had no idea what she would do and the last thing he wanted was to scare her off. Now that he was closer, he could see through her greasy strands of hair to the blue brown eyes underneath still fixated on the spot on the floor. The light from the full moon was sufficient enough to bring his attention to her familiar black suit now riddled with rips and what he suspected to be burn marks, judging from the angry raw flesh underneath. Static streaks of pink lightning sparked across her skin in wild unpredictable patterns, almost seeming to flow from within her person.

Closer still and he could see the deep purple crescents under her eyes and his stomach dropped. Alexa’s true birth right as an alien was no secret to him, she’d confided in him about the real reason behind her enhanced endurance and capabilities. She was a strong woman and her powers only fortified her iron will and stubborn persistence. For her to end up here like this, so battered and ravaged, Kenji shuddered to think of the horrors she might have faced in the last year in whatever alien realm or cosmic continent she had disappeared to.

He shivered at the weight of this thought and it took a physical effort for him to remove all such concerns, at least temporarily. Right now she needed him, she needed her friend, someone he could trust and Kenji cast aside his bronze form, the metal rippling back to expose his human flesh. A tiny voice warned him against doing so, issuing a tugging reminder of his original mission, about the murderer he was meant to be tracking but he forcefully silenced the thought.

The one and only thing that mattered now was Alexa.

Crouching down to her level, he was close enough to touch her now, barely an arm's distance away. As much as his hands screamed to touch her, to hold her, tell her it was ok, he fought against the instinct, partially in the interest of self preservation, if he was being honest with himself. Even as Talos, he had barely been a match for her when she’d first discovered her powers and now Kenji shuddered to think what devastation Alexa could achieve with these newfound abilities. The bubbling sensation in his gut told him that it wouldn’t take much more than one hit from her pink lightning to knock him out. It was paramount that he did nothing to antagonising her in this fractured state. He had no idea what state her mind was in right now and could only imagine the fear and uncertainty she must be feeling. One false move on his part could scare her away and he’d lose her all over again.

‘Alexa,’ Kenji gulped before beginning tentatively. ‘Alexa, you have to come with me. It's not safe here.’

She continued to stare at a crack in the concrete undeterred by his request. If it wasn’t for the twitch of her mouth, he’d assume she was ignoring him.

Kenji tried again, becoming more and more aware of how exposed their position was and if anyone was lurking to attack they’d have a clear shot at them. He needed to persuade Alexa to leave or at least move to a more sheltered area.

'There’s a murderer on the loose… they've killed over a dozen people and they could-‘

'Murderer hmm? That's what they’re calling me now?’

Her voice was low and cracked almost as if she hadn’t used it in the entire year she’d been away. Or rather, Kenji realised, she’d used it too much, running it ragged from screaming until it escaped her in a rough croak. Her tone, however, was unmistakable, bordering somewhere between vague disinterest and amusement and the way she emphasised murderer was enough to made him bristle visibly. Why was it that word that broke her out of her trance? What was it about the word that suddenly prompted her to acknowledge him?

'Alexa what do you mean?’ Kenji questioned, not comprehending her meaning. 'No one’s called you a murderer? Silas’ death was not your fault.'

She raised her head at the remark. Her stormy eyes stared blankly into his, looking at Kenji for the first time in a year. He marvelled again at the unique combination of green and brown in her irises, one of the first things he’d noticed about her. Her gaze now was obstructed partially by the grimy strands of black hanging limply from her scalp but the look held within was unmistakable.

'A-Alexa?’ He stammered, as the neurons in his brain kicked into overdrive, scrambling to put together the pieces as a surge of doubt rose up in his chest welled up.

Kenji shook his head violently as if the very action could expel the notion from his mind and undo the countless atrocities she was alluding to have committed. He refused to admit it.

Because it just wasn’t true!

This was Alexa he was talking to. His Alexa.

The thought stunned him. He’d never called her that, never once in his mind or out loud and certainly not to her face. While the thought prompted feelings of tenderness and nostalgia, Kenji found it hard to stomach either of the as he frantically searched her eyes for some remorse, a shred of regret, anything to reassure him that he’d read it wrong, that actually it wasn’t her after all, it was an accident, she hadn’t meant to do it. It was all a misunderstanding because she wasn’t a murderer, she just couldn’t be. He felt sick to the stomach instantly.

A deeper horror replaced the initial shock as Kenji watched Alexa’s left eyebrow lifted ever so slightly, throwing out a challenge in the subtle move, daring him to think differently.

She’d done it. She’d killed those people.

She was the murderer.

It seemed to press on his chest, constricting his lungs until his breath came out in haggard gasps. Kenji didn’t know what was worse, the fact that she’d done it or that she was proud of what she’d done. He struggled to keep his composure to keep himself from shouting, from grabbing her to yell why, how could she have done this?

His face must have betrayed him because Alexa's lips had just begun to curl up into a terrifying smile almost as if she was taking pleasure in watching him squirm. The muscles of her jaw unclenched in preparation to speak when-

BEEP BEEP

Both sets of eyes flew immediately to the communications device on his wrist where the blue hologram of Poppy began to take form. Her voice flowed in through Kenji’s earpiece and he cursed once, realising Dax must have had deliberately reactivated their comm line.

'Sorry to interrupt Talos.’ His friend's tone was apologetic and one glance at Alexa told him that she was using her super hearing to listen in on the conversation.

His gaze focused once more on the hologram and his friend's dishevelled appearance before he realised something must have been very wrong for Poppy Patel to be wearing torn clothes.

'There's been another attack on the nano science labs here at Prescott Industries,’ her voice was shaky as she spoke. 'I know you’re in the middle of something important but they’ve got guns and are all enhanced on Liquid Prism.'

Poppy’s voices took on a desperate tone now. 'There are seven of them and they’ve got Dax and the other scientists locked away in the simulation room. I don’t know where Grayson or Eva are but I managed to get out and get to the lab. Please Kenji! We need yo-'

Poppy’s blue silhouette fizzled once before disappearing as the feed cut out. Kenji leapt to up, adrenaline coursing through him as his eyes flew across the room, searching for the nearest exit, scrambling to calculate how quickly he could get to his friends.

In a heartbeat, Alexa was on her feet next to him, her voice leaden as she stated. ‘I’m coming with you.’

‘No way!' Kenji protested, looking at her as if she was out of her mind. After what she had just revealed to him, there was no way in hell he’d allow her to come along. 'Thats not an option. Not in your current state.’

She ignored his protest, glaring ahead, her face devoid of emotion. 'They must be purged. The only way is to eliminate them. Permanently.’

‘What?’ He snapped, whirling around to look at her. For a brief moment he thought she was playing a cruel joke on him but one look at her stony expression put that thought to rest.

'Alexa do you even hear yourself?’ He questioned, refusing to believe what he had just heard. 'You’re not actually suggesting to kill them are you?'

'What other option is there?'

Her suggestion burned in his ears as Kenji stared at her in horror. The way she said it made the idea seem so simple, as if it was a casual comment or remark. He could never imagine such words to come from the Alexa he’d known. She’d never trivialise something as important as peoples lives, no matter who or what they had done.

'They don’t deserve to live.’ He heard her say, her voice echoing hollowly through the empty warehouse.

She couldn’t do this, he wouldn’t let her. He wouldn’t standby and watch as she murdered more people. That alone was enough to break him out of the trance her words had trapped in and he finally found his voice.

'Maybe not but its not up to you to decide that,’ he pleaded, hoping, praying that she would come to her senses.

Alexa scoffed bitterly, settled her stormy grey gaze on him. ‘Everyone has their vices, darling, at least mine do some damn good around here.’

‘Vices?’ Kenji gasped raggedly, shocked that such words could come from his friend, the woman he deeply cared for. ‘Arrogance is a vice, drinking too much is a vice. Killing people isn’t a vice Alexa! I don’t care what you've done, no hero should ever—’

Her voice was as sharp as steel, silencing him, cutting through his protests with frightening precision. ‘Well there’s your first mistake. Who ever said I wanted to be a hero?’

That voice cut Kenji to his core, like a diamond knife heated precisely, deliberately to the melting point of bronze stabbed into his chest to its intended destination, his heart and he recoiled from it as if she’d physically struck him. Memories of times shared with her came flooding back through the chaos churning inside him. Alexa couldn’t have forgotten. Even if she didn’t want to remember, he did and he be damned if he failed to convince her otherwise.

‘You did Alexa! You said that yourself! You used to save people. That's what heroes do. What you did! You saved us all from Silas last year and-

‘Look how that turned out,’ she hissed, her face morphing into an ugly sneer so intense that Kenji actually took a step away from her.

Despite her protests, Kenji still believe that the woman he loved was there. She had to be there. She just needed to be reminded of who she was.

'Come home with me Alexa. Come home please! We can sort this out. I know we can!' As Kenji said this he placed a hand on her arm, touching her for the first time.

Faster than lightning, her arm shot out against his chest, shoving him hard and his reflexes barely had time to summon his bronze form before his body hit the warehouse wall, hard. Kenji could taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, his vision swimming, barely able to register Alexa's dark figure standing over him.

'Don't you see?’ She snarled, her voice rising over the ringing in his ears. 'I did go home! And all they did was make me into a monster. There's so much you don’t understand, so much I’ve done. There’s no going back for me now.’

Before Alexa could walk away, Kenji latched on to her leg, pouring all his strength into the grip, even though he knew he couldn’t hold her back. ‘Alexa, please you don’t believe that. You can’t believe that. Please.'

'Let me go Katsaros. Before you make me do something you'll regret,’ she spat venomously.

Kenji’s sharp intake of breath could be hear throughout the warehouse when she said his name.

'Then do it!' He pleaded, voice high in desperation. 'I don’t care what happens to me if it will bring you back. The city needs you back! Your friends Grayson, Dax, Eva, Poppy they were all looking for you everyone was looking for you. I just need you back Alexa.’

His legs swayed against empty air as she seemed to rise above him and he tightened his grip on her leg as she began to hover higher and higher, passing through the open skylight.

'The Alexa you knew is not coming back,’ she informed him coldly as their altitude increased until the entire city sprawled out below them. 'She died when Silas blasted her into oblivion. You’re nothing but a fool chasing a fantasy.'

Kenji’s hold faltered slightly and his muscles burned, using all his energy to clutch her leg.‘No! I refuse to believe that. My Alexa is still in there. If that makes me a fool so be it!' He declared before his breath caught and he choked out the next words. 'I love you so much, I'd be willing to die for you.'

Alexa halted their ascent, her piercing stare cutting through whatever resolve he had left. Of all the weapons she’d attacked him with, her silence, her blatant refusal to speak was the most violent.

At this, something inside Kenji just… broke…

It was unspeakable torture to look into the eyes of the woman you had confessed your love for and find nothing but cold distaste and repulsion. His arms screamed as he struggled to keep his grip, trying to find some purchase, some reassurance to fortify his convictions but there was none. Space had chewed up the woman he loved, disgorging this cold-hearted, malevolent creature in her place instead.

Even as he fell, Kenji's eyes remained on her retreating figure. Without so much as a second glance, the Phantom soared upwards, disappearing into the night. She wasn’t his to claim, never was and from the last look in her eyes, she never would be.

She truly was an alien to him now...

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mysticaltyphoonnightmare-blog · 6 years

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The Writing Process

Whether you know it or not, there’s a process to writing – which many writers follow naturally.

If you’re just getting started as a writer, though, or if you always find it a struggle to produce an essay, short story or blog, following the writing process will help.

I’m going to explain what each stage of the writing process involves, and I’ll offer some tips for each section that will help out if you’re still feeling stuck!

1. Prewriting

Have you ever sat staring at a blank piece of paper or a blank document on your computer screen?

You might have skipped the vital first stage of the writing process: prewriting.

This covers everything you do before starting your rough draft.

As a minimum, prewriting means coming up with an idea!

Ideas and Inspiration

Ideas are all around you.

If you want to write but you don’t have any ideas, try:

Using a writing prompt to get you started.

Writing about incidents from your daily life, or childhood.

Keeping a notebook of ideas – jotting down those thoughts that occur throughout the day.

Creating a vivid character, and then writing about him/her.

See also How to Generate Hundreds of Writing Ideas.

Tip: Once you have an idea, you need to expand on it.

Don’t make the mistake of jumping straight into your writing – you’ll end up with a badly structured piece.

Building on Your Idea

These are a couple of popular methods you can use to add flesh to the bones of your idea:

Free writing: Open a new document or start a new page, and write everything that comes into your head about your chosen topic. Don’t stop to edit, even if you make mistakes.

Brainstorming: Write the idea or topic in the center of your page. Jot down ideas that arise from it – sub-topics or directions you could take with the article.

Once you’ve done one or both of these, you need to select what’s going into your first draft.

Planning and Structure

Some pieces of writing will require more planning than others.

Typically, longer pieces and academic papers need a lot of thought at this stage.

First, decide which ideas you’ll use.

During your free writing and brainstorming, you’ll have come up with lots of thoughts.

Some belong in this piece of writing: others can be kept for another time.

Then, decide how to order those ideas.

Try to have a logical progression.

Sometimes, your topic will make this easy: in this article, for instance, it made sense to take each step of the writing process in order.

For a short story, try the eight-point story arc.

2. Writing

Sit down with your plan beside you, and start your first draft (also known as the rough draft or rough copy).

At this stage, don’t think about word-count, grammar, spelling and punctuation.

Don’t worry if you’ve gone off-topic, or if some sections of your plan don’t fit too well.

Just keep writing!

If you’re a new writer, you might be surprised that professional authors go through multiple drafts before they’re happy with their work.

This is a normal part of the writing process – no-one gets it right first time.

Some things that many writers find helpful when working on the first draft include:

Setting aside at least thirty minutes to concentrate: it’s hard to establish a writing flow if you’re just snatching a few minutes here and there.

Going somewhere without interruptions: a library or coffee shop can work well, if you don’t have anywhere quiet to write at home.

Switching off distracting programs: if you write your first draft onto a computer, you might find that turning off your Internet connection does wonders for your concentration levels! When I’m writing fiction, I like to use the free program Dark Room (you can find more about it on our collection of writing software).

You might write several drafts, especially if you’re working on fiction.

Your subsequent drafts will probably merge elements of the writing stage and the revising stage.

Tip: Writing requires concentration and energy.

If you’re a new writer, don’t try to write for hours without stopping. Instead, give yourself a time limit (like thirty minutes) to really focus – without checking your email!

3. Revising

Revising your work is about making “big picture” changes.

You might remove whole sections, rewrite entire paragraphs, and add in information which you’ve realized the reader will need.

Everyone needs to revise – even talented writers.

The revision stage is sometimes summed up with the A.R.R.R.

(Adding, Rearranging, Removing, Replacing) approach:

Adding

What else does the reader need to know?

If you haven’t met the required word-count, what areas could you expand on?

This is a good point to go back to your prewriting notes – look for ideas which you didn’t use.

Rearranging

Even when you’ve planned your piece, sections may need rearranging.

Perhaps as you wrote your essay, you found that the argument would flow better if you reordered your paragraphs.

Maybe you’ve written a short story that drags in the middle but packs in too much at the end.

Removing

Sometimes, one of your ideas doesn’t work out.

Perhaps you’ve gone over the word count, and you need to take out a few paragraphs.

Maybe that funny story doesn’t really fit with the rest of your article.

Replacing

Would more vivid details help bring your piece to life?

Do you need to look for stronger examples and quotations to support your argument?

If a particular paragraph isn’t working, try rewriting it.

Tip: If you’re not sure what’s working and what isn’t, show your writing to someone else.

This might be a writers’ circle, or just a friend who’s good with words.

Ask them for feedback.

It’s best if you can show your work to several people, so that you can get more than one opinion.

4. Editing

The editing stage is distinct from revision, and needs to be done after revising.

Editing involves the close-up view of individual sentences and words.

It needs to be done after you’ve made revisions on a big scale: or else you could agonize over a perfect sentence, only to end up cutting that whole paragraph from your piece.

When editing, go through your piece line by line, and make sure that each sentence, phrase and word is as strong as possible. Some things to check for are:

Have you used the same word too many times in one sentence or paragraph? Use a thesaurus to find alternatives.

Are any of your sentences hard to understand? Rewrite them to make your thoughts clear.

Which words could you cut to make a sentence stronger? Words like “just” “quite”, “very”, “really” and “generally” can often be removed.

Are your sentences grammatically correct? Keep a careful look out for problems like subject-verb agreement and staying consistent in your use of the past, present or future tense.

Is everything spelt correctly? Don’t trust your spell-checker – it won’t pick up every mistake. Proofread as many times as necessary.

Have you used punctuation marks correctly? Commas often cause difficulties. You might want to check out the Daily Writing Tips articles on punctuation.

Tip: Print out your work and edit on paper.

Many writers find it easier to spot mistakes this way.

5. Publishing

The final step of the writing process is publishing.

This means different things depending on the piece you’re working on.

Bloggers need to upload, format and post their piece of completed work.

Students need to produce a final copy of their work, in the correct format.

This often means adding a bibliography, ensuring that citations are correct, and adding details such as your student reference number.

Journalists need to submit their piece (usually called “copy”) to an editor.

Again, there will be a certain format for this.

Fiction writers may be sending their story to a magazine or competition.

Check guidelines carefully, and make sure you follow them.

If you’ve written a novel, look for an agent who represents your genre.

(There are books like Writer’s Market, published each year, which can help you with this.)

Tip: Your piece of writing might never be published.

That’s okay – many bestselling authors wrote lots of stories or articles before they got their first piece published.

Nothing that you write is wasted, because it all contributes to your growth as a writer.

The five stages of the writing process are a framework for writing well and easily.

You might want to bookmark this post so that you can come back to it each time you start on a new article, blog post, essay or story: use it as a checklist to help you.

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